I’d spoken to him the night before, after hashing out a partial plan with Celia and Colin. The voicemail from the weekend still lingered at the edges of my thoughts—a chilling, precise reminder that someone was watching.
I didn’t share it. Some battles were meant to be fought alone.
Rudy looked like he always did when things mattered, a clean polo and I would guess his jeans and work boots. Like he always said, professional didn’t have to mean uncomfortable, and nobody was watching him on screen and he liked it that way. Gray-eyed, salt-and-pepper hair, permanent five o’clock shadow—his arrival on the call let me release a deep breath. He’d always had my back on and off the job.
Two more windows joined the call.
Celia Roth appeared next, perfectly framed, lighting dialed in like she’d rehearsed it—which, knowing her, she probably had. Charcoal gray suit sharp as a blade, cream silk blouse immaculate, understated gold jewelry catching the light when she shifted. Control radiated off her even through the screen.
Colin Thorne appeared in a Brioni suit that felt like a deliberate departure from his usual armor. The charcoal fabric was cut with Italian ease—fluid through the shoulders, clean at the waist, moving with him instead of holding him in place. It wasn’t flashy, but it was unmistakably expensive, the kind of tailoring that suggested Rome rather than London, elegance over rigidity.
No tie. An open collar that softened the lines just enough to be disarming. A silk pocket square tucked with careless precision, as if he’d dressed for confidence rather than scrutiny.
He knew exactly what he was doing. Brioni wasn’t about tradition or restraint—it was about command without stiffness, power that didn’t need to announce itself. He looked like a man who could argue precedent all day and still walk out having rewritten it.
The call settled.
Muted mics. Then unmuted.
Coffee cups lifted in different locations. Office. Car. One background that was definitely a hotel room. Mine, was this,dead dull and plain kitchen. Utterly neutral and unremarkable with no view of windows.
Brewster didn’t appear on camera. He sat just out of frame beside me, close enough that I could feel his presence like a physical constant. A quiet weight at my back. Watching.
Celia didn’t waste time.
“We need to talk about pressure,” she said. “Yours. The network’s. And how long we can afford to keep you off-air without losing control of the narrative.”
“Define control,” I said.
Colin adjusted his cufflinks, a gesture so habitual it bordered on reflex. “Legal exposure. Liability. If you go back on air and something happens?—”
“Something is already happening,” I cut in. “Just not where you can see it.”
Brewster shifted beside me. Not interrupting. Just… attentive.
Rudy leaned closer to his camera. “The silence is spooking people. Not the right people—at least not the ones who are going to bat for you. But there are some who want to take advantage of it.”
That didn’t surprise me. I’d busted my ass to get to my position. The longer I was off the air, the more available my spot looked.
“Everyone else is rushing in to fill it.” I was already aware of that, it was why I wanted off the bench. At the same time, it had to be strategic. As much as I wanted to demand my spot back, I didn’t want to look like I was running scared professionally or personally.
Celia nodded. “Exactly. The longer that goes on, the more challenging taking your spot back is going to be.”
Colin frowned. “Authority is not safety. While you’re off the air, that doesn’t mean the network can just dismiss yourcontract. We have the leverage to make them roll over when we’re ready for you to go back. When it’s safe.”
“Maybe,” I agreed verbally. I trusted my team. They would make this happen. Our contracts were iron-clad for a reason. “But if you train the audience to not look for me anymore or you make them tired of tuning in only to find I’m not there… then some of my leverage goes away.”
That was just business facts. Colin nodded once, but Celia waved a hand. She trusted my reputation and my audience scores too much. Rudy though, he frowned. Because in the news business, you were front page and on the screen, or you were yesterday’s bird cage liner and a half-forgotten callback in the archive.
The conversation flowed from there—risk matrices, controlled appearances, theoretical guardrails. I stayed measured. Strategic. Calm. Professional. I stuck with it, because even if I trusted in the reasons to stay off the air at the moment, I refused to let anyone think I was just going to roll over and play dead.
All the while, Brewster remained silent.
I felt his attention like a steady hand between my shoulder blades. Tracking who spoke over whom. Noting where tension spiked. Watching when I yielded ground—and when I didn’t.
Celia promised follow-ups. Colin warned about contingencies. Their windows blinked out one by one. Then Rudy unmuted.
“You doing good, kid?” he asked quietly.
