Vance stared at me, his jaw working. Then, he scoffed, adjusted his lapels, and stepped back. "You'll regret this, Quill. You’re done in this town."
"I'm sure the paperwork will be fascinating," I deadpanned.
He stormed off. I let out a breath, my hands shaking slightly as I gripped my clipboard. I hated the post-confrontation adrenaline dump. It was messy.
I turned to the audio technician standing at the rolling console a few feet away, intending to ask if the pyro comms were clear.
The technician, a young Beta kid with blue hair, was staring at me. His face was the color of skimmed milk. He was slowly, horrifyingly, pulling his hands away from the fader labeledBACKSTAGE AMBIENT.
The red light on the console was solid.
Live.
The silence in the stadium was sudden and absolute. The ambient roar of fifty thousand people had vanished, replaced by a confused, echoing quiet. Then, a low rumble started. Not a cheer. A sound of recognition.
"Tell me," I whispered, my voice trembling for the first time, "that that feed was local."
The kid shook his head. "Webstream. And... the main PA."
My stomach dropped out of my body and fell through the floor.
"How much of it?"
"All of it," he squeaked. "From 'standard Wellness Compliance' to 'broodmare for your quarterlies.'"
I closed my eyes.
I had just killed my career.
"Rowan!"
I turned. My assistant, Benny, was sprinting down the hall, waving his phone like he was trying to put out a fire with it.
"You need to see this," he panted, sliding to a halt. "Now."
"I don't want to see it, Benny. I want to crawl into a suitcase and be shipped to Antarctica."
"Rowan, look." He shoved the screen under my nose.
It was social media, of course. The hashtag #NotABroodmare was already climbing steadily, and at this rate it would be trending number one globally before the show was over. Below it was #ThePaperMintBeta.
"Someone ripped the audio," Benny said, scrolling frantically. "It’s got three million plays in four minutes. Listen to the comments."
Who is she? I want her to negotiate my divorce.
Finally someone said it. The wellness riders are creeping everywhere.
I would let this woman hit me with her clipboard. Respectfully.
And then, the darker ones. The ones that made the hair on my arms stand up.
Who does this dried-up Beta bitch think she is? Obstructing lawful compliance checks?
Traitor to the biology. Needs to be taught her place.
We know what she looks like. Saw her in the side-stage cam. Green blouse. Target acquired.
My pocket buzzed. Then it vibrated. Then it just stayed on, a continuous, numb hum against my hip as notifications flooded in like a tsunami breaching a seawall. Emails. Texts. Messages from numbers I hadn't heard from in years.
