They held me.
For a few minutes, nobody spoke. Nobody moved.
I closed my eyes and let the weight of them crush me in the best possible way. I was surrounded by heavy wool, the scents of cedar, ink, and burnt sugar, and the undeniable biological reality of three powerful men who had decided, against all logic, that I was their center of gravity.
I felt the hum of Mateo’s chest. I felt the steady pulse in Stephen’s wrist. I felt the heat of Juno’s breath on my skin.
This wasn't a strategy meeting. This wasn't a sex act. This was a battery recharge. They were pouring their certainty into me, filling the battery until the warning light stopped blinking.
Pack.
The word floated through my mind, unbidden. I didn't push it away. I didn't analyze it. I just let it settle in my chest, heavy and warm like a stone in a riverbed.
I wasn't walking onto that stage alone. I was walking on with the weight of the mountain, the sharpness of the blade, and the heat of the fire.
"Time," Stephen whispered, though he didn't let go of my hand immediately.
Mateo squeezed me once, hard, a final compression, then stepped back. Juno kissed my throat and pulled away.
The cold air hit me, but I didn't shiver.
"Right," I said. My voice was steady. Deep. Real.
I turned to the mirror. I looked at the woman in the glass.
She looked like a verdict.
"Make-up," I ordered, snapping into manager mode. "Stephen, check the updated briefing on King’s recent sponsors. Mateo, secure the exit route. Juno, help me fix my lipstick."
They moved instantly. A well-oiled machine.
Juno grabbed the lipstick tube, applying it with the focus of an artist. Mateo smoothed the wrinkles in my skirt. Stephen handed me my blazer, holding it open for me to slip into.
I buttoned the jacket. I checked the reflection one last time.
The vibration was gone. The ground was solid under my feet.
"Let's go," I said, grabbing my folio. "I believe we have an industry to burn down."
TWENTY-TWO
Juno
I stood in the wings, obscured by the heavy velvet curtain and the frantic, silent ballet of the cameramen. Beside me, Stephen was staring at the monitor feed with the intensity of a sniper waiting for windage, while Mateo was scanning the rafters like he expected a SWAT team to rappel down at any moment.
But I was watching Rowan.
She was sitting in the center of the kill box, bathed in the harsh, unforgiving glare of the studio lights, and she wasn't bleeding. She wasn't even sweating.
Mitchell King, a man who had made a career out of skinning politicians live on air, looked frustrated. He leaned forward in his chair, his signature predatory hunch, trying to find a jagged edge to grab onto.
"Ms. Quill," King pressed, his voice dripping with that faux-concern that usually preceded a character assassination. "You talk about 'industry standards' and 'contractual friction,' but let’s look at the human cost. You almost destroyed a tour. You put thousands of crew members' jobs at risk because of a philosophical disagreement. Doesn't that weigh on you? Personally?"
He wanted tears. He wanted the 'hysterical woman' clip.
Rowan adjusted the cuff of her silk blazer. She looked bored.
"It wasn't a philosophical disagreement, Mitchell," she said, her voice cool and clear, cutting through the studio tension. "It was a liability assessment. If a rigger goes up without a safety harness, we stop the show. If an artist goes on stage with a contract that mandates biological damage, we stop the show. The cost of a cancelled gig is insurable. The cost of a human life is not."
