My pulse was still racing from nearly being caught eavesdropping. “I wasn’t?—”
He waved a hand dismissively, cutting me off before I could finish the lie.
“We’re doing pickup shots tomorrow for the Fairy Tale episode,” he said, already pacing as if he were directing invisible cameras. “The producers want reaction footage. Confessionals. Something with emotional grit.”
His eyes skimmed over my face critically. “Can you do wounded but defiant? Betrayed but strong? A little heartbreak but still glamorous?”
I wasn’t even sure what the hell all that was supposed to mean.
“Chet, I’m not an actress.” My voice came out sharper than I intended. “I need to know?—”
“How Derek got in?” The shift in him was immediate.
The glittering showman faded, replaced by something colder and far more perceptive. For a moment the hallway felt smaller. “We’re investigating,” he continued quietly. “Security footage. Staff logs. Badge access. The works.”
His mouth twisted slightly. “But these things take time.”
“Jessica helped him.” The words left me before I could soften them.
Chet’s brows lifted slowly. “That’s a serious accusation, my dear.”
“I saw them.” My voice lowered, heat rising under my skin as the memory sharpened. “Right before he grabbed me. She was keeping Egon distracted—talking to him, flirting, pulling his attention away.” Even thinking about it made my chest tighten. “She was buying Derek time.”
Chet didn’t answer immediately. He studied me the way a chess player studies a board—quiet, calculating, weighing every piece. Then his hand came to rest lightly on my arm. The touch surprised me. For once it wasn’t theatrical or exaggerated. Just steady. “Be careful, Tori.”
His voice had dropped. “Accusing another contestant of conspiracy?” He tilted his head slightly. “That’s the kind of thing that gets you disqualified.” A small pause. “Or worse.”
“I don’t care about the show,” I said immediately. My pulse hammered in my throat. “I don’t care about the money.” Holy shit, I actually meant that. “I care about?—”
“I know what you care about.” His gaze softened just enough to reveal the truth behind his performance.
He knew. Everyone knew. Egon. I only cared about Egon.
“And I’m on your side,” Chet continued quietly. “But I need evidence before I can act. Real evidence. You don’t just throw a billionaire in jail, you know? And for what? Trespassing? In a public place? Can’t make that stick.” His fingers squeezed my arm once before he stepped back. “I assume he is pressing assault charges against our favorite Warlord as we speak.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
Chet’s shrug did not give me comfort. “I’m working on it. Give me time.” He reached up and touched Rohn and Krag on the cheek, each in turn. They didn’t move. Didn’t blink.
Chet’s eyes were softer than I’d ever seen them. “I’ll see you two at home.”
And just like that the host returned. He spun on his heel and swept down the hallway in a swirl of velvet and glitter, already barking orders into his phone.
I stood there with my bodyguards, jaw slack. Waiting had never been my strength.
My entire life had been built on doing things myself—working double shifts, studying through the night, clawing my way through college because no one else was going to hand me anything.
If something needed to be fixed, I fixed it.
If a problem existed, I hunted it down.
So that’s exactly what I did.
Over the next twenty-four hours I started asking questions. Small ones at first.
The makeup artists were the easiest. They lived on gossip like oxygen, whispering between foundation brushes and curling irons. A little curiosity and a sympathetic smile got them talking fast.
Jessica had been making late-night calls.
