This was my world. The one I'd built from nothing through careful charm and strategic manipulation. The kingdom where everything was designed and nothing was real.
A knock on the door.
"Come in."
Valentino entered and the carefully constructed calm I'd maintained all evening evaporated.
He looked exhausted. Beautiful and exhausted and furious. Dark circles under those hazel eyes. Curly hair that needed cutting. He wore jeans and a button-down shirt that had seen better days—the kind of outfit that said he'd been working and hadn't bothered to change for this meeting.
The fuck-you energy was palpable.
"Close the door," I said.
He did, then stood there with his hands shoved in his pockets. Defensive. Defiant. Everything about his posture screamed that he didn't want to be here.
"The Rodriguez article was excellent," I said. "Thorough. Well-sourced. Exactly what I needed."
"Good." His voice was clipped. "What's next? What story do you want me to write? What truth do you want me to bury?"
The resentment in his tone should have annoyed me. Instead it did something else entirely. Something that felt like arousal mixed with frustration.
"You hate this," I observed.
"Of course I hate this. You've turned me into your personal propaganda machine." He moved further into the room, that nervous energy evident in every gesture. "I used to be a journalist. Now I'm just your well-dressed informant."
"You're still a journalist. You write excellent articles. You win awards."
"For stories you hand me. For work I didn't earn." His hands came out of his pockets, gesturing sharply. "Do you know what that feels like? Having everything I've built be based on information you chose to give me? Being a fraud wearing a journalist's credentials?"
"You're not a fraud. The work is real. The research is yours. The writing is yours. I just provided the initial leads."
"You provided everything that matters. The sources. The documents. The access." He was closer now, close enough that I could see the freckles scattered across his nose. Close enough to smell coffee and printer ink and something underneath that was purely him. "I hate this. I hate you. But most of all I hate that you're right—I'm good at it."
"You are good at it." I moved closer myself, drawn by the heat of his anger. "That's why I chose you. You've got the skillsto take raw information and turn it into something that changes minds. That matters."
"It would matter more if I'd found the information myself." His voice was quieter now but no less intense. "If I'd done the actual investigative work instead of just polishing what you gave me."
"You think what you're doing isn't work?" I was close enough to touch him now. Close enough to see his pulse jumping in his throat. "Verification is work. Source protection is work. Crafting narrative is work. You're doing all of that."
"Under threat. Under coercion. That makes it something other than journalism."
"What makes it journalism?" I asked. "The method or the result? You're exposing corruption. Holding powerful people accountable. That's what you said you wanted in that coffee shop three months ago. That's what you're doing."
"Not the powerful people I should be exposing." His eyes met mine. Clear. Challenging. "The powerful people I should be exposing are standing in front of me."
The truth of it hung between us. I could see it in his face—he knew exactly what we were. What I was. And he hated that he couldn't expose it. Hated that he'd chosen his career over his principles. Hated me for forcing that choice.
"So expose me," I said quietly. "Write the article. Tell the world about the raid footage. About how I threatened you. About everything you know."
"You know I can't—"
"Why not?" I stepped closer. "Afraid I'll follow through on my threats? Destroy your reputation like I said I would?"
"Yes." The admission was quiet. Honest. "Yes, I'm afraid of that. You could ruin me with a few phone calls. Make it so I never work again. And I hate that you have that power but I hate more that it works."
"It works because your reputation matters to you. Your integrity matters." I reached out slowly, giving him time to pull away. When he didn't, I caught his chin and tilted his face up. "That's not weakness, Valentino. That's having something you value enough to protect."
His breath caught. I felt it against my palm.
