Growing up, Noah had seen that look more times than he could count, always right before he crossed a line he wasn’t supposed to cross.
“I really don’t know what you’re talking about,” Matias said.
“Sure you do, because you know that I wasn’t born with the name Noah Chase.” Noah ignored the lump in his throat, a steady, insistent pressure that made every word feel like a big piece of chewy meat had gotten stuck there and refused to budge. “And you wanted to be the one to tell my viewers, to tell the world that my given name was Angel Salazar. That I am, infact, your biological son.” Noah held his father’s gaze after the words left his mouth, aware of how deliberate that choice was. Every instinct he’d developed on air told him to pivot toward the camera, to include the audience in the moment, to let them in on the reveal.
He didn’t.
Not because it wasn’t for them, but because he’d be lying to himself, his viewers, and the people he worked with if he didn’t at least acknowledge that this was good fucking TV.
But this one tiny moment was between Matias Salazar and the son who’d asked him to never speak of his existence again, and what happened when Angel reclaimed that identity on his own terms.
Noah watched his father. Matias didn’t react the way most people would when something was flipped on them. There was no visible shock, no immediate denial.
His eyes narrowed slightly, and the muscles along his jaw flexed, but they didn’t hold. His posture stiffened, not aggressively, but with intent, like he was adjusting to a different version of the conversation than the one he thought he’d walked into.
“After all these years,” Matias said, his voice lower now, stripped of the easy charm he’d worn for the camera, “after everything you asked—no, begged—for me to keep that identity a secret… You choose to reveal it yourself like this. I’m shocked. I don’t know what to say. I swore I’d take that to my grave.” His father leaned forward, which was a calculated move and a good one. “Why? Are you afraid of what other truths might be uncovered during this interview?”
“No,” Noah said. “Being your son is the only thing I’ve ever kept hidden.” He shifted back in the chair. “And under the circumstances, I think my audience will forgive me for that.”
“Maybe, but you still betrayed them. You betrayed your friends. Your girlfriend.” Matias rested both hands on the armrests, opening himself, as if he’d gained control of the situation.
“My girlfriend has known who I am for the last five years,” Noah said flatly. No emotion. No inflection of his voice. No defense. Just fact.
Matias folded his arms. “I could end this interview right now. Tell the guards to take me away and not say another word.”
“You could,” Noah said. “But then I finish the show without you. You don’t get to respond. You don’t get to correct anything I say, and you don’t get to shape how any of this is understood. At least, not right away.” He glanced toward the camera then back at his dad. “I’m not here to talk about me,” Noah said. “I’m not here to talk about the name I carried for fourteen years, or the decision I made to walk away from it.”
“But that’s what people want to hear.” Matias lifted his chin.
“Okay.” Noah nodded. “It’s pretty short and simple. My father was convicted of raping and killing twelve women. I didn’t want to live with that burden the rest of my life, so I changed my name. The only thing it did was give me a chance to define who I’d become, but I know now I couldn’t outrun it. And I accept that. End of story.” Noah counted to three. “Now, let’s move on to why I’m here,” he continued. “My viewers want to know about you and what you’ve been doing in this prison. So, if there’s anything you feel the need to unburden yourself of, when we come back from this short commercial break, that would be the time.”
A second later, the camera light went off, and a collective sigh and gasp filled the room.
Noah didn’t move. He kept his posture the same, his focus still on Matias, like the conversation hadn’t paused just because the audience couldn’t see it.
The door opened, and out of the corner of Noah’s eye, he saw Ziggy, moving quickly, with the makeup artist behind her.
“Need anything?” Ziggy asked as she handed bottles of water to him and Matias.
“Nope. I’m good," Noah said.
The makeup girl worked quickly to take the shine off his skin. The brush moved across his forehead, his cheek, his jaw, but he barely registered it.
“What kind of ambush is this?” Matias asked.
“I told you, we don’t communicate during breaks,” Noah said. “We want the show to be authentic. Nothing staged. Nothing rehearsed or practiced.”
Matias’s gaze shifted toward the doorway before returning to Noah.
“You waiting for someone?” Noah asked.
“No.” Matias took a quick sip of his water before Ziggy snatched it.
“Fifteen seconds,” the cameraman called.
Ziggy’s hand rested briefly against Noah’s arm before she turned and headed out of the room.
Noah placed his hands back on his thighs, grounding himself in the contact, feeling the tension in his body settle into something he could control.