CHAPTER 26
ALOIS
Icaught the edge of the story before I reached the door to the media room—heat trapped under low ceilings, bodies packed too close, voices layered over one another in tight, restless currents that didn’t settle so much as churn.
The air carried the sharp bite of camera batteries warming, stale coffee, damp wool from coats that hadn’t had time to dry. Winter clung to everything in Northbend this time of year—boots tracking in salt, jackets shedding cold in waves—but inside the arena it turned dense, contained, like all of it had been sealed in with us.
“…audio—”
“…she said it?—”
“…fabricated—”
The words moved fast, slipping between people in pieces that didn’t need to be whole to land.
My phone was still open in my hand, screen dimming and brightening again as another notification pushed through. I didn’t need to look at it again. I’d already heard it once. That had been enough.
Her voice.
Clear.
Unaware.
I closed my hand around the phone and slid it into my pocket, the motion deliberate, contained. The instinct to move faster—to cut through the noise, find the source, shut it down—rose clean and familiar under my skin.
Ahead of me, the media room door stood open, light spilling out into the hallway in a hard, artificial wash that flattened everything it touched. Inside, the hum was sharper—voices layered tighter, equipment shifting, anticipation building in uneven spikes.
A storm that hadn’t broken yet.
I stepped forward.
Lucy stood halfway down the corridor, phone pressed tight to her ear, one hand braced against the wall like she was holding herself in place through sheer force of will. Her voice cut low and fast, stripped of anything soft. “No, I don’t care what Stella thinks she has—get legal on it now. I want it flagged before it hits another cycle.”
Her gaze flicked up as I passed, sharp, assessing. She didn’t stop talking, but something in her expression shifted—recognition, understanding, a quick recalibration that tracked exactly where I was headed.
Good.
That was one less thing I needed to manage.
I didn’t slow.
Inside the room, movement pulled my attention immediately—not toward the podium, but across it.
Bea.
She wasn’t standing still.
She was moving.
Cutting across the front row with purpose, tablet in hand,already mid-conversation with one of the assistants, her voice low, controlled, directing. Adjusting. Fixing.
Working.
Her coat was still on—she hadn’t even had time to shed it—dark fabric catching the light as she shifted, one hand pushing her hair back from her face in a sharp, impatient motion that told me everything I needed to know.
She and Lucy had gotten here fast.
Not fast enough.