A reporter leaned forward in his seat, phone angled just slightly, thumb hovering over the screen like he was waiting for a moment to press it into the center of the room.
“…we have the audio?—”
Bea’s head turned. She shifted toward the podium, shoulders straightening, breath pulling in slow and measured as she stepped into position—ready to take it, to absorb it, to handle it the way she handled everything else.
I moved. Each step placed with intention as I crossed the threshold into the room, the temperature rising under the lights, the noise shifting a fraction as bodies registered movement at the edge of their focus.
Heads turned. In a ripple. Camera lenses followed a half second later, adjusting instinctively, chasing the center of gravity as it changed.
Bea saw me. The movement in her stopped mid-step. She angled toward me immediately, closing the distance with the same efficiency she brought to everything else, her hand lowering from the tablet as she stepped into my space.
“What are you doing?” she asked under her breath, the words tight, controlled, already layered with the beginnings of a plan she was trying to hold together in real time.
Her fingers brushed my wrist—not pulling, not stopping, just anchoring.
Her eyes moved fast—reading me, calculating, trying to get ahead of whatever I was about to do before I did it. She was already bracing to take control back, to pivot, to redirect the room into something she could manage.
The smallest crack opened in her composure. Her gaze held mine a fraction longer, searching, something uneasy slipping in under the surface of her control.
Behind us, a voice cut through the room, louder now.
“Is it true the relationship was fabricated for publicity?”
Another followed immediately, crackling in the air.
“Did the organization orchestrate this as a distraction?”
“Was Ms. Ribeiro selected because of her connection to ownership?”
The questions stacked, overlapping, each one crafted with venom to stick, to pull something out of the room whether it was ready to give in or not.
Bea’s hand fell away from my wrist as she turned back toward the podium, posture resetting on instinct, breath steadying as she prepared to step forward and take the hit head-on.
I stepped past her.
One step.
Then another.
Taking the space before she could.
The shift was immediate. Subtle, but absolute. Microphones angled forward. Chairs scraped faintly. The layered noise of the room tightened, sharpening around a new focal point.
I reached the podium and set my hand against the edge. Cool wood under my palm.
I lifted my gaze—and began. “I’m going to answer this once.”
The room didn’t go silent. Noise didn’t disappear. It justnarrowed. Focused. Every voice, every lens, every expectation aligning toward the same point.
A reporter in the front row leaned forward, pen already moving. Another adjusted the angle of her phone, thumb hovering over the screen like she was waiting for something worth sending.
“It started as an assignment,” I continued, carrying without force. “That’s not speculation. That’s fact.”
A flicker of movement at the edge of my vision—Bea, still behind me now, still close enough that I could feel the shift in her breathing, already trying to get ahead of the direction I was taking this.
I didn’t look back.
I held the room.