killeromanoff

[killeromanoff]

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-four —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 4.5k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. harm to a child. summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival.

The rattle of vials cuts through the quiet sobbing as you raid the cabinet, stuffing a backpack with painkillers and wound care. 

"We had antibiotics on us. Where are they?" 

From the corner of the room, the response breaks apart. "I don't... I don't know about any... This is all we have."

You drop the backpack in favor of the gun at your waist, and direct it at her. "Don't lie to me."

"I-I'm not! I don't know where they are!"

A twist in your gut says she's honest. "Is there any alcohol?" you press with a curl at your lips.

"There's... some... under there."

You lower the gun and move to the sink, uncorking a half-filled bottle that reeks of absinthe. It fits snugly into the backpack. A nod to Nereida. She lowers her own gun from the young woman’s temple. Straps over your shoulders, you step into the smoke-tinged air, leaving the woman behind, when her accented voice chokes out: "You have taken... everything from us."

You stand in the doorway, watching a piece of ash fall on the scuffed leather of your shoe, then glance over your shoulder. "There is still some medicine left in there. Take what you can, get the other women, and leave. This place could be teeming with Greys soon with all the blood spilt. Travel north. We're going south." Her glossy eyes drift up from her hands. Your gaze hardens. "We will kill you if we see you. Do you understand?"

"Yes," she whispers.

You look away. "Salome is in the cell. Alive."

The flames lick at the chapel’s frame as you return to the others. The stone walls have blackened, the door swallowed in fire, windows shattered. The acrid stench of scorched wood and charred flesh burns your nose. The last survivors—the few men left after Price and Kyle cleared the barn—had been shoved inside with the Grey. 

You need to get out of here—away from the stench of blood. Clean water is urgent. A safe place to treat everyone's wounds, even more so, though the missing antibiotics linger in the back of your mind. Adrenaline wearing off, so you move quickly, pausing only to hastily dress Blue's feet and Ghost's back with medical cloth from the cabinet before continuing down the main road. While everyone yields a backpack and gun, Ghost carries Blue to his chest. He hasn't once let her go. 

The flames still flicker behind you when his grip falters. He stops to adjust her weight, and you touch his elbow, speaking low. "Let Price or Kyle carry her."

"I've got it."

You don’t press, though the gnawing concern remains. How much blood has he lost? You can only hope it's clotted enough to hold a bit longer. 

The only words Price manages are instructions—what to watch for to indicate freshwater. Downward slopes, converging animal tracks. You’re nowhere near as injured as the others, yet your thighs shake, your vision blurs, forcing you to squeeze your eyes shut to regain focus. You still flinch at every sound, ready for blood.

An hour out, the sun hangs heavy. Dense vegetation and a small cliffside offer promise. Carefully, you help each other down. Ghost finally relents, letting Blue cling onto Price’s shoulders so he can manage rappelling down the rocks. You stay close without thinking, your hand ghosting over his bicep when he wavers.

Then you smell it. Water.

Relief nearly buckles your knees.

A narrow creek winds between boulders, tucked beneath towering cypresses.

Everyone washes off the blood, dulling the stench. A fire will be needed to clean it for the wounds. As you rake water through your hair, your gaze drifts upstream—where cypresses give way to ripened plum trees, bordering what seems like a property. Price sees it too. He’s already shouldering his backpack, moving to check it out.

The gown pools at your ankles, dipping into the shallow water as you cross. The property is silent, save for the rhythmic tapping of a woodpecker. You tighten your grip on the gun, scanning the unkempt garden and overgrown path leading to the estate—a summer home fit for a family or, as you soon realize, two wealthy old fucks. Their skeletons are all that remain inside, draped in dust like the furniture around them.

Price lowers the rifle to his side and nods in approval. "This will do."

If you could, you’d strip off the stained gown and shut your eyes. Instead, you follow Ghost as he kicks open doors—nothing but a bathroom and parlor. On the second floor, the first door to meet his boot reveals a bedroom. You shake the dust from the quilt, and he carefully lays Blue down. You're already sifting through the backpack.

Ghost kneels to take her feet. He fumbles with the cloth, exhaustion stealing motor function. You help, unveiling the jagged cuts edged with dirt. Ghost grits, "They did this?"

"I did," she whispers. "I hoped you'd find me... and the Greys... they got distracted by my shoes."

Her words linger as you dab alcohol onto a strip of cloth. "This will hurt," you whisper, biting your cheek.

Ghost grips her ankle to keep it still and takes her hand, offering something to squeeze. At first touch, her nails claw at his wrist. Her lips press tightly together to muffle a small sound that dies in her throat, and then she falls silent. Her eyes flutter shut, reopening only to release a lone tear when you finish with both, then wrap them again.

"Your arms," you say, reaching for them. One is already bandaged—must've been done by them. The other is freshly cut. When you try to look at it, she recoils, inhaling sharply.

"They did this one, didn't they?" he asks.

A slight nod of her chin.

Anger leeches from Ghost's skin.

He exhales sharply through flared nostrils, then gently takes her wrist, pressing a kiss to the skin just before the cut begins.

"Let Twix clean it, baby."

Her fist clenches before she offers you her arm. More tears cut a trail down to her lips. 

"There. Let's get you something else to wear," you breathe out, stuffing the cork back in once it's over. 

What you find in the closet is at least better than the bloodied dress she was supposed to die in—a large flannel shirt that smells like old man. Blue accepts it, but stares at the shirt in her hands for a long moment before asking Ghost to look away. He does, and you help her, keeping your eyes on hers while undressing her.

You turn to Ghost. "Your turn," you whisper.

Lowering to the bed is a great effort, one you have to steady with a hand under his armpit. As gently as possible, you peel the cloth from his back. Seeing his wounds before did nothing to prepare you for this—up close, in the unforgiving sunlight. Deep, inflamed gashes ooze fresh blood at the disruption. The stench of festering flesh makes it hard to focus as you murmur for Blue to touch his hair, distract him for the first dab of alcohol.

Where Blue was able to silence herself, he cannot. Not when it’s this bad. The terrible, wrecked groan and the violent jerk of his body make you want to disappear—to run and let someone else do this to him. But you know you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t trust anyone else to. So you steady the tremble in your fingers and continue, the room heavy with his pain. It finds its way to your back, as though someone behind you is holding a whip. The phantom pain sinks into your skin with each of his groans, forcing you to push it away to steady your hand as you work.

Blue twists her fingers in his hair, whispering in his ear. "It's almost over, dad."

By the time the wounds are cleaned, redness remains, offering little reassurance. Over a day's worth of sweat and bacteria isn't something you can simply undo. You'll need to keep an eye on them for infection. You sift through the vials and push two painkillers to his lips, helping him sit up to swallow them. As you’re about to help him back down, he grabs onto your wrist, a pulse of pain pulling your gaze to where you slit your own vein. The linen strip is soaked through. Ghost silently unties it and reaches for the alcohol at the bedside table.

"They did that?" Blue questions from behind him.

"I did."

The pain sears as he cleans it, though it’s nothing compared to his.

When he lays back on his stomach, there’s no fighting the heaviness of his eyelids. Blue curls up beside him, wincing. You get her two painkillers as well.

"Is he going to be alright?" she asks quietly.

You pull the light quilt over her body. "His body just needs to rest. So does yours."

"That's not an answer, Twix."

The way she calls you out makes your face fall. "I'm sorry. I just... I don't know."

There is a pause of silence before she sighs audibly, arms falling flat at her sides and her gaze finding the ceiling. "I don't think I can sleep."

Your chest tightens at the thought of what she must be thinking of, what she must have seen when you weren't with her. The wounds you can't wrap up. You dig for one of the sedatives: lorazepam. "Here." 

It takes a while for it to take effect.

"You're safe," you whisper to her, over and over, tucking her hair behind her ear until you feel the subtle shift in her muscles as they slowly loosen from their panicked tension. When sleep finally comforts her, a shift in the air causes you to leap up.

"It's me," Nereida whispers, poking in her head. "The others are sleeping, too."

Right. The others. "They're alright?"

"Just a few fractured ribs."

"Someone needs to keep watch."

"I'll do it." Seeing the protest twist on your face, she adds, "You haven't slept in days."

She's right. It was impossible to sleep in that cell outside of being drugged.

You give in. "Patrol the whole property if you can. And keep track of the air. The flowers here should help mask our scent, but—"

"I've got it, Twix."

The fatigue truly hits when she leaves. You barely have enough fight in you left to peel off the stupid dress and raise another flannel shirt from the closet over your head, the hem resting above your knees. There is a chair in the room—that's where you sink down, knees tucked to your chest. At first when you close your eyes, the world is loud and red. Then, it quiets to black.

A dove call announces morning, and you jolt awake to fresh light from the window.

You fell asleep.

They've already killed her.

You didn't get there in time—

Your gaze lands on the small body lying in the bed beside a much larger one, and the panic escapes through a shaky breath. You inhale and exhale to calm your heart rate before uncurling from the chair to touch Blue's soft cheek. The skin is cool. You move to her father next. Palm to his forehead. Hot, dry skin snaps your touch away as if burning you. 

"Fucking shit," chokes out of you, along with a fresh wave of urgency. Blue stirs in her sleep. You clamp a hand over your mouth to quiet yourself and whirl out of the room. A fever: you need water. If you hadn't slept so long, you could've boiled some sooner. With the recovered energy, you race outside in the chilled morning air.

Nereida sits up from the porch.

"Good morning. You're the first one up. I haven't seen—"

"He is burning up," you seethe. "You should've waken me. I slept all through the night!"

Her eyes widen. "I didn't—"

You push past her. "I'm getting water."

She lightly touches your elbow. "I already got some from the creek. I boiled it over the fireplace." She rushes to show you the full metal pot in the kitchen. 

You don't pause to say thank you, hoisting the water upstairs to urgently wet a cloth and place it over his forehead. His lashes flutter, once, then twice, before fully opening.

"You have a fever," you exhale, swallowing hard. "I need you to drink a little."

He sits up to swallow a handful of the water from your palm, faint bobs of his throat, and you feel just how dry his lips are. His voice emerges low. "Did they have anything for it?"

"I couldn't find the antibiotics," you bitterly admit, swiping a thumb over the faint freckle on his temple, as if maybe, the sip of water has already changed the temperature. It hasn't. A growl pushes under your breath. "The bitch probably lied to me and took them. We'll need to experiment a bit for now."

"Sounds promising," he manages through his teeth. He glances down at his daughter. "She's alright?"

"She's okay, not warm." You inhale sharply. "Lay down. Let me look at it again."

When he does, you gently remove the bandages and are met with yellow-green pus. The sound that fills your throat, caught between helplessness and disgust, has him popping an eye open to look back at you over his shoulder. "Sorry, it's just..." Another explicative leaves your lips, and you have to bite your cheek hard to keep from vomiting at the sight and smell. Blue is awake now, sitting up against the pillow; she need only glance over once for her face to twist in concern. 

"It's bad, isn't it?" She covers her mouth.

"I need to drain it," is what you say. Luckily, it's already oozing, saving the need to puncture the wounds open. You wet another cloth and carefully press at the swollen ridge of the first laceration, making him groan through his teeth as pus begins to run down his sides. Blue has one hand back in his hair, and uses another wet cloth to collect the pus. You keep pressing, draining each irregular wound, having to remind yourself the rotten smell being released is for the better. 

After what feels like hours, it's mostly cleared. Only a bit of swelling remains, revealing just how deeply the skin was shredded, as if slashed through repeatedly in the same spots. 

"How come you were hurt more than the others?" Blue asks him the question you've been mulling over since the moment you found him. 

"I was their favorite," he mumbles lowly. "The most handsome."

Your brows lower.

"It's not funny," she presses, nails twisting in his hair, teeth grinding. "It's infected. You could fucking die."

"I won't," he says to her, but the silent, heavy glance you exchange with him acknowledges the understanding that he very well could, deepening the harsh pit in your stomach. "We have a nurse here."

"An unlicensed one." You finish securing a new layer of cloth and lean back. "And one without real medicine." Realizing you are supposed to be reassuring her, you hide the way your nails pick each other and add, "But draining all that pus will help. Eating will help even more," you look at Blue, "For you, too."

Blue and you share a meal of wild cucumbers, strawberries, and two small field mice you catch by the creek, swiftly snapping their necks before skinning them. For Ghost, you boil the bones with garden carrots to make a broth. You have to coax him into finishing it, no matter how it tastes, promising that once it's done, he can sleep longer.

By the time the others are awake, you and Blue have failed to leave his side, simply watching the continued rise and fall of his chest as if it might halt if you look away. "Please get better," you catch her murmuring. The only time you go is to speak with Price, informing him that Ghost is in no condition to travel again. 

"Twix," he interrupts you, the knowing tick in his brow, and worn smile, making you realize you'd been rambling, your tone coming off a bit accusatory. "I have no intention for us to continue yet. No one is ready for it. We need food, and rest."

You release a filtered sigh, nodding. "I can help hunt, I just need to—"

A firm hand finds your shoulder. His seafoam eyes glance past you at the door to the bedroom, then back into your gaze, low voice barely above a murmur. "You've done more than enough. Let us take care of the food. Just make sure we don't lose him, alright?"

You nod, and when he turns to leave, you mutter to yourself, "I'm trying."

You spend the evening refreshing his bandages, and draining the new wave of pus. You have the idea to look for onions in the garden, remembering they have antimicrobial properties, but there aren't any. So you clean the wounds again with a flush of water, and also scrub his dirty hair a bit. Your brain must be tricking you, because once when you touch him it feels like his fever has at least dropped a degree or two, but then a minute later it feels like it went up more. There is practically no color to his skin except the angry red of his wounds, and the rosy sheen on his cheeks. Other than that he is a pale ghost. It's as if your efforts haven't done a thing. 

Frustration strangles your lungs, and you palm at your forehead. His body, deprived of sleep and nutritions for days, is struggling to bounce back, to fight off the encroaching bacteria. His unyielding strength is yielding; succumbing. He needs more food and water. You try to sit him up again, retrieving a small bit of leftover broth, but he is unable to help pull his weight.

"Come on, Simon. Please."

He's too heavy for you, even with Blue pulling at his other arm.

You hurry out of the room and call for Price. He and Nereida are there quickly, his rifle ready. "No, I just need—I need you to lift him."

Price drops the gun to steady Simon up despite the heavy hiss of protest. "Gotta eat, Simon."

He holds him as you spoon broth to his mouth, having to rub at his jaw to release enough tension for him to open it and swallow. 

The room is quiet once it's all done, and Nereida stands in the doorway with her head hung low. Price carefully lays him back down so as not disturb the work you've done to his back. He glances at the empty bowl in your hands. "Kyle cut up some squirrels he killed earlier. I'll tell him to make more broth with them in the morning."

All you can do is nod and pass the bowl to him.

When they leave, the heaviness in the room has Blue picking at her wrist. You take her hand, placing another painkiller and sedative in them, and urge her to lay down for more rest.

"I'll stay up with him, alright?"

Her chin drops, and she stares blankly at the quilt. "What happens to me if he dies?"

The hollowness in her voice cuts through you. "We can't think like that," you murmur, refusing to acknowledge how terrified the answer makes you.

"Why not?" Her eyes blaze in the dark. "It's a possibility. I've never seen him like this before."

You shake your head, touching two fingers under her jaw to tilt it up so yours eyes meet. "He's stubborn, like you. And he has too much to live for. He loves you."

She looks away. "I'm not like him. I wouldn't be able to keep going on my own."

"You’ll never be on your own. He and I... we will always come for you," you swear, your voice firmer than you intend. You soften it to a whisper, breathing out, "But even if you were, you’re smarter and stronger than anyone here. There’s nothing you can’t handle, Blue. It was you who kept yourself alive this time."

"It was just luck," she murmurs, curling a fist into the sheet below her. She peers back at you. "If you guys hadn’t found me, I would’ve been bitten to death."

"No," you insist. "It wasn’t luck. You survived because you saw the opportunities, and you took them. You made time for us to find you. You are just like him."

Emotion floods through you, thick and reeling. Without thinking, you pull her into a solid hug, pressing your nose to her scalp. "You’re just like him," you whisper again, screwing your eyes shut. White-hot tears escape, burning a quiet trail down your cheeks, and you feel her begin to tremble in your arms, silently soaking your shirt with her own tears.

Through them, she manages to whisper, twisting your shirt in her fists, "I-I don't want him to leave me again. H-he said he wouldn't."

"He won't," you promise, struggling to catch your breath through a choke, the words rushing out of you. "Never again. I won't let it happen."

After minutes, hours, like this, she grows limp with exhaustion, and you lay her back down, tucking her under the quilt and wiping your cheeks. 

You resume position in the chair by Ghost. 

This time, you refuse to close your eyes, locking them onto him—the way his cheek is squished against the pillow, the bare stretch of his arm, the curve of his ribs where an old scar splits into the new ones. You keep pulling the blanket over him, thinking maybe the extra heat will break his fever, only to rip it back off moments later, convinced the cool night air would be better. Frustration burns behind your eyes as you rub them hard, then press your forehead against the uninjured part of his shoulder.

“Goddamn it, Simon,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to trace your thumb over the freckles there, connecting them with soft, absentminded sweeps of your finger.

He needs more.

Real medicine.

Either the women are long gone with it, or it's somewhere none of them knew of. 

This is what you mull over well into the night when sleep threatens with a pull at your lids, and again, you see red. Blood-red. Like the burst of an open throat. You reopen them and jolt up to your feet, panting hard. The need for a distraction to keep yourself awake pulls you out of the room for a stretch of your legs, pupils straining against the dark hall as you stumble through it, crossing your arms over yourself. You've barely looked through this place besides what was necessary, so it's a surprise when you happen upon a spiral staircase going up, not down. 

A cool metal rail bites your fingertips as you heave upward, revealing a small attic library. Dark oak shelves reach the low ceiling, all of the leather spines neatly alined as if never having been touched even once: a capsule of time. A large window at the far end offers enough moonlight for your eyes to scan the embellished spines as you brush a finger over them, various French titles staring back at you. You work your way to the window, where the thin curtain is parted just enough to allow you a view of the creek, cliffside, and dark horizon where stars disappear into distant earth. 

"I shouldn't have believed her. I should've made her talk more." The words barely leave your lips before the stench of burning flesh fills your senses. Your hands shake violently. With a sudden, forceful yank, you tear the curtain from the rod. Your voice cracks, rising with rage. "I should have killed her—all of them. I shouldn't have let a single one walk away!"

You spin around and begin pulling books off the shelves, ripping at pages, thrashing them at the floor with a cacophony of thuds, until only half are left untouched. The years-old dust caking the covers explodes into your eyes, stinging them, and tears begin to fall, the painful kind. They come hard, ragged, anything but quiet. You sink to the oriental rug, burying your face into your knees and hugging them close as you sob through your teeth, scraping your nails into your shins.

You imagine all their faces: the blonde man who tortured them, the old woman you only saw once when they took Blue, all the pretty eyes beneath the stupid veils. In your head, you slash all of them to pieces. Shreds. Torn nerves and burst eyes. Until you are swimming in their entrails. 

There is a voice. In your head maybe. But no, it's real—someone touches your shoulder, and you flinch. You lift your gaze, and through it, make out the shape of warm, almond eyes, one of them half-opened beneath a swollen bruise.

Kyle kneels beside you. He doesn't say anything, just sits there, his knee touching yours the only point of connection. When your crying subsides, you feel a tinge of embarrassment at the state he's found you in, and wipe at your cheeks. "Sorry. I woke you up."

"I was already awake."

Silence hums between you, and he thoughtlessly picks up one of the books, thumbing through the pages, then quietly closes it.

"We all owe you our lives, you know. Nereida told us about all you did."

You dig your chin into the tops of your knees and stare off at the wall. "I still didn't do enough."

"You're doing all you can." His gaze pierces into the side of your face, making you feel translucent. "He'll be alright. Always is."

You don't know what to say to that, sighing through flared nostrils and looking down at your feet before over at him. "How is Ari?"

"He's alright. Just shaken, I think. Thank you for asking." A tinge of guilt finds you that you haven't checked on them enough. Ari, just a boy, and he's hardly crossed your mind through any of this.

"You know," Kyle continues quietly, his knuckles whitening around the book. "When we were in there, I didn’t know what to say to get him through it—because I couldn't see much hope myself. I had to watch, do nothing, while they made him memorize that goddamn book just to earn a meal. And he wasn’t allowed to share any with me." He lets out a short, bitter snort. "I've never felt so fucking weak. So powerless. Watching someone you love suffer, not knowing how to help them..." His gaze locks onto yours. "That has to be a pain worse than any torture."

His words catch you off guard, stirring something deep and unformed. All you can do is reach for him, gripping his shoulders in a firm hug, evening your heart rate. He murmurs a promise about the broth, his hand brushing your shoulder before he excuses himself. Returning to the bedroom, you check their pulses—her pinky curled around his in sleep. You press a kiss to Blue’s hair, then, without thinking, let your lips brush her father's fevered temple. All you can think of is the harsh burn of his skin, and the medicine you know he needs.

[killeromanoff]

silenced screams

bleeding blue | apocalypse au

part thirty-two —other parts

pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x fem!reader words: 5.1k tags: death. blood and gore. zombies of course. AFAB reader. single dad ghost. enemies to lovers. SA and implication of child SA (very subtle). summary: After losing your companions, you run into a skull-masked man and his daughter. They are your last hope for survival. a/n: clearly I am bad at estimating how long this story will take lol

The tray of food crashes to the floor at her feet. Salome gasps. Her hand shoots back, fumbling for the doorknob, and her lips part, ready to call the guard you know is just outside.

"If you call for the guard," you stop her, "I’ll cut deeper."

She clamps a hand over her mouth. "Please—stop! Hurting yourselves is a sin, a great dishonor to the body God gave you—"

“It is,” you agree calmly. You press the shard deeper into the cephalic vein, ignoring the bite of pain. Blood spills in a fresh, startling curtain down your arm, the wound mimicking the severity of an arterial cut. “And she’ll blame you for it. You’re the one she entrusted to watch over us, and you didn't notice we broke one of the mugs."

"I did not think you would—"

"What happens to you,” you cut her off, pointing the bloody shard at her stomach, ��—and your baby when the two new child-bearers die because of your failure? Because I will die, if I cut any deeper. This artery,” you lie, tapping the wound for emphasis, “is important. If I finish slicing through it, I’ll bleed out in less than a minute. Not enough time for you to get help. Not even enough to try saving me yourself.”

Her lashes flutter rapidly through a swell of tears. "You could have a good life here—"

"Answer me. What happens to you if I die?"

She swallows hard. "She’ll punish me," she whispers frightfully. "I have seen what happens to those who fail her. She might take my child and I will... never see them. Please, don’t do this—”

"Why should we care about you and your child when you are okay with them killing an eleven-year-old girl tomorrow?"

A flash of shame crosses her face. "I'm sorry. I-I didn't know Maman would want the girl. The offering has never been so young before. But it is God's will, there is nothing I can do to—"

"What you can do is open the cell. Open it and we will kill Maman, then you won't have to worry about anyone taking your baby. But if you don't open it, then we die in here and you will face her punishment."

Her lips part, but nothing comes out. She looks between you and Nereida, eyes darting wildly, fingers twitching against her stomach. 

"Decide before I bleed out!"

"I... I can't," she says pitifully.

With a glance at Nereida, she takes her cue, digging into her vein.

"Open the cell," Nereida urges far more soothingly than you can, blood dripping to her elbow. "We won't hurt you. We want Maman gone, not you."

Salome whimpers under her breath, but her fingers move before her mind catches up, reaching inside her robe to retrieve the key, gripping it like it might burn her. She shuffles closer but pauses, inhaling deeply before finally reaching the door. Her hands shake so violently that the key rattles against the lock. It slips against the metal, failing to match the hole, and your finger twitches when she nearly drops it.

"Mais si elles ne parviennent pas à la tuer..." The whisper leaves quietly, lost beneath the veil. "Sa punition pour moi sera pire."

Then, her hand curls back around the key.

She swallows hard—and steps back.

No. 

You see red.

A growl curls at your mouth and you snap forward, grabbing onto her dress through the bars before she can retreat too far, and pulling her flush against them, her forehead banging into the metal. Before she can scream, you clamp a bloody hand over her mouth and then press the piece of broken mug to her neck with just enough pressure to make her panic. She gasps into your palm, struggling. You dig it harder, forcing her body to turn still and rigid.

"Twix—"

"I tried doing things the nicer way," you speak in a low snarl, veering off the script you and Nereida conjured. Round, glossy eyes stare into yours. "You should have made up your mind before getting within my reach. Now give her the key. I’d hate for my hand to slip."

Another sharp press into her skin wrings a squeak from her, her breath coming out jagged and uneven against your palm. Trembling, she extends an arm through the bars, offering the key to Nereida.

The moment Nereida takes it, she fumbles to find the lock from the outside, her fingers searching blindly. The key scrapes against the metal—once, twice—before a soft click finally reaches your ears.

The door swings open.

You don’t hesitate. Keeping your grip firm over Salome’s mouth, you shove through the opening and swing around to the other side. Before she can react, you force her back into the cell, driving her onto the bed. The veil tears free from her head as you pin her down, your weight pressing her into the mattress, the sharp fragment still poised at her throat. When her legs begin to flail helplessly, you order Nereida to grab them. She clasps Salome's ankles to keep her from bucking you off.

"You were afraid of the wrong person," you hiss, your nose nearly brushing hers. "Maman may have spared your life because she values her baby makers—but I don’t. Answer everything I ask, or I’ll show you just how merciless I can be."

The dishonest threat rolls off your tongue with enough force to make her nod frantically, fear widening her eyes. But what she doesn’t need to know—what you won’t let her see—is the part of you still holding back. Because even now, even as you pin her down and press the shard to a vital piece of her throat, you’re careful. You don’t dig hard enough to damage. You don’t let your weight bear down on the swell of her stomach.

"I'm glad we understand each other. I am going to lift my hand, and you're not going to scream. You're going to tell me everything we need to know about the guards out there."

Her lips are puffy and raw when you set them free. 

"There is only one outside the d-door," she sputters in a whisper. "B-but there are more... more by the... h-homes and the keep."

"The keep?"

"Where they keep the new m-males," she chokes out, snot dripping from her nose.

"That's in the old slaughterhouse, right?"

She nods.

"How many guards are over there exactly?"

"I do not know." At your glare, she rushes out, "B-but there are less after d-dinner ends. Many go to sleep, and switch shifts at sunrise."

You mull over the information, eyes darting across her face. “And the child—the offering? Where is Maman keeping her?”

A terrible look of fear ripples through her eyes. "Only few are allowed near the offering b-before her ascension. 

"So you're telling me you don't know?" you seethe in her face.

She sobs. "I know they... they will offer her to the démons right before the sun rises. The night is when God’s wrath is strongest, but it’s in the morning—when hope ascends—that we seek atonement."

Despite further pressing, that seems to be the extent of what she knows—or she's still withholding. Either way, you're satisfied enough. You rip strips of the sheet, using one to gag her and two more to bind her wrists and ankles. You and Nereida wrap your wounded wrists tightly to stop the flow. Then, you remove her white gown. You’ll need something to wear that doesn't easily mark you as an escapee, but there’s only the one white dress and veil. You hurriedly slip into them, making sure all of your hair and face is hidden, leaving Nereida still in the thin slip. The shoes Salome wears are thin and made of unsupported leather, but they are all you have to tuck your bare feet into.

Salome said there will be fewer guards after dinner. You and Nereida listen carefully to every sound that bleeds through the window. When you hear a few exchanges of bonne nuit, you figure people are starting to retire for the night. You take this as your cue to grip your makeshift weapon. The guard outside the door is expecting Salome to leave at some point, giving you the perfect opportunity to catch him off-guard while dressed as her.

You quietly open the door to the warm summer night, the long gown ghosting around your ankles. As expected, a well-built man leans against the side of the building, arms crossed languidly. No one else is in sight, which brings you some relief. When his gaze shifts to you, he raises a brow.

"Tout va bien, mademoiselle? Vous êtes restée là-dedans un moment."

The last word barely makes it out of his mouth. Within a heartbeat, you spring at him like the head of a snake, one hand over his mouth and the other stabbing his neck with the shard, then sweeping it through the thick of his trachea. A gush of blood oozes out in one thick stream, before he gargles out a strangled choke and turns to dead weight against the wall. 

With Nereida's help, you quickly push his body inside the building to keep anyone from spotting it. 

"Wear this," you usher, already starting to undress him. Like the man who visited you, he's wearing a grey cloak. Though it's too big for her, and bloodied, it will be enough to keep her discreet in the dark, her long hair safely tucked beneath the hood.

Two things race through your mind: the ticking time toward sunrise and the fact that you still don’t know how many more men you’ll have to take out to reach Ghost, Price, and Kyle. The knife you find on the guard adds a small weapon to your shitty arsenal. You have no idea where they could’ve stored the guns and ammo they took from you, or your bow. How you'll manage to fight through a community of cultists without those is a worry you can’t afford to dwell on right now—one step at a time.

After a few minutes of collecting yourselves, urgency pulls the two of you outside, free from the barred enclosure for the first time in almost four days. In the blanket of night, you quickly scan the area, taking in what you’re up against. The community appears fairly spread out, with only six small farmhouses like the one you just escaped from, along with a few larger structures in the near distance—likely where they house the men. You catch a glimpse of a fenced pasture’s perimeter and the unmistakable stench of cattle fills the air. Despite the faint shuffle of hooves and grey plumes of smoke from a few of the chimneys, everything is eerily still, leaving an unnerving amount of quiet for your heart to shatter through.

From what you can see, there aren’t many places to hide Blue, but there could be more to this place beyond what’s visible, especially since the chapel you first saw is nowhere in sight. But none of that matters right now; you need to find the others first if you’re going to have any real chance of saving her and getting out of here.

The next male you encounter spots you first as you make your way up the gravel road towards the barn, the sound of his boots making your hand tighten on the knife's handle. He greets you unassumingly in French, causing Nereida to startle beside you as his shadow approaches. Then he stops in front of her, his shoulders tensing and his hand hovering near a knife at his waist.

"Que fais-tu avec la femelle? C’est interdit!"

Again, you go for the throat, desperate to silence any screams that could cause alarm. You get a good swipe at the base of it, but he is at least a head taller than you, making it difficult to stab fully. He grabs you by the waist, clearly in shock that a veiled female just sprung on him with a knife, but swipes a fist at your face nonetheless. The force spreads through your temple, thrusting your head to the side. 

"Take the knife from him," you hiss at Nereida through the pain, who until now was effectively frozen. She finally moves, using the distraction you've caused as he clutches his bleeding neck, and snatches the knife still hanging at his waist. Once she has it, you leap at the disarmed man again, this time stabbing his liver. With a muffled grown, he face-plants into the gravel, quickly soaking it with blood. 

"The body," she stutters worriedly. "We need to hide it."

You look around, spotting stacks of chopped wood.

"Over there. Help me drag him."

Once the body is heaved behind the logs, you pat him down in search for anything else, but there's nothing.

"Keep that on you," you tell her, and she gives a quick nod, hiding the knife under her sleeve.

You keep following the road up to the fence, your white dress splattered with crimson, resembling the dotted stars overhead. The 'keep' is somewhere by the barn that man said, but you notice smaller buildings to the right and to the left of it. Which one looks like an old slaughterhouse? It's too difficult to tell even when you squint, so you grab Nereida's arm and quickly lower by a bush.

"Watch that one, and I'll keep an eye on this one. Whichever building has more guards patrolling is probably where they're holding them."

"Okay," she whispers, peering around the bush.

Minutes pass. The building on the right has more shadows skirting around it—three guards total. You take a moment to study their movements. One is stationed near the back, the other two at the front.

"I want you to take the one at the back and wait for me. I'll handle the other two."

"How do I take him?" she whispers uncertainly. "He’ll see me coming."

"You’ll come at it from an angle." You point toward a stack of hay. "Sneak over there, quietly. Once you're behind it, circle around and approach where he can't see."

She hesitates, rubbing the back of her hand across her forehead. "I’ve never—"

"Never killed anyone?" 

The way she grips the knife, her fingers white on the handle, confirms it.

"These people deserve it, Nereida," you say, forcing her to meet your gaze. "John is in there."

She closes her eyes, and for a moment, the weight of it all presses down on her. When she opens them again, her jaw is set, and her grip on the knife tightens.

After reminding her where to strike, you pause for a moment, watching as she sneaks over to the hay. Then, you move toward the other two, slipping behind a tree for cover, but your foot catches on something and you almost trip, catching yourself against the bark. Your breath hitches and you steal a peek at them to make sure they didn't hear you. No—they are too busy murmuring to each other, laughing in a low exchange.

When you glance down, you spot a shovel half-buried into the ground, its handle sticking out. Carefully, you wriggle it free, having to grit your teeth to fully remove it. This will let you stun one while you deal with the other. Inhaling deeply to center yourself, palm tight over the splintered wood handle, you close in on the two guards.

The shorter one with curly hair spots you just before you take a swing, his eyes widening. The shovel slams into his skull, effectively making him stumble to the ground, but slips from your grip from the force. The other guard whirls around, hand slapping for the pistol at his belt. You deliver three consecutive stabs to his stomach, heart, and cheek. The gun never leaves his waist before he falls dead.

You suck in a gulp of air just as the curly-haired one regains his footing. His head is still heavy from the blow, and before he can draw his knife, you shove him in the chest, sending him crashing to the ground. You pin him easily beneath you, his movements sluggish and weak. The two of you wrestle in the grass, jagged breaths mixing with frantic, scraping nails, until, with a snarl, your knife finds purchase in his neck, stealing the life from his eyes in an instant. You stab him again and again, shaking, until the ticking urgency pulls you back into control. With a deep breath, you steady yourself and wiggle the knife lodged in his trachea, your hands slippery with blood.

"You got death," you spit in a whisper, thumbing his lids shut.

You lift up.

Now you have a single gun.

It is an old thing. Outdated and far from the military-grade weapons Ghost has. It takes a moment to figure out the parts—your fingers fumble for the small magazine, which is stocked with three bullets. You pull the slide to chamber a round with a click and keep it ready in your hand as you circle the building toward the back, praying that Nereida managed. When you find her, she is stood over the man's body, a deep cut oozing on her cheek.

"He saw me," she says, swallowing. "But I did it."

You nod. "We need to hide them before we go in."

All three bodies are hidden behind the hay stacks. You cover them with manure to mask the smell, not wanting a horde of Greys to materialize. You'd spotted a door at the back and hope it may be more discreet then blazing in through the front, given that you don't know who all is in there. Finger ready on the trigger, you hold your breath as you lead Nereida into the old building, instantly met with the rich smell of pennies. The space quickly unfolds into an old butcher house, rusted hooks hanging from the stone ceiling, the air cramped and cold. 

"Une femme? Maman ne voudrait pas de toi—"

The voice echoes in your ear as you round the corner, and then a fiery bullet rips into the owner's chest. Nereida flinches. Another guard comes barreling over, shouting, but you slide the chamber and shoot him in the head.

You don't linger by the bodies, itching to check the first steel door you see. You lower the gun only to pull at the handle, but it won't budge.

"Check him for keys," you motion to the dead guard.

Nereida crouches, hands rifling through his pockets until she yanks free a ring of keys. Her fingers shake as she tries them one by one, the lock stubborn—until, at last, it gives. With a sharp tug, the door groans open, revealing a windowless chamber. In the center, a lone captive hangs from chains.

It’s Price. Shackles bite into his wrists, his bare chest mapped with deep bruises against pale skin. Beaten, but unbroken—his gaze sharp as it lifts to meet yours. Nereida chokes on a sob, ripping the hood off her head and sinking to her knees before him, cupping his jaw.

A weighted baritone manages: "Duchess."

"There is nowhere I will not find you," she croaks. Teary kisses find the corner of his mouth. "I'm here, I'm here."

"How did you—"

"We got out. Where are the others?" you ask.

His jaw grits. "I haven't seen them since they knocked us out."

"They must be here somewhere. We need to move quick before someone notices the bodies."

After finding the small key to undo the manacles, you leave them to each other for the moment, continuing down the hall until the next door. An undeniable pull rises in your chest, something that has nothing to do with the adrenaline rushing through you—something you can’t quite name. But when you open the door, your heart falters with unwelcome disappointment at the sight of Kyle. He looks equally battered, but still aware enough to lift his head as you step in.

"Who are you?" 

You lift the veil.

"It's me," you answer, the words almost lost in the rush of emotions. Only when you fully take in the room do you notice Ari, curled in the corner. They’ve put them in here together. While there are no obvious injuries on the boy, the sight of the open Bible on his lap, and the empty dinner plate beside him, sends a cold shiver down your spine. You touch his cheek, feeling warmth, and reassure him he’s safe.

You release both of them. "Price and Nereida are through the door down the left. I need to find Ghost. I’ll be back."

Kyle rubs his wrists and manages to stand despite his black eye and shaky legs. "I’ll come with you."

"No. I’ll get him." The words come out sharper than you mean to, but you turn away before he can question them.

You are pulled further through the tight, cold hallway, movements turning more hurried as you look around. There are a few more half-opened doors, but they only lead to supply closets filled with whips and metal batons and empty chambers where old blood stains the floors. Something sharp tugs at your heart, and for the first time since initiating your escape, your fingertips succumb to a tremor of fear. 

Where is he?

The hall spits out into a room where dried animal carcasses hang from the walls.

One final door sits on the far end.

The rusted lock resists, swears hissing from your lips—until a sharp kick forces it open.

The smell thickens with fresh blood, and a cold pit sinks into your stomach at the sight of him—bound in chains, his body slumped haphazardly. Unlike the others, he doesn’t lift his head. You rush forward, a shaky breath catching in your throat as you take in the blood caked on his shoulder blades, deep welts splitting through the inked skin. His back, too, is covered in wounds. He looks worse—so much worse—that a bite of anger swells moisture in your eyes.

"Simon, you idiot. What did you do?" The words slip out on a sharp inhale as you lower yourself in front of him. "Simon," you whisper again, silent tears hot against your lips. You thread a hand through his hair, tilting his jaw up with careful fingers. His eyes are heavy, but relief finds you when they flutter open. He’s alive. The reddened whites flicker over your face, unfocused—until something strange sharpens the haze. A flicker of fear.

"It's me, Simon. We're getting out of here."

The brief fear shifts into shock when he recognizes your face, and only after you fumble with the key ring does understanding click into place, causing his jaw to flex. "Where... where is she?"

"I don't know, but we need to hurry. They have her." You undo the manacles, and his body rolls heavily into you, face falling onto your collarbone. You struggle to hold him up, gripping his shoulders without touching the wounds. A low groan bleeds through his teeth, and his eyes flutter shut again. No, no, no. "Please, you have to... you have to get up, Simon. I can't—she's going to fucking die!"

His upper chest rapidly expands with a breath, and he musters the strength to lift his weight off you and slap a hand against the wall. As he leverages his weight up, you help by grabbing beneath his other arm, until a final rush of adrenaline gets him on his feet. Urgency snaps tension into his limp shoulders, and he growls out another, more steady, breath.

"Price," he says.

"He's alive. Come on."

It takes some effort to help him walk at first, but eventually, he manages on his own. You guide him to the first room, where the others are pacing, murmuring in low voices.

"Simon, Jesus," Price mutters when he sees him.

Ghost brushes it off, his eyes narrowing. "They're going to kill her."

"At sunrise," you add, your voice tight. You pull out the pistol and show it to them. "I have one bullet left. I don't know how many more men are in this cult, but we've killed six so far."

"We have one shitty old gun." Kyle growls in frustration. "They took all our shit. How are we going to—"

"We find the weapons. They must have stored them somewhere," Price says.

"We can't just go searching through every building here. We don't have the time," you press. "And how are we supposed to get it back without everyone noticing we're gone?"

"I don't give a fuck about the guns. We find her first," Ghost grits, nostrils flaring. 

"We can't help her if we don't think things through. We can't just start a war with these people empty-handed, Simon," Price says.

"We find her first!"

"Simon," you say, reaching for his arm, but he pulls it away, clenching his bloody fist. The energy radiating from him would scare you if you didn't feel the same way.

Just then, there is the faint sound of a door opening and footsteps clanging through the hall. You tense up, two male voices shouting in echoes, one of them vaguely familiar.

"Quelqu'un les a tués ! On doit régler cette merde avant que Maman découvre quoi que ce soit."

"Les putains de prisonniers!"

Before you can react, Ghost snatches the pistol from your grip. The second they rush toward the open door, he launches at them—an elbow to one’s face, the butt of the gun breaking the nose of the other. Price uses Nereida's knife to stab the fallen guard, while Kyle helps Ghost subdue the second one. You only recognize him as the man who made you strip when they forcibly drag him toward the manacles, the sight of his blonde hair making your nails curl into your palms.

"You stupid fucking Brits!"

Ghost strikes the gun into his left eye, making him jerk within the constraints, howling as the socket turns into bloody pulp. 

Kyle grips the man's scalp from behind to hold his head up, while Ghost presses the gun into his cheek, where you notice a wound shaped like a bite mark.

"Tell us where she is," he roars. "Or I'll take the other eye."

Nereida cowers into the corner, holding onto Ari's arm. 

"I don't know!" the man spits blood, and Ghost digs the gun into his cheek, ripping it open further until the bitten flesh hangs as a torn flap, exposed all the way to his eye. The scream that follows feels inhuman. "I swear, I don't—I don't fucking know!"

Fresh blood drips to the floor. Price, much more calm, lowers at the man's side. "How many people live here?"

The man grits his teeth, struggling to answer, "T-thirty males, and six females. Plus the infants."

Twenty-two now, you count in your head.

"And the weapons we had. What about those?" Price questions further.

When only staggered, pained breaths fills the room, Ghost tosses the bloody gun and grabs the knife from Price, stabbing the man's kneecap without hesitation. Another scream ensues, and there is the small itch to cover your ears, but you steel yourself against the wall to keep watching.

"Answer the fucking question." Ghost twists the knife in his knee.

He cries out, more bloody spittle flying from his mouth. "All of the ammo is hidden. Only A-Alexandre knows!"

"Who is Alexandre?"

“Maman's son, he enforces her commands and oversees the males.”

"Where is he?" Price asks, voice hard.

“He… he resides in the work shed, while the rest of us sleep in the quarters within the barn.”

You step forward. "We saw another building outside with just one guard, that must be it."

There is a beat of silence as Price processes the information, giving Ghost a satisfied nod. With pain still contorting his face, the man's eye drifts past Ghost's shoulder toward you. His lips twitch into a faint, bloody smirk that makes your skin crawl. Ghost follows his gaze, snarls, and abruptly slashes the man's throat from ear to ear.

B

It is still dark when Eloise comes to awaken her, though Blue's eyes never once fell shut with sleep. She spent the short-lived night alternating between staring at the crescent moon outside the window, and fiddling with the knitting needles left on the table. There is a new dress in the woman's clutch, beautiful white fabric embroidered with flowers, and a pair of beautiful leather shoes in the other hand.

"See? I told you the dress would be nicer." She smiles and hands it over, as if to offer something to be thrilled for. "You must change quickly. There is a lovely breakfast of framboises and milk waiting for you. Put these on as well." She sets the shoes on the floor.

Blue thinks it strange, to bother feeding her just before her death. Blankly, she asks, "How many people will be there? To watch me die."

Eloise's smile quivers slightly, a slight crack in her composure. "Not too many, I assure you. Only a few of us women, and one or two worthy men. Most are still sleeping." After a pause, she adds even quieter, almost ashamed, "Be thankful you don’t suffer through childbirth instead. It is... a painful thing. Long, too. At least this pain will be honorable and swift."

Blue's fingers tighten around the dress. "Okay. Do you mind if I change alone, please?"

Eloise bows her head. "Of course."

She casts one last gentle glance her way before shuffling out of the room, locking the door behind her and leaving Blue with only the dress and shoes. Once the door is closed, Blue quickly slips the dress on, shuddering as the cold fabric caresses her limbs. It’s more beautiful than anything she can remember ever wearing, and that disgusts her. Swallowing the churn in her stomach, she grabs the needles and sits back on the bed.

The wounds on her feet are shallow, her fingernails only able to pierce the thick skin slightly. Using the needles, she digs into them deeper, trembling from the pain that throbs as fresh blood begins to seep from the soles. She cuts and cuts furiously, teeth gritted, praying it’s enough to soak into the shoes she slips on over the new wounds. She covers the blood stains on the sheet with the blanket, then stands, almost crying out from the agony of walking on her torn feet.

"Please dad," she whispers, closing her eyes briefly, before calling to Eloise that she is ready.

"But if they don't manage to kill her... her punishment for me will be worse." "Is everything alright, miss? You've been in there for a while." "What are you doing with the female? It’s forbidden!" "A woman? Maman wouldn’t want you—" "Someone killed them! We need to fix this shit before Maman finds out anything." "The fucking prisoners!"

[killeromanoff]

Iai colega brasileiro 🙂‍↕️🤧

opa podemos falar qualquer coisa aqui ninguém vai entender 🫡🫡🫡

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | ch. 4

summary: Cassie awakens grappling with a hangover and the consequences of her reckless curiosity from the previous night. As truths about Rutshire's tangled relationships and her own doubts resurface, she finds herself questioning the weight of her family name and the expectations tied to it.

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Themes of Corruption, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo), Moral conflict, Slow-burn tension, Realism in Media Industry, Self-doubting

w.c: 12k

notes: hey, so sorry for the delay everyone!!! i’ve had final projects for college, exams, working during my break, and dealing with a million things over these holidays!! i’ve been trying for ages to find time to finally finish this chapter! but here it is, i haven’t forgotten cassie!! we’ll definitely see a lot more of her, hopefully!! i hope you haven’t forgotten about her either. enjoy the read!

[prologue], [chapter one], [chapter two], [chapter three], [here]

o4. please tell me who i am

Cassie woke with a start, the soft glow of morning filtering through the gauzy curtains, casting a warm haze over Freddie’s guest room. It wasn’t a graceful awakening—more of a slow, groggy stumble into consciousness, the remnants of restless dreams clinging to her like mist. The soft glow of morning filtered through the gauzy curtains, spilling over the warm, homey décor of Freddie’s guest room. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted in from somewhere, a stark contrast to the turmoil in the young woman’s head. She groaned, shielding her eyes from the invading light, the hangover pressing down on her skull like a vise.

Sinking deeper into the plush bed, Cassie tried to piece together the night before. Snippets of conversations danced in her mind: Freddie’s calm assurances. Lizzie’s knowing smile. And that ridiculous, reckless question about Valerie. A question that had spilled out not from clarity, but from too many drinks and the false courage they provided.

Why had she asked him that?

She sat up slowly, her temples throbbing as she glanced around the room. Freddie’s guest space was comfortable in an unpretentious way, filled with little reminders of the life he’d built—books scattered on shelves, a clock ticking on the wall, and a blanket folded neatly at the foot of the bed. The smell of coffee floated through the air, grounding her further in the present.

Before she could wrestle with her thoughts any longer, there was a soft knock at the door, followed by Lizzie’s voice.

“Morning, sunshine. Or should I say... Hangover Queen?”

The door opened just enough for Lizzie to step inside, balancing a mug of coffee and wearing that signature smirk that always made Cassie feel both supported and entirely called out. Lizzie set the mug down on the side table and perched on the chair beside the bed.

Cassie sighed, rubbing her temples. “Go ahead, get it over with.”

“What? The teasing?” Lizzie arched her brow, clearly amused. “I don’t need to. Your face says it all.”

“Great,” Cassie muttered, reaching for the coffee.

“Do you remember much from last night?” Lizzie asked, her tone more curious than judgmental.

“Enough. And... Not enough.” She sipped the coffee, savoring the way it cut through the fog in her head. “I remember asking Freddie something really stupid.”

“Define stupid.” Lizzie tilted her head, a crease formed between her brows as her lips pressed into a contemplative line. She leaned back in the chair slowly, her fingers drumming on the armrest, a subtle rhythm that hinted at thoughts she wasn’t quite ready to voice.

Cassie hesitated, her fingers clenching around the warm mug as the memory resurfaced with painful clarity. It was both embarrassing and shameful to remember having bluntly said such a stupid thing to him.

“Something you also wouldn’t have enjoyed,” she replied quietly.

The question she’d asked Freddie hadn’t come out of nowhere, though it had spilled from her lips without the restraint she might have exercised sober. Despite being a stupid thing to say, it was the truth.

It had been brewing for some time, rooted in the way she’d seen them—Freddie and Valerie—trapped in a marriage that seemed more like a formality than a partnership.

As all the marriages in Rutshire.

She thought of Valerie, a woman who was polished to perfection yet distant, her interactions with Freddie clinical at best. Cassie couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen them exchange a genuine smile, let alone anything that felt remotely like affection. Their life together, as far as Cassie could tell, was lived parallel but apart.

And then there was Lizzie.

Cassie had observed the way her uncle’s guarded expression softened around her, how his wit softened when Lizzie was in the room, like some dormant part of him came alive in her presence. The same seemed true for Lizzie, whose laughter with Freddie felt freer, lighter, than with anyone else—including her husband, James.

The young woman had never understood what Lizzie saw in that pompous man, whose charm was as superficial as his dedication to their marriage.

That damn stupid question had been sitting in the back of her mind ever since she moved to Rutshire, gathering weight until it finally spilled out of her, uninhibited by sobriety or tact.

“I asked him why he doesn’t leave Valerie and marry you.” The words escaped from her before Cassie could stop herself, her voice wavering between the same two feelings: embarrassment and shame.

She had seen the way Freddie and Lizzie were together, the way they shared something beyond the surface—a connection that felt more real than anything Cassie had witnessed in the strained relationship between her uncle and Valerie.

It was impossible that they hadn’t thought about it, right?

Lizzie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, but her reaction wasn’t one of shock—it was more like someone hearing a truth spoken aloud that they’d long since made peace with. She leaned back in her chair, her posture relaxing as a small, knowing smile played on her lips. It was the kind of smile Cassie had seen before, the one that softened her guard just enough for the words to slip through, unfiltered.

“Why doesn’t he leave Valerie and marry me?” Lizzie repeated, her voice light but with an edge Cassie couldn’t ignore. It wasn’t the sarcasm that stung; it was what hid beneath it. “You really don’t pull your punches, do you?”

Cassie flushed, her grip tightening around the mug. The heat of the coffee didn’t warm her, but the discomfort in her chest only grew. She looked away, her mind spinning in a blur of thoughts she didn’t know how to voice.

“I didn’t mean it like that,” she mumbled, her voice faltering. “It’s just... I see how he is with you. How you are with him. And with Valerie, it’s not like that. It’s—”

“Different,” Lizzie finished for her, her tone softer now but no less firm. Her gaze shifted, her expression unreadable as she crossed her legs. “Trust me, Cassie, I see it too. But it’s not that simple.”

The room seemed to grow quieter, the air dense with unspoken truths. Lizzie leaned back in her chair, a wry smile ghosting across her lips. It was the kind of expression Cassie had come to associate with her—a carefully constructed shield, sharp enough to deflect but never too revealing. Her gaze settled on Cassie, unreadable yet somehow piercing.

“Doesn’t it feel like a waste?” Cassie murmured, the words spilling out before she could stop herself. She stared into her mug, as if the swirling remnants of her tea might hold the answer. “He deserves better than this... This cold, perfect life with Valerie. And you deserve better than James.”

Lizzie tilted her head, her eyes narrowing slightly.

“You don’t think I know that?” she asked, her tone cool but not unkind. Her words cut through the silence with precision, like a scalpel peeling back layers of pretense. “Freddie deserves better, yes. But what does that mean? Better for him, or better for me? It’s not that simple, darling. It never is.”

Cassie glanced up, startled by the edge in Lizzie’s voice. It wasn’t anger—not entirely. It was resignation, tempered by the quiet ache of unspoken longing and the exhaustion of navigating expectations that never seemed to change. Years of compromise, of managing the roles they were expected to play, had left their marks.

“You’re saying you’re okay with this?” Cassie’s voice cracked slightly, her frustration bleeding through. “Just... Letting it all stay the same?”

Lizzie’s laugh was soft but bitter, laced with a kind of knowing Cassie hadn’t yet earned.

“Okay with it?” she repeated, shaking her head, “Hardly. But life isn’t a neatly wrapped package, Cassie. It’s messy. People like Valerie don’t just disappear because we want them to. And Freddie, for all his charm and wit, is stuck in a role he doesn’t know how to break out of. And no bold declaration will change that, believe me, I know.”

Cassie flinched, the weight of Lizzie’s words sinking in.

“It feels like you’re both... Waiting for some big moment where everything will fix itself,” she said quietly, her voice almost a whisper.

Lizzie’s expression softened for the first time, the sharp lines around her mouth easing into something more vulnerable. She leaned forward, her elbows resting on her knees, the motion unguarded but deliberate.

“Maybe he is,” Lizzie admitted, her voice carrying a note of resigned acceptance, “And I don’t blame him. Sometimes waiting is all you can do. You wait, and you hope that when the moment comes, you’re ready for it.”

Cassie fell silent, her fingers absently tracing the rim of her mug. She wanted to argue, to say waiting wasn’t enough, that action was needed. But Lizzie’s calm, her quiet conviction, held her words at bay. It felt like stepping into a current she didn’t quite know how to navigate.

Lizzie shifted then, her gaze drifting toward the window. The morning light filtered through the glass, casting soft patterns on the wall. For a moment, it seemed as though she was looking for something far away—an answer, perhaps, or the courage to voice what she was about to say.

“I’m not waiting for everything to fall into place, though,” she said, her voice steady, “I sent James the divorce papers this morning. Told him the house is mine, and he’ll need to find somewhere else.”

Cassie’s head snapped up, her eyes wide, disbelief etched across her face.

What?

“You did what?” she asked, her tone laced with incredulity.

Lizzie met Cassie’s wide-eyed disbelief with a steady look, her voice calm and unflinching.

“I sent him the papers, yes,” she repeated, crossing one leg over the other as she leaned back in her chair. The motion was smooth, practiced, but Cassie didn’t miss the flicker of vulnerability that passed through Lizzie’s eyes before she masked it again, “James and I have been living this charade long enough. It’s exhausting, Cassie. Pretending, performing... Existing in parallel lives that don’t touch. Sound familiar?”

Cassie’s fingers tightened around her mug, but she didn’t answer. Lizzie wasn’t really asking.

Of course it sounded familiar, it was some kind of pattern in Rutshire. Many marriages there were about pretending, her father and mother were a proper example. There was a reason why her mother had gone to Chicago when her father was still alive.

“You asked why Freddie doesn’t leave Valerie,” Lizzie continued, “Why did I stayed with James as long as I did? And the truth is... Sometimes it’s easier to keep the structure standing than to deal with the mess of tearing it all down. Especially when the world is watching, waiting for you to falter.”

“So what changed?” Cassie asked quietly.

Lizzie tilted her head, her lips curving into a small, bittersweet smile.

“I realized I couldn’t keep waiting for someone else to make the first move. I told James it was over because it needed to be done—for me. But with Freddie...” She trailed off, her gaze slipping toward the window again, the morning light reflecting faintly in her eyes. “That’s his decision to make. Not mine.”

Cassie hesitated, her voice a little smaller as she asked, “But doesn’t it hurt? Knowing you’ve made your choice and he hasn’t?”

“Of course it hurts,” Lizzie’s laugh was short and humorless, her gaze snapping back to Cassie, “But life isn’t fair, darling, and love doesn’t come with guarantees. Freddie and I have something, yes. But it’s not something I can force into existence beyond what it already is. And I’m not willing to sit around, waiting for scraps.”

Cassie blinked, feeling her own defenses unravel slightly under Lizzie’s candidness.

“I just thought... Maybe it could be different,” Cassie confessed, her voice soft with vulnerability, as if finally giving air to a wish she hadn’t fully acknowledged until now. It sounded silly in her head, but saying it aloud felt like acknowledging a truth she had been holding back.

Lizzie didn’t hesitate, her gaze steady and not unkind.

“So did I,” she said quietly, the bluntness of her words disarming Cassie, “But different doesn’t happen by wishing. It happens by doing the hard thing. And sometimes, even then, it doesn’t change anything.”

Her voice was tinged with something close to regret, but there was no trace of self-pity in her tone—just the reality of a decision made, and a life that was still being navigated.

Cassie sat back as Lizzie’s words sank in, settling around her like the still air of the room. She thought about her father, about the split between him and her mother.

The way their marriage had deteriorated long before he died. How her mother had packed up and left for Chicago when Cassie was still too young to understand the intricacies of their broken home… Leaving her with her father, as if the distance itself could untangle the mess that had been left behind.

She’d been too young to remember much of it, but she remembered the emptiness that filled the spaces when they were apart. She never fully grasped what had gone wrong between them. And all of it became worse when he died and she had to be her mother’s responsibility again.

In some ways, she thought, this was all too familiar.

The way Lizzie and Freddie circled around each other, staying just out of reach. It wasn’t that they didn’t care—it was that the world they lived in made it impossible for either of them to take the leap. They stayed in their own self-made prisons, not daring to shatter the fragile construct they’d both built.

Her mother tried to get a new life without her and her father and, in the end, it didn’t work exactly as she had planned.

“I used to think... Maybe, if you loved someone enough, you could make it work,” Cassie continued, more to herself than to Lizzie, “But it’s like you said, isn’t it? It is not that simple. We can’t make people change. Not really.”

“No, you can’t make someone change,” Lizzie leaned forward, her eyes flicking to Cassie with an unspoken understanding, “But you can choose whether or not you’re going to keep waiting for them to do it. And sometimes, you’ve got to let go of the idea that you can make things right, and just accept that they’re not right.”

The words lingered in the air, settling over Cassie like a heavy fog, obscuring any easy answers she might have clung to.

“But you don’t just... Give up on the person you love,” Cassie whispered, her thoughts swirling, lost in the complexity of what she was saying, “How do you walk away from someone who means so much, even when you know it won’t work?”

“You don’t walk away from love, Cass,” Lizzie looked at her for a long moment, as if searching for something in Cassie’s face, “You walk away from the idea of what it could be. Because sometimes, the love itself isn’t enough, no matter how much you want it to be.”

Cassie felt something settle in her chest. She wasn’t sure if it was the conversation, the heavy truths Lizzie was speaking, or just the exhausting burden of everything she hadn’t yet figured out.

The silence stretched between them, and in the quiet, Lizzie added, “You’ll get it, eventually. You’ll understand what I mean.”

After a brief period of silent reflection, Cassie exhaled deeply, her hands still wrapped around the warm mug as if it were the only tangible object in the room.

“I shouldn’t have spoken up,” she murmured, “It’s not my place.”

Lizzie regarded her with a softened expression, yet her words remained pointed.

“You’re asking questions, Cass. That’s a good start,” Lizzie reassured Cassie, a smile adorned her face. “It means you’re searching for answers, and maybe that’s enough to ensure you won’t have to face the same struggles your uncle and I are tangled up in.”

Cassie traced the rim of her empty mug, her thoughts tangling and untangling like a knot she wasn’t quite ready to cut. Lizzie’s words echoed in her mind—a thread she couldn’t quite grasp yet couldn’t ignore. They settled into the corners of her mind, quiet but insistent, nudging her toward truths she didn’t want to name.

Love was complicated, wasn’t it? A web that stretched across her life, inescapable and sticky with memories she tried not to disturb. Thinking about it meant pulling at threads she’d long since left knotted—threads tied to her mother and father's sad story, to the spaces they had left unspoken between them.

The house seemed to mirror her unease. The silence pressed closer, thick and watchful, broken only by the hum of Freddie’s voice from downstairs. It rose and fell in careful rhythms, too muffled to understand, but carrying a tension she could feel. It prickled against her skin, subtle but sharp, like a draft that found its way through cracks you didn’t know existed.

Cassie’s gaze flicked toward the window, the soft gray light filtering through like a promise she couldn’t decide whether to trust. A part of her wanted to get up, to move, to shake off the weight that was settling around her shoulders. But she stayed where she was, her hands resting lightly against the worn ceramic of the mug, tethered by thoughts she couldn’t yet untangle.

“Freddie’s probably pacing again,” Lizzie quipped, a hint of a smile playing at her lips, “He does that when Rupert’s around. It’s like he’s waiting for the other shoe to drop.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, “Is Rupert here?”

“Oh, yes,” Lizzie replied, her smile turning wry, “They’re discussing Venturer’s business. But Rupert has a way of making everyone feel like they’re a step behind. It’s his gift. You met him last night—you probably noticed.”

Cassie thought back to the previous evening. Rupert’s grin, so polished and charming, had carried an undercurrent of something sharper, something designed to disarm.

“He’s…” She paused, searching for the right word to capture the strangeness of him, the way he had exchanged those discreet glances with Taggie O’Hara, “Something..”

Too cautious. She’d already said more than she should, and she didn’t intend to repeat that mistake.

Lizzie chuckled softly, setting her mug on the table. “That’s one way to put it.”

The sound of footsteps on the stairs pulled both their attention. Freddie appeared in the doorway, his presence filling the room effortlessly. His eyes swept across the two women, lingering briefly on Lizzie before settling on Cassie.

For a moment, there was something in his expression—surprise, perhaps?—but it was gone as quickly as it had appeared.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked, his voice carefully neutral.

“Not at all,” Lizzie said smoothly, her tone light, “We were just chatting. Sisterly bonding, you might say.”

“Sisterly, huh?” Freddie’s brow arched, his lips curving, “Should I be worried?”

“Always,” Cassie quipped, her laugh masking her unease.

She was praying for Freddie to think she didn’t remember what she had told him last night, because one thing was to discuss it with Lizzie… Another thing was to have a sober conversation about it with her uncle. She would rather bury her rather in horse’s shit.

Freddie’s attention shifted fully to Cassie, his arms crossing loosely over his chest.

“How’s your head? Feeling sober enough to talk about Venturer?”

No questions about last night or weird looks… Good, perhaps she was safe.

“I think so,” Cassie answered, though her voice wavered a bit.

“Good,” Freddie replied with a nod, his tone shifting into something steadier, almost businesslike, “Rupert and I just got a call downstairs—Cameron wants a meeting. Now.”

Cassie blinked, momentarily thrown off balance.

“A meeting?” she echoed, setting her mug down a bit harder than she intended, “About what?”

“About you,” Freddie hesitated, his eyes flickering briefly to Lizzie before landing back on Cassie, “About the possibility of hiring you.”

Cassie’s stomach twisted, her thoughts racing. She wasn’t even sure she wanted this—though admittedly, she wanted it more today than she had yesterday. But the idea of Cameron, a woman she hadn’t even met yet, already calling a meeting about her? It sent an uneasy ripple through her chest.

Lizzie noticed the discomfort in Cassie’s expression and placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, “Cameron can be intense, but she’s practical. If she wants to talk about you, it means she sees potential.”

“Or it means she’s already decided I’m a liability,” Cassie shot back, her tone edged with bitter humor. She crossed her arms tightly, her fingers digging into the fabric of her sweater. “I’m not even sure about this, and yet here I am.”

Her mind spun. She hadn’t even made up her own mind about joining Venturer. Sure, the idea was clearer now than it had been yesterday, but the thought of someone like Cameron—someone who didn’t even know her—sitting in a room analyzing her every move made her chest tighten.

I’m not even sure about it, she thought bitterly, even though I want it more today than I did yesterday. And Cameron, the woman I haven’t even met yet, already wants to pick me apart.

She exhaled sharply, forcing the air out of her lungs as she tried to settle her racing thoughts.

“So, what? You will all sit around a table and vote on whether or not I’m worth the gamble?”

Freddie crouched slightly, leveling his gaze with hers.

“No one’s voting on you, Cassie,” he took the empty mug off her hands, leaving it on the corner table next to them, “This isn’t about proving yourself. It’s about... Navigating the optics. Rupert and I are heading to Venturer now to figure out how this fits.”

“Optics.” The word felt sour on her tongue. “So this isn’t about whether I’m good enough. It’s about whether I look good enough.”

“Cassie,” Freddie started, but she cut him off with a shake of her head.

“Don’t sugarcoat it, Freddie. I know exactly what this is.” She gestured vaguely, as if the answer was obvious, “This isn’t about my work. It’s about my name.”

Freddie sighed, running a hand through his hair. He knew the truth better than her.

“Yes, the name is part of it.” He admitted. “But you’re more than just Matthew Jones’ daughter, or my niece, and you know that.”

Cassie wasn’t sure she believed him. She felt Lizzie’s gaze on her, trying to comfort her without saying the words out loud.

Her thoughts went back to Declan’s words the night before, to the way he had framed her story on his show with such precision. That moment had given her clarity she hadn’t expected, but clarity didn’t erase the fear that had crept in since then. It didn’t erase the feeling that she was walking into a trap.

Despite wanting to participate and be a part of the team, she didn’t know if she was ready for the first newspaper starring her as the daughter of Matthew Jones.

She could already see the headlines.

“They didn’t even invite me,” Cassie muttered, shaking her head once again, “You’ll be talking about me, deciding my future, and I won’t even be in the room.”

“That’s because this meeting isn’t about deciding anything final.” Freddie stood up, his posture still tense. “It’s about laying the groundwork, making sure everyone’s on the same page. Cameron is... Thorough, to say the least.”

From what little Cassie had heard about Cameron, “thorough” sounded like a gross understatement. She imagined someone cold, clinical—the exact kind of person who would see her as nothing more than a risk to be mitigated. A liability.

And, sincerely, she thought Cameron would be right to think so.

The possibility of joining Venturer felt both intoxicating and suffocating. It was the kind of chance that could elevate her career, but it could just as easily crush her under the weight of expectations she wasn’t sure she could meet.

Cassie rubbed her temple, the beginnings of a headache threatening to resurface. The weight of the conversation, the lingering doubts, and the prospect of a meeting where she’d be dissected like a business proposal—all of it was too much. She glanced at Freddie, who was watching her closely, his concern barely hidden behind his usual calm.

“Can you take me home on your way there?” Cassie asked softly, her voice almost apologetic, “I just... I need some space to think.”

Freddie paused, studying her for a moment before nodding.

“Of course. Let me grab my coat.” His brows furrowed slightly as he turned to Lizzie. “I’ll take you to your place too, Lizzie.”

Lizzie’s eyes widened, momentarily caught off guard.

“Oh,” she stammered before recovering with a small smile, “Thank you, Freddie. I appreciate it.”

As Freddie left the room, Cassie exhaled, relieved. She glanced at Lizzie, who gave her an encouraging look, though there was a faint crease of worry in her expression. The room felt smaller now, the walls pressing in as her thoughts churned.

She wasn’t angry, not at Freddie, not at Rupert or Cameron, not even at Declan—though his name lingered in her mind longer than she liked. She was just tired. Tired of the questions, the scrutiny, the way her father’s shadow seemed to follow her into every room.

I’m not even there yet, she thought bitterly, and they’re already treating me like a liability—or worse, an asset.

Lizzie reached out, giving her hand a gentle squeeze.

“It’s okay to feel overwhelmed, you know. You don’t have to have all the answers right now.”

Cassie gave her a small, tired smile, “I know.”

Freddie reappeared, coat in hand, his movements brisk but unhurried. He paused at the doorway, glancing back at Cassie.

“Ready when you are.”

She nodded, standing and gathering her things with deliberate slowness. Lizzie stood too, giving her an encouraging pat on the shoulder as she passed.

As they descended the stairs, the house seemed quieter than before, the faint hum of conversation from the kitchen reduced to murmurs as if respecting her mood. The faint aroma of Lizzie’s tea lingered in the air, blending with the sharper tang of Freddie’s cologne as he walked ahead. Cassie trailed behind, her steps slower, as though gravity had grown heavier.

“Where’s Rupert?” Cassie asked as they reached the foyer, her eyes scanning the space where he had been earlier.

Freddie glanced briefly out the window.

“Left a few minutes ago,” he said with a shrug, “Probably halfway to Venturer by now. Cameron won’t like to be kept waiting.”

Lizzie raised a brow, “He’s probably doing his best to charm her before the meeting starts. He’s good at that.”

Cassie huffed a small laugh, though her thoughts churned uneasily. Outside, the crisp morning air hit her skin like a bracing splash of water, the sun casting sharp shadows across the driveway. Freddie unlocked the car with a soft beep, his movements deliberate as he held the door open for her.

She hesitated for a moment, catching his eye.

“Thank you,” she said softly, her voice carrying more weight than she intended.

“You don’t have to thank me,” he said simply. “You’ve got enough on your plate without worrying about me.”

Lizzie slipped into the backseat, giving Cassie an encouraging smile before leaning back into the seat. The car rumbled to life, the hum of the engine filling the air. Cassie leaned her head against the window, watching as the city blurred into streaks of gray and muted color.

The silence inside the car was heavy but not uncomfortable. Lizzie broke it with a soft murmur.

“You’ll figure it out, Cassie. You always do.”

Cassie didn’t respond immediately. Her thoughts were a storm of doubt and determination, fear and clarity. Freddie’s steady presence at the wheel and Lizzie’s quiet support behind her felt like the only anchors keeping her from being swept away.

The newsroom carried the distinct sound of controlled chaos. Producers darted between desks clutching papers, interns scrambled to keep coffee from spilling, and camera operators reviewed their setups for the next broadcast. It was a well-oiled machine built on deadlines and adrenaline, but there was always an undercurrent of tension—especially on mornings like this.

Declan strode through the room with a practiced authority, his mind half-focused on the day’s agenda and half on the conversation looming ahead. The faces around him—Seb gesturing animatedly near the teleprompter, Charles arguing over a graphic error—were familiar yet blurred as his thoughts sharpened. His gaze flicked toward the glass-walled conference room, where the meeting he’d been dreading was about to begin.

Inside, Cameron perched on the edge of the table, her posture as rigid as the sharp lines of her blazer. She exuded the kind of tension that made even the most confident producers tread lightly. She wasn’t just Venturer’s co-executive producer; she was its gatekeeper, guarding the platform’s integrity with an intensity that was both admirable and exhausting.

Despite admiring her unwavering commitment to the show, Declan couldn’t shake the sting of their argument the night before, just after his broadcast. Cameron had cornered him, her tone low but brimming with frustration, over his decision to use Cassie’s evidence against Mr. Willow without giving her a heads-up. He could still hear her words echoing:

“You’re not just playing with stories here; you’re playing with credibility.”

Declan knew she wasn’t wrong, but that didn’t stop the bitterness from creeping in. This meeting, he suspected, was the fallout.

Rupert, as always, was the foil to her precision. Lounging in his chair, one arm draped over the backrest, he looked as though he’d wandered into the wrong room by mistake. But Declan knew better.

Behind Rupert’s air of nonchalance was a sharp mind that thrived on finding the cracks in any argument—Cameron’s, Declan’s, or anyone else’s.

Declan wouldn’t lie to himself: it was one of the many reasons he admired Rupert. But admiration came with its price. In moments like these, Rupert’s sharpness reminded Declan of his own insecurities—the kind that had lingered since they’d first worked together.

Rupert Campbell-Black  was the type who could slice through a room’s tension with a single, well-placed quip, while Declan sometimes felt he was still proving himself.

Last night at the Spencer’s Gala had only sharpened Declan’s simmering insecurities.

The revelation of Rupert giving Taggie a ride had cracked open a door to fears he thought he’d long since locked away. He’d spent so much time trying to rebuild their bond—years of missteps followed by countless apologies and promises to do better. But seeing her turn to Rupert instead of him for something as simple as a ride wasn’t just a slight; it was a glaring reminder of how far he still had to go.

It wasn’t just the choice of transportation that stung; it was everything Rupert represented. The man exuded charm, the kind that made people gravitate toward him, made them feel seen. It was the same quality that had driven Declan to admire him professionally—Rupert had an uncanny ability to command a room. But when that same ease slipped into Declan’s personal life, filling spaces where Declan felt he’d fallen short, it was unbearable.

He replayed the moment in his mind. Rupert and Taggie at the gala, her laughing at something he’d said, the two of them effortlessly at ease in a way that felt foreign to Declan. He knew he had no right to begrudge her moments of levity—God knew she’d earned them—but still, it gnawed at him. The what-ifs buzzed like static at the edge of his thoughts. What if she turned to Rupert because she saw something in him that Declan lacked? What if Rupert understood her in ways Declan never could?

Shaking himself out of the spiral, Declan let his focus narrow on the present. The Venturer newsroom had its own kind of chaos, a rhythm he understood better than most. As his gaze landed on the glass-walled conference room, his thoughts shifted from family to the professional minefield ahead.

Inside, Freddie stood by the window, his back to the room, his shoulders squared in a way that gave no indication of where he stood on the issue at hand. Declan had worked with Freddie long enough to know the signs. The deliberate stillness, the subtle tilt of his head—Freddie was preparing himself. He had a knack for waiting until just the right moment to speak, his words cutting through noise like a knife.

As Declan stepped into the room and closed the glass door behind him, the atmosphere shifted.

Cameron didn’t wait.

"Finally," Cameron began, her voice clipped. "Let’s address the elephant in the newsroom."

Her eyes swept across the room, landing briefly on Declan before settling on Freddie. The unspoken accusation simmered in her tone, a jab at the brewing controversy over Cassie.

“By elephant,” Rupert interjected, lounging in his chair, “you mean the niece of a broadcasting legend and the star of an exposé that made national headlines? Quite the pachyderm.”

Cameron shot him a withering glare, “We’re not here to trade quips, Rupert. This is about perception, and I don’t need to spell out the risks of nepotism.”

“We’re not hiring Cassie because of her last name.” Declan, standing near the edge of the table, folded his arms, “Her work speaks for itself—her investigation into Crawford alone proves that.”

“And that’s exactly the problem,” Cameron retorted. She tapped her pen against the table, her movements sharp. “She’s already a lightning rod. Tying Venturer’s reputation to hers puts us in a precarious position.”

Freddie shook his head, tutting.

“It’s not just about risk; it’s about the opportunity,” He leaned forward, a torn smile on his face, “Cassie has the skills, the instincts, and the grit to bring something new to Venturer. We’re talking about talent, not handouts.”

Cameron’s gaze softened, though her tone remained pointed.

“Freddie, I get it. You want to support your family. But this isn’t just about her qualifications—it’s about the optics. How do we justify bringing her on without it looking like favoritism?”

Rupert, always quick to diffuse tension, raised his cup in mock agreement.

“True, optics matter. But let’s not overlook the bigger picture. Cassie’s presence—her credibility—could elevate Venturer in ways we can’t predict yet.” he added with a sly grin, “Besides, Declan was the one who introduced the idea after Freddie mentioned it months ago, right? If he is so keen on her, I’m inclined to trust his judgment.”

Cameron scoffed, leaning back in her chair with a sharp shake of her head.

“So we’re supposed to ignore the optics?” She asked, her eyes narrowing over Rupert’s figure, “Freddie’s niece, Matthew Jones’ daughter, the face of a major scandal—what part of that screams credibility to you?”

Rupert’s grin faltered, his posture stiffening as he leaned forward. Declan, standing at the head of the table, remained silent for a moment, his arms crossed and his expression unreadable. Freddie’s gaze flicked between the two of them, his calm exterior masking the churn of unease beneath.

No one seemed to have any cards left to play—at least, that’s how it looked to Rupert and Freddie.

But Declan? Declan had something.

“What screams credibility is the fact that she did the right thing,” He stepped closer to the table, leaning forward just enough to command their attention, “While others were sitting on their hands, she was exposing the truth. If we’re afraid of the optics, then we’re no better than Crawford’s FM.”

The room fell into silence, the only sound the groan of activity from the newsroom beyond the glass walls. Cameron’s fingers tightened around her pen, her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t immediately reply. Rupert tilted his head, his gaze shifting between Declan and Cameron, a glimmer of intrigue in his eyes.

Freddie was about to speak when a sharp knock at the door drew everyone’s attention. A producer stepped in, her expression tense, clutching a tablet.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, her voice brisk, “but there’s breaking news. A whistleblower just leaked internal documents on water contamination near that factory in Suffolk. It’s spreading across major networks.”

Cameron frowned sharply, “Suffolk? That’s the same case that’s been bubbling up for weeks now.”

But it was Freddie’s reaction that turned heads. His posture went rigid, and his face paled ever so slightly. The pieces clicked together in his mind faster than he cared to admit.

Suffolk… Water contamination… Cassie.

His thoughts flashed to the morning he got her out of prison, the morning he got her out of prison, the same day they got to her all her missing calls… Didn’t one of them have something to do with water issues near a factory?

Her name was Sarah, right? After that morning, Cassie had spent hours on the phone with him telling him what she had in hand with those contacts, even telling him more about this one specially.

Sarah Halverson… That was her full name.

A local from Suffolk who had provided crucial leads in her investigation.

“Bloody hell,” Freddie muttered under his breath, drawing every gaze in the room. He turned back to the producer, “Thanks for the update.”

As the producer exited, Declan raised a brow at Freddie’s sudden shift in demeanor, “Care to enlighten us?”

“Cassie’s investigating this.” Freddie’s lips thinned. “She already has a witness and a pile of evidence.”

Cameron froze, her pen hovering mid-air, “Are you telling me that your niece was already investigating this whistleblower?”

“It’s not a ‘might.’” Freddie leaned on the back of an empty chair, his tone steady but charged with conviction, “I don’t know the details of this leak, but Sarah Halversoni is one of Cassie’s primary contacts. She is a local who lives near the factory, Cassie has been talking with her for weeks now.”

Rupert whistled low, shaking his head, “Well, that changes things, doesn’t it?”

Cameron’s skepticism was immediate.

“And you didn’t think to mention this before now, Freddie?”

“Well, it wasn’t in my bingo that a whistleblower would come forward the same morning we're debating whether Cassie is worth it,” Freddie massaged his mustache, his frustration showing in his measured tone, “But here we are.”

Declan, processing the revelation, spoke carefully.

“If this leak confirms Cassie’s investigation…” He paused, letting the news sink in completely, “Then we have more than just a story—we have a reason to bring her in. She knows the case. She knows the players. And she knows how to follow the threads.”

“And we have a media storm brewing,” Cameron countered, “A storm that could sink her—or worse, us.”

Rupert steepled his fingers, his grin replaced with an expression of thoughtful calculation.

“Or it could propel us forward. This is the kind of opportunity that defines networks, Cameron. If we act decisively, we control the narrative.”

“And we have to act.” Declan nodded. “If we hesitate, someone else will break the follow-up first. We’ll lose the momentum.”

Cameron sighed heavily, clearly wrestling with the decision, “So what’s the plan? We hire her on the spot?”

“On a trial basis,” Freddie suggested, “She already has a foot in the door with this story. Let’s see what she can do with the rest.”

Rupert leaned back in his chair, cracking a small smile, “Now we’re talking.”

Cameron still didn’t look convinced, but she relented with a curt nod.

“Fine.” She rolled her eyes, but there was a deviant smile tugging in her lips. She could lie all she wanted, but she enjoyed debating with the three idiots. “But if this backfires, don’t expect me to clean up the mess.”

However, she wouldn’t let her friendship with the men interfere with her career.

“It won’t backfire,” Declan said, meeting her gaze directly.

The late afternoon sun lingered low, its warm, amber light draping the countryside in golden hues. Cassie adjusted her posture on Jester, the familiar sway of the gelding's steady pace grounding her in the moment. The rhythmic clop of hooves against the packed dirt trail seemed to echo her own heartbeat.

She stole a glance at Bas, who rode ahead, his dun horse, Rocky, moving with an easy confidence that matched his rider's. The contrast between his usual carefree demeanor and the quiet intensity of her own thoughts couldn’t have been starker.

Freddie’s voice echoed in her mind, the conversation from earlier replaying itself in snippets. He’d given her the gist of the meeting once it ended: Cameron had finally relented after considerable debate, agreeing to a trial run contingent on the developing Suffolk water contamination story. Cassie’s contact—Sarah Halverson—had leads that now aligned with a whistleblower’s explosive revelations.

Venturer wanted her on board not just for her name, but for the narrative she’d started to unravel.

She only had to go visit them and say yes.

But that wasn’t what kept Cassie up the entire afternoon. It was the outcomes—the way her father’s legacy loomed over everything she touched. She couldn’t help but wonder if this opportunity would bring her closer to stepping out of that shadow—or cement her place within it.

Jester’s ears flicked back as if sensing her unease, and she reached down to pat his neck absently.

“Easy, boy,” she murmured, though she wasn’t sure if she was reassuring him or herself.

Cassie shifted her weight in the saddle, the familiar sway of Jester’s gait grounding her. The tall chestnut gelding moved with an energy that mirrored her own—restless, but controlled. The crisp evening air filled her lungs, carrying the scent of damp earth and pine as she and Bas rode side by side along the winding trail.

Around them, the countryside stretched out in soft greens and browns, the rolling fields edged with clusters of oak and hawthorn.

Ahead, Bas leaned forward on Rocky, his dun horse’s ears flicking back toward him as if listening to the idle hum of his rider’s voice. His posture was as casual as ever, but Cassie didn’t miss the glint in his eye when he turned to glance at her.

“You know,” Bas began, breaking the silence, “Jester’s looking particularly spirited today. Probably because he knows his rider’s overthinking.”

Cassie smirked, patting Jester’s neck, “Overthinking is a survival skill in my family.”

“Ah, but darling, there’s a difference between surviving and living,” Bas shot back, his grin sharp and playful. He urged Rocky into a smooth trot, the dun horse responding effortlessly. “Speaking of which, how’s the decision-making process coming along?”

Cassie rolled her eyes, guiding Jester to match Rocky’s pace, “I wasn’t aware there was a deadline.”

“Oh, there’s always a deadline,” Bas teased, his voice carrying easily over the sound of hooves. “Especially when Cameron’s involved. Or Declan, the man’s been in a mood, you know. Something about an opportunity slipping through his fingers.”

Her grip on the reins tightened instinctively, though she kept her expression neutral, “And what’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means,” Bas drawled, his tone turning deliberately conspiratorial, “that Declan’s not exactly the patient type. He sees something—or someone—with potential, and he doesn’t like to waste time. You’ve been the topic of quite a few conversations lately.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, her voice dry, “Am I supposed to feel flattered?”

“Flattered? Absolutely,” Bas said, his grin widening. “But also aware. Declan doesn’t push for just anyone. He’s not exactly the sentimental type.”

Jester snorted beneath her, and Cassie leaned forward to steady him, her thoughts turning inward. The idea of being a pawn in someone else’s game—no matter how well-meaning—made her stomach twist. She’d spent too long trying to carve out her own space, free of the shadows cast by her father’s legacy.

The trail curved gently, opening into a sun-dappled clearing. Bas slowed Rocky to a walk, letting the horses stretch their necks. He turned to her, his expression softening just slightly.

“Look,” he said, his tone losing some of its usual bravado, “I know you’re not the type to jump at something just because it’s offered. But this—Venturer, everyone’s backing—it’s not just another job. It’s a platform. A bloody big one. And if anyone can make something out of it, it’s you.”

Cassie didn’t respond immediately, her gaze fixed on the horizon. The sunlight filtered through the trees, catching the warm tones of Jester’s coat. She exhaled slowly, her breath visible in the cool air.

“I already have my answer, that isn’t why I am overthinking” she said finally, her voice quiet. “Because, it’s not just about me, though, is it? It’s about what people expect. What they assume. My name, my family—it’s a package deal whether I want it to be or not.”

Bas tilted his head, studying her with an almost brotherly fondness, “And you think that’s a bad thing?”

“I think it’s a complicated thing,” she admitted.

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, amber glow over the rolling Rutshire countryside. Cassie and Bas rode side by side, the rhythmic clopping of Jester and Rocky's hooves the only sound breaking the tranquil evening. The scent of damp earth and blooming hawthorn filled the air, a reminder of the world beyond their immediate concerns.

Bas, ever the embodiment of charm and mischief, glanced at Cassie, his dark eyes gleaming with sincerity.

"You know, Cass," he began, his voice smooth yet tinged with earnestness, "Venturer isn’t just looking for a pretty face or a famous name. We want someone with real vision, someone who can shake things up."

“And let me guess,” Cassie met his gaze, her expression a blend of curiosity and caution, “You, Rupert, Declan, my uncle... Everyone there had agreed in today’s meeting that’s me?”

Bas shrugged with an exaggerated air of nonchalance, yet the twinkle in his eye betrayed his enjoyment of her reaction.

“Something like that,” he said, smirking, “But really, it’s not about them deciding anything. It’s about you.”

Cassie exhaled, pulling Jester into a slow trot as the clearing narrowed again into a wooded trail. The light shifted, the shadows of the trees dappled against the horses’ sides.

“It’s not as simple as you make it sound,” she muttered.

Bas clicked his tongue, urging Rocky closer.

“Nothing’s ever simple to you, Cass,” he said, his tone softening slightly. “You can’t let that stop you. Venturer is a platform. And you... You’re a storyteller. This could be the way you tell them—on your terms for once.”

She shot him a look, unsure whether to be flattered or annoyed by his knack for cutting through her layers of doubt.

“You make it sound like I’ve already said yes,” she pointed out.

Bas tilted his head, his smirk returning.

“Haven’t you?”

Cassie didn’t respond, her grip tightening on the reins. He knew damn well that she had, indeed.

“Besides,” Bas continued, his tone lightening again, “it’s not like Freddie would let you say no… Or Declan. Hell, that man’s persistence is borderline pathological. You’d better prepare yourself for relentless charm and dramatic monologues about justice and accountability.”

That earned a small laugh from her, though she quickly stifled it, shaking her head.

“You’re insufferable,” she said.

“And you’re predictable,” he shot back, flashing her a grin.

The sound of hooves crunching against the gravel filled the silence between them, a rhythmic backdrop to the thoughts tumbling through Cassie’s mind. She still wasn’t sure what she wanted—not entirely. But for the first time, the weight of indecision didn’t feel as suffocating.

Bas guided Rocky toward a small rise overlooking the fields, his movements relaxed but purposeful. He turned in his saddle to look at her, his expression suddenly serious.

“Cass,” he said, “I’m not saying this because Declan told me to, or because Freddie would love it, or even because Rupert is secretly betting on it—though he probably is. I’m saying it because I believe in you. You’ve got something the rest of us don’t, and it’s not just your name.”

Cassie blinked, surprised by the sincerity in his voice.

“What is it then?” she asked, her tone quieter now.

Bas paused, his gaze sweeping over the horizon before settling on her again.

“You see people,” he said simply. “Not just their stories, but them. And that’s what Venturer needs right now. Someone who can cut through all the noise and make people feel like they matter.”

For the first time that day, Cassie felt something close to hope. It was fragile, tentative, but it was there.

Maybe Bas was right.

Maybe this was her chance to step out of the shadows.

Maybe it was time.

“I don’t know what to say,” she whispered, unsure.

The late afternoon light filtered through the trees, casting dappled shadows across the path. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves, carrying the faint scent of wildflowers and the earthiness of the trail.

Bas guided Rocky toward a small rise overlooking the fields, his movements relaxed but purposeful. Cassie noticed how the dun horse seemed attuned to Bas, its ears flicking back at the slightest shift of weight. Jester followed willingly, his chestnut coat gleaming under the sun, though his steps were slower, mirroring Cassie’s own contemplative mood.

When they reached the rise, Bas turned in his saddle to look at her, his expression suddenly serious. The playfulness she had come to expect from him had softened into something weightier, more deliberate.

“You know,” he began, his voice casual but with a thread of excitement, “Venturer’s invited you to the studio tonight. They want you to see how everything works—meet the team, feel the energy.”

Cassie’s hands tightened on Jester’s reins as she glanced at him, her eyebrows raising in mild surprise.

“You’re late,” she said, her tone half-teasing.

“Late? How am I late?” Bas blinked, caught off guard, “This was supposed to be my big moment.”

“Freddie told me already,” she smirked, patting Jester’s neck, “Right after he got back from Venturer.”

Bas groaned dramatically, throwing his head back as if deeply wounded.

“Of course he did,” he muttered, “Can’t even let me have the joy of being the bearer of exciting news.”

Cassie laughed softly, shaking her head.

“He’s my uncle, Bas. Did you really think he wouldn’t tell me first?”

Bas let the silence linger between them for a few beats, his gaze following the path ahead as Rocky ambled forward. Cassie stayed quiet too, her thoughts turning over his words like smooth stones. It wasn’t just his confidence in her that made her pause—it was the ease with which he assumed she could step into the chaos of Venturer and emerge unscathed.

“So,” Bas said, breaking the silence, his tone lighter, “Does that mean you’re going to accept? Or is it the reason for your overthinking?”

“I don’t know.” Cassie sighed, her expression softening into something more thoughtful. “Freddie told me a little about the meeting and how Cameron eventually agreed. As you may already know, they want me to work on something related to that Suffolk factory scandal—apparently, it’s picking up momentum. I know I’ll say yes eventually, but...”

“But what?” Bas pressed gently, steering Rocky closer to her.

“I’m not sure how it’s going to play out,” she admitted, almost in a whisper, “My name is already tied to so much—my dad, Crawford, everything I’ve done so far. What if this just... Adds to the noise? In a bad way?”

Bas studied her, his usual humor tempered by something more earnest.

“You’re right—there will for sure be noise., good and bane one.” He agreed, humming as he pondered about it, “But there’s also going to be a hell of a lot of substance. You don’t get to the good stuff without making waves, Cass.”

The corner of her mouth lifted into a smile, though the doubt lingering in her eyes didn’t entirely dissipate.

“That’s what Freddie said too, in his own way,” she murmured.

“Well,” Bas replied, his grin returning, “Great minds and all that.”

“Or annoying ones,” Cassie teased, rolling her eyes playfully.

Bas laughed, urging Rocky forward as he glanced over his shoulder.

“Come on,” he said, jerking his chin forward to hurry her along, “I’ll pick you up at seven.”

Cassie shook her head lightly at Bas’s audacity, the reins slipping comfortably through her fingers as Jester paced forward, closing the small gap Rocky had created.

“At least this time,” she said with a teasing edge, “you’re warning me before barging in uninvited.”

“See? Progress. I’m evolving.” Bas turned in his saddle, grinning wide. “Besides… You didn’t say ‘no’.”

She rolled her eyes but couldn’t suppress the small smirk that tugged at her lips. The golden light of the setting sun played over the soft sway of the field grasses, and for a fleeting moment, she felt grounded. But the reality of the evening ahead loomed heavy in her mind.

“And so, what?” Cass lifted a brow, trying to mask the faint flicker of amusement beneath her skepticism, “There was room for a ‘no’?”

Bas tapped his chin dramatically, his expression the picture of mock deliberation.

“Hm... No. Not really.”

Cassie let out a soft laugh despite herself, her shoulders relaxing just a fraction. The wind teased strands of her hair as Jester fell into an easy rhythm beside Rocky.

The young Jones hovered just outside the sleek, glass-fronted building of Venturer, her fingers tightening around the strap of her bag. Under the fluorescent glow of streetlights, the building loomed, its sharp edges and modern facade exuding an intimidating presence. The reflective glass panels mirrored the city’s bustling energy, yet inside, through the transparent walls, she could see a hive of controlled chaos—the newsroom buzzing with purpose even at this late hour.

She shifted on her feet, the cool evening air brushing against her skin, but the tension in her chest made it hard to focus on anything but the daunting scene ahead. Every flicker of movement inside felt magnified, from producers gesturing animatedly to camera operators adjusting equipment with precision. The scale of it all was staggering, a far cry from the quiet solitude of her own investigative work.

Beside her, Bas leaned casually against the edge of a nearby planter, arms crossed and a small, amused smile playing at his lips. His relaxed posture was a sharp contrast to the knots in her stomach.

“Nervous?” he asked, tilting his head to look at her. His tone was light, but there was a knowing quality to it that made Cassie glance his way.

“What gave it away?” she replied dryly, though the tension in her voice betrayed her unease. Her fingers gripped her bag strap tighter, as if it might anchor her to the ground.

“Just a hunch,” Bas chuckled, “Relax… Today they were in a good mood, I doubt that something might have changed that.”

Cassie forced a thin smile but said nothing. Her chest tightened as she glanced back at the building.

Through the transparent walls, she saw the frantic energy that radiated from within—producers huddled over glowing monitors, interns rushing between desks with trays of coffee, and the glow of screens flashing breaking news. It felt like another world entirely, one where every movement had purpose, every glance carried weight.

The atmosphere was completely different from the radio.

It felt like stepping into a different universe, one where every movement had purpose and every glance carried purpose. The controlled chaos of the newsroom was nothing like the quiet intimacy of the radio station she had left behind. That had been a space where her voice had been her only tool, her thoughts carefully constructed before they reached the world.

Here, everything seemed raw, immediate, and relentless.

Her stomach churned as she followed the employees with her eyes. These were people who thrived on the electric buzz of breaking news, the high stakes of live broadcasting.

“There he is,” Bas said suddenly, nodding toward a familiar figure emerging from the revolving doors.

Freddie strode toward them with the steady confidence of someone entirely at home in his domain.

“Right on time,” Her uncle said as he approached. He spared a brief glance at Bas, “What’s going on with Rupert? Lately, it seems like you’ve traded him for Cassie — she’s the one glued to your side now.”

“I like to keep Rupert guessing," Bas grinned, clearly unfazed, ”Besides, he’s been busy these past few days, and, well, someone has to keep me entertained. And she’s much better company.”

Cassie rolled her eyes, “By force. Every time we meet, it’s because you’re either already there or you’ve swung by my place uninvited, luring me out with promises of free food or drinks.”

Bas laughed, raising his hands in mock surrender, “What can I say? I know your weaknesses.”

Freddie shook his head, a soft chuckle escaping him.

“Ready?” He asked, his tone gentler now, though his eyes searched hers carefully.

She took a deep breath and nodded, “Ready as I’ll ever be, I guess.”

“Come on. Let’s get you introduced.” Freddie’s expression softened, though his composure remained intact.

He led the way, and Bas gave Cassie a quick pat on the shoulder before falling into step behind them. As they stepped through the revolving doors, the cacophony of the newsroom enveloped her.

The air was thick with the scent of coffee and printer ink, underscored by a persistent buzz of energy that seemed to pulse through the walls. It was electrifying and overwhelming in equal measure.

Cassie’s gaze darted around as they walked deeper into the newsroom. Desks were scattered with papers and half-empty coffee cups, while monitors displayed live feeds and scrolling headlines.

Some employees huddled in intense discussions, their voices blending into a low hum of urgency. While others darted between workstations, their movements swift and purposeful as they carried stacks of papers and trays of drinks.

Every corner of the room seemed alive with purpose, each person contributing to the intricate machinery of Venturer’s operations.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Freddie asked, glancing back at her. His tone was conversational, but there was a hint of pride beneath it.

Cassie nodded, though her stomach churned, “Overwhelming might be the better word.”

“You’ll find your rhythm.” Freddie’s lips curved into a brief smile, “Everyone does.”

As they rounded a corner, Cassie’s attention was drawn to a cluster of monitors displaying various live feeds. One screen showed a rehearsal for an upcoming segment, the anchor’s voice crisp and confident as she practiced her lines. Another displayed vibrant animations breaking down the day’s financial news. The sheer professionalism on display was staggering, and Cassie couldn’t help but feel like an imposter.

They approached a glass-walled studio, where a small group had gathered just outside. Cassie’s pulse quickened as her gaze landed on a tall woman in a sharply tailored blazer. Cameron Cook.

The co-executive producer’s reputation preceded her, and the no-nonsense authority in her posture made Cassie’s nerves spike.

“Ah, our newest addition,” Cameron said as they approached, her tone clipped but polite. Her sharp gaze raked over Cassie in a swift assessment.,“Cassie Jones! Welcome, Cameron Cook.”

“Thank you. It’s nice to meet you.” Cassie extended her hand, her grip firm despite the tightening in her chest, “But I believe I still have to sign the contract to become the addition.”

“Of course, and soon you will,” Cameron’s smile was brief, a perfunctory gesture that didn’t quite reach her eyes.,“Freddie’s spoken highly of you. Let’s hope you live up to your reputation.”

Before Cassie could respond, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

“There she is!” Rupert Campbell-Black strode over, his grin as disarming as ever, “Our rising star.”

Cassie stiffened slightly, but Rupert’s easy charm was hard to resist. He greeted her with the familiarity of an old friend, though they’d barely exchanged more than pleasantries last night.

“You’ve met Cameron,” Rupert said, gesturing toward her before leaning conspiratorially closer to Cassie, “Don’t worry—she’s only terrifying on Wednesdays.”

Cassie’s lips twitched despite herself, though she caught the flicker of irritation in Cameron’s gaze.

“Let’s move along,” Bas cut in smoothly, redirecting the conversation before Rupert could continue his theatrics.

Freddie seized the moment, nodding toward the studio visible through the glass walls, “There’s something I want you to see.”

Cassie followed him into the studio, her heart pounding as she stepped into the epicenter of Venturer’s operations. The space was meticulously organized, every detail fine-tuned for efficiency. The anchor desk gleamed under the studio lights, cameras positioned like sentinels around it. Technicians adjusted microphones and lighting, their movements precise and practiced.

“They’re recording the night’s financial segment,” Freddie explained, his voice low as they stood at the edge of the activity, “You’ll see how everything comes together.”

Cassie watched in awe as the anchor took her place, her composure unwavering. The teleprompter’s glow reflected in her glasses as she scanned her lines one last time. A producer signaled the countdown, and the room fell silent except for the anchor’s voice, steady and authoritative as she began her segment.

Her gaze shifted to the control room visible through another set of glass panels. Inside, directors and producers communicated through headsets, their voices calm yet commanding. Monitors displayed multiple camera angles, graphics overlaying the live feed seamlessly. It was a symphony of coordination, and Cassie felt both awed and intimidated.

On the radio, everything had been raw—immediate. There were no glowing teleprompters or perfectly lit sets.

Her words had to be sharp enough to cut through static, to grab attention without the benefit of polished visuals, in and outside her show. She had relied on her voice alone to hold an audience, to convey urgency and emotion. Here, everything seemed engineered for impact, every detail meticulously arranged to tell the story in high definition.

Everything there circled around her mind as she thought about the invitation to join Venturer. The prospect of stepping into this polished, high-stakes world was both thrilling and terrifying. It was an opportunity she hadn’t dared to imagine—one that could elevate her work, yes, but also tie her name to an institution where everything she did would be under a microscope.

She had seen what her father went through and where it had led him… Was she ready for that?

Freddie glanced around, someone waving at him called his attention. He sighed before turning back to Cassie.

“I need to handle something,” he said, his tone apologetic but firm, “Stay here and watch. This is the best way to understand how we operate.”

He offered her a brief, reassuring smile. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

Before she could reply, Freddie slipped away, weaving through the controlled chaos of the studio. Cassie turned her attention back to the action, though the absence of his steady presence left her feeling exposed. She adjusted her bag strap, trying to ground herself amid the swirl of activity.

“Excuse me,” a voice interrupted her thoughts.

Cassie turned to see a young man around her age, standing next to a sleek camera rig. He was tall, with a mop of dark curls that frame a sharp but friendly face. His posture was relaxed, his expression open and inviting, as though he’d seen enough of the world to be confident but not enough to be cynical.

“You’re Cassie Jones, right?” he asked, lifting a brow.

Caught off guard, she nodded, “That’s me.”

He smiled, leaning against the camera rig he was adjusting, “Freddie mentioned you might be joining us. Said you were interested in understanding how it all works—from behind the mic to in front of the camera.”

“Did he now?” Cassie smiled, remembering what she had said to him last night, “He makes me sound more ambitious than I am.”

The cameraman chuckled, shaking his head.

“He didn’t,” he clarified, “Said you’d be a good fit, especially with the way you dig into stories. I had heard of you before and, seeing you now, I don’t doubt him.”

Cassie tilted her head, the compliment both flattering and unnerving. One thing was to hear from her uncle, but it always was strange and new to hear such compliments from faces she had never seen before.

“Thank you,” she said, the words cautious but sincere. Her gaze softened as she added, “I hope you’re right.”

He grinned, pushing himself off the camera rig.

“And you are…” she prompted, letting her words trail off as her curiosity piqued.

“Elliot,” he supplied, offering a quick but genuine smile, “Cameraman, occasional tech support, and unofficial snack hoarder of Venturer Studios. Nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, Elliot,” Cassie couldn’t help but laugh softly, “I hope we can team up against Rupert’s stash. I hear he guards it like it’s the crown jewels.”

“Oh, he’s relentless about it. But I’ve got my ways,” Elliot grinned, his eyes lighting up with shared humor, “Stick with me, and you’ll have access to the good stuff—chocolate biscuits, crisps, the occasional gourmet coffee. Perks of being the unofficial snack whisperer.”

Cassie chuckled, the playful warmth in his tone easing some of the tension that had been gnawing at her.

“Gourmet coffee, huh?” She nudged his shoulder lightly, “You really know how to win people over.”

“Well,” he said, leaning casually against the camera rig, his gaze lingering on her just a moment longer than necessary, “You don’t strike me as someone who’s easily won over. But I like a challenge.”

Her cheeks warmed at the subtle edge to his words, but she covered it with a light laugh.

“I’ll take that as a compliment—though I should warn you, I’m more of a tea person.”

“Noted,” Elliot replied smoothly, his grin unwavering, “I’ll keep that in mind for the next snack heist.”

Cassie found herself relaxing further, the camaraderie in his tone an unexpected balm to her nerves. She glanced around the studio, her gaze sweeping over the meticulous choreography of Venturer’s operation. The controlled chaos of producers gesturing at screens, the soft murmur of urgent conversations, and the sharp focus of camera operators adjusting equipment—it was daunting and mesmerizing all at once.

“You’re in for a ride, you know?” Elliot said, nodding toward the bustling studio floor. His voice carried an undercurrent of sincerity now, grounding the levity from moments before. “This place doesn’t slow down for anyone. But I think you’ll fit right in.”

“Yeah?” Cassie tilted her head, her curiosity piqued. “What makes you say that? My reputation? Bloody Harrier and all?”

He chuckled, the sound low and warm, “Your reputation, sure. But it’s more than that. You’ve got the look—the kind that makes people stop and listen. Not everyone can pull that off.”

The words were casual, but there was a flicker of something in his gaze—an understated confidence, a hint of flirtation that wasn’t overplayed but was impossible to ignore.

Cassie opened her mouth to respond, but before she could, a familiar voice cut through the moment with effortless precision.

“Elliot,” Declan O’Hara’s steady baritone cut through the moment, turning both their heads. His presence, even at the edge of the bustling studio, carried an unmistakable authority that made the surrounding activity seem to quiet slightly, “We need you in the control room.”

Elliot straightened from his relaxed stance, flashing Cassie an easy grin before stepping away.

“Duty calls,” he said lightly, giving her a quick wink, “But don’t worry—I’ll keep my word and save you a biscuit for the next heist.”

Cassie managed a small laugh, muttering a thanks as Elliot disappeared into the chaos. The moment of levity he’d offered was gone, replaced by the weight of Declan’s steady presence as he stepped closer.

Her eyes flickered to Declan as he approached, cutting through the controlled chaos of the newsroom with the kind of ease that only came from living in its rhythm. He didn’t rush; his steps were measured, purposeful, as though he knew everything would pause just long enough for him to arrive.

It was impossible to ignore the way the room seemed to tilt in his direction, as if drawn by the quiet gravity he carried.

He wore a dark, tailored suit, the subtle sheen of the fabric catching the low studio lights. His tie was loosened just enough to hint at the relentlessness of the day, and there was a faint shadow of stubble on his jaw that Cassie could only describe as deliberate—calculated imperfection.

“Settling in?” Declan’s voice seemed to cut through the noise around them without effort. It wasn’t loud, but it carried weight, like he’d spent years mastering how to command attention with the bare minimum.

Cassie adjusted the strap of her bag, her fingers brushing over the worn leather as she sought an anchor.

“As much as anyone can in ten minutes,” she replied, her tone even, though the edges of her nerves showed.

His lips curved into a faint smile—not enough to soften him, but enough to suggest he’d expected the response.

“Ten minutes is enough to know whether you’re intrigued or terrified,” he said, his gaze unwavering.

“Can’t it be both?” she countered, her voice lighter than she felt.

Declan tilted his head, as if considering her words, “Fair. But I’d guess you’re more intrigued than you’re letting on. You wouldn’t be here otherwise.”

Cassie’s breath caught briefly, the casual certainty in his tone unsettling. It wasn’t arrogance—it was an understanding that felt earned, as if he’d seen her hesitation before she’d even recognized it herself. She straightened slightly, forcing herself to meet his gaze.

“Sincerely,” she sighed, “I don’t know what I’m doing.”

Declan raised an eyebrow, but he didn’t interrupt. His silence felt deliberate, giving her the space to continue.

“I want to be part of it, truly, despite the outcome,” Cassie confessed, glancing at Declan. “It is the right thing and the right step for my career, but I can’t stop the feeling that I didn’t earn it. My name did, my relation to my uncle and father did it.”

Declan’s expression didn’t shift dramatically, but there was a flicker of something in his eyes—not pity, but a quiet intensity, as though he were weighing her words. He leaned back slightly, one hand resting on the desk beside him.

“Maybe the name got you in the door,” he said, his tone calm and deliberate, “But it’s not why you’re still here. That’s on you.”

Cassie’s lips parted as if to argue, but the words didn’t come. Instead, her shoulders sagged, his words settling alongside her own doubts.

“It doesn’t always feel that way,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, “Do you know why Crawford hired me? He discovered Freddie is my uncle, that was enough for him to consider giving me a show. He didn’t get to discover about my father, but I can only imagine that he would have considered it quicker.”

Declan stepped to her side, his movements deliberate but not hurried, as though giving her the space to process. When he spoke, his voice was softer, just as yesterday.

“Do you know when I started seeing you?” he asked, searching for her eyes, “It wasn’t when Freddie mentioned someone who could work here—honestly, I don’t even remember him saying your name that day. No, it was when you invaded your ex-colleague’s show and made it your own, two days ago, perhaps?”

Cassie blinked, her brows knitting together in surprise.

“Do you truly mean it?” she asked, her voice hesitant, as if unsure whether she wanted to hear the answer.

Declan’s gaze didn’t waver.

“I do,” he said simply, “It wasn’t just the audacity of it—though I’ll admit, that caught my attention. It was the way you held the room. The way you spoke, not just with conviction, but with care. You weren’t just talking to fill airtime. You had something to say, and people listened.”

Cassie’s throat tightened, her fingers fidgeting with the strap of her bag. She didn’t know what to say, so she looked away, her gaze flitting over the newsroom as though it could offer her some escape.

“I know you feel like you didn’t earn it,” Declan continued, his voice steady but low, as though speaking to her and her alone, “That it was handed to you by Freddie. But I’ll tell you this: I’ve been bidding for you since the day you did that last show on Crawford FM. It’s only been a few days, and I know it might sound presumptuous, but I believe in your potential. Not your name. Not your connections. You.”

The words hung in the air between them, heavy and charged. Cassie felt her lungs drained, lacking oxygen despite her breathing in and out. It wasn’t the anxiety this time, but something else, something sharper and more difficult to define.

Slowly, she turned back to him, her gaze meeting his.

The sincerity in his tone unsettled her more than she cared to admit. She searched his face for something—arrogance, calculation, or even flattery, as most of the men in their field would pursue—but there was none.

Just a steady conviction that made her feel simultaneously seen and exposed.

What am I even doing here? The question clawed at her thoughts. The newsroom buzzed with a purpose she wasn’t sure she could match, the weight of expectations pressing down on her chest. She wanted to believe Declan’s words, to let them pull her out of the mire of self-doubt, but the shadows of her past choices lingered.

Her mind raced back to Crawford FM—the nights she spent pouring over documents, the restless urgency of exposing what everyone else seemed content to ignore. It had been exhilarating and terrifying, a tightrope walk where one misstep could cost her everything. And now, here was Declan O’Hara, a man whose reputation was built on sharp instincts and unshakable confidence, telling her she was worth the gamble.

“Why?” she asked, “I did ask you this yesterday, when you were in my house, I believe. If not, I’m asking now. Why do you believe in me? You had said yourself that you had only searched about me, like—two days ago.”

It felt strange, vulnerable even, to ask such a thing outright. But she had to know.

Declan’s lips curved into a smile, one that didn’t reach his eyes but felt genuine nonetheless.

“Because what I heard that day wasn’t a name or a legacy.” He shrugged, as if he was saying the simplest thing in the world, “It was someone who cared enough to find the truth and tell it, no matter the cost. That’s what matters. That’s what lasts.”

For a moment, Cassie couldn’t speak. The weight in her chest shifted, lighter now, letting the oxygen fill her lungs despite the lingering pressure in them. She exhaled slowly, the tension in her shoulders easing as she straightened.

Declan’s words lingered, resonating in a place she didn’t know existed—a fragile space between doubt and possibility. She wanted to dismiss him, to chalk up his praise to strategy or manipulation, but there was nothing in his demeanor that suggested pretense.

Her mind raced back to the endless hours at Crawford FM. The nights she burned through research, the relentless pace of deadlines, the way her chest tightened every time she hit “send” on a risky story. The way she learned to steel herself against the inevitable pushback.

It had been lonely, exhausting work, but it had been hers. She wasn’t sure if Venturer—or Declan—was ready for someone like her, or if she was ready for what they might expect.

And yet, his words wouldn’t leave her.

“You’re not afraid that I’ll ruin what you’ve built?” Cassie glanced at him, her gaze sharp, “That bringing me on will taint Venturer’s reputation? You’ve just escaped from someone like Tony Baddingham. I don’t exactly have a clean slate myself.”

Declan’s expression didn’t falter. If anything, he seemed to grow more resolute. He leaned in, his voice low but unwavering.

“If I worried about reputations, Cassie, I wouldn’t be here. And neither would you.”

She held his gaze, searching for cracks in his conviction, but found none. There was something almost disarming about how steady he was, how unshaken by her doubts.

“What I care about,” Declan continued, “is the work. The truth. You’ve proven you care about that too, even when it costs you. That’s the kind of person I want on my team.”

A knot formed in Cassie’s chest, her breath catching as a tangle of emotions surged within her—gratitude, fear, hope, doubt. It was rare to hear someone speak about her with such unwavering certainty, and rarer still to believe it might be true. Lately, the only ones who had been her constant pillars were Freddie, Lizzie, and Bas.

In the past few months, they had been the steady figures in her life—the ones who knew her best, who saw her struggles without needing explanations. So, having someone who had once been a distant figure, a name on a screen, now looking at her with such unwavering trust felt surreal.

It was disorienting, this shift from admiration to recognition, from idol to… She didn’t know yet how to label him.

But it was different, it was nice.

“Do you already have a contract?” she asked suddenly, interrupting her own thoughts this time.

Declan didn’t answer right away, he narrowed his eyes at her figure as he tried to understand what she meant by the random question. Yet, when their eyes met again, there were no doubts left in his expression, only certainty.

As in hers.

[killeromanoff]

I finished it in 12k words!!! Let's see if I will be capable of finishing revise it until the end of today!! Who knows, it can be like a Christmas' gift

IM ALIVE GUYS!!!

AND THE NEXT CHAPTER IS COMING SOON!!!!

[killeromanoff]

IM ALIVE GUYS!!!

AND THE NEXT CHAPTER IS COMING SOON!!!!

[killeromanoff]

.......heyguyssss

Here comes pain, I guess

And it is only the beginning of the chapter

[killeromanoff]

[killeromanoff]

It for sure just give me more inspiration to write more about I Know Your Ghost!!! PLS EXAM WEEK, BE DONE ALREADYYYY

I just noticed that yesterday I bought a dress TOO similar with the one taggie dresses in the last episode (the.... uh... Can't breath without you scene *blink*)

AND GODDDDDD, WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DRESS

[killeromanoff]

I just noticed that yesterday I bought a dress TOO similar with the one taggie dresses in the last episode (the.... uh... Can't breath without you scene *blink*)

AND GODDDDDD, WHAT A BEAUTIFUL DRESS

[killeromanoff]

People im in my exame week sadly, so it will get me some time to write something down :(((

But I already have the script for the next chapter, it only lacks time

[killeromanoff]

already changed it!!! if you want to take a look 👀👀

Guys, I'm seriously thinking about changing the chapters names to some songs titles instead of the lyrics I was choosing, so I can show you more the vibe of the story and the chapter itself...

What do you think?

[killeromanoff]

For sure, I would change the prologue's title to "Call me" by Blondie lmaooooo

Guys, I'm seriously thinking about changing the chapters names to some songs titles instead of the lyrics I was choosing, so I can show you more the vibe of the story and the chapter itself...

What do you think?

[killeromanoff]

Guys, I'm seriously thinking about changing the chapters names to some songs titles instead of the lyrics I was choosing, so I can show you more the vibe of the story and the chapter itself...

What do you think?

[killeromanoff]

im in a loss of words 😭😭😭 I literally remember reading your fic while I was at work loooool, thank you so much!

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | ch. 1

summary: Cassie Jones thought she had it all figured out—a career built on exposing the truth, a reputation for digging where others wouldn’t, and a burning drive to make the world listen. But after a fallout with her station, the looming shadow of Crawford’s FM... She’s left with nothing but unanswered calls and a shrinking list of allies. Enter Declan O’Hara, a man she’s admired from a distance but never spoken to until now. As he steps into her life, his presence ignites more questions than answers.

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Some political and media industry-related themes, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo), Moral conflict, Slow-burn tension

w.c: 16k

[prologue], [here], [chapter two], [chapter three]

o1. i show, you don't

The morning was biting, the kind of cold that seeped through layers and clung stubbornly to the skin. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and the remnants of an early frost that had yet to burn away under the pale winter sun. Cassie stepped out of the station, her boots scraping against the worn stone steps, each movement deliberate, as though bracing herself for the gauntlet that awaited.

Cassie squinted against the glare of the weak sunlight reflecting off the windows of parked cars. The cold was biting, but the sharp light stung her eyes more than the chill ever could. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, the fabric worn but comforting, even as the weight of the morning pressed down on her shoulders.

Every exhale fogged in the cold air, each one a fleeting reminder of how little control she had over the situation.

The street outside looked deceptively calm at first glance—just another morning in Rutshire. Yet, the moment she stepped outside, everything shifted.

The sound of murmurs started low but quickly grew, swelling into a wave as if the whole town had been holding its breath and now it was released all at once. Cameras snapped into focus, their lenses swinging toward her with mechanical precision. She froze for half a second, her fingers tightening reflexively around the strap of her bag.

It wasn’t fear, exactly, but… Complicated , something complicated lodging itself deep in her gut.

The flash of cameras disoriented her, each click and whirr slicing through the air like a small, deliberate insult. The noise built up, crashing into her like an ocean, drowning out everything else. Her breath caught in her throat, her body instinctively wanting to shrink, to step back, but she couldn’t. She forced herself to keep moving, step by step, as though the very act of walking could outrun their focus, could break free from the suffocating weight of their gaze.

The worst of it wasn’t the flashes of light. It wasn’t the blinding intensity of the cameras, each burst of light cutting through the air like a sharp, unwelcome reminder of her visibility. No, the worst of it was how their eyes turned toward her, narrowing like daggers, gleaming with hunger, tracking her every movement.

She could feel them at her back, their stares pressing into her skin, each one sharper than the last, more invasive. It was as if they were waiting—waiting for her to make a mistake, to falter, to give them the moment they’d been thirsting for.

Cassie could almost feel the weight of their stares like knives against her body. She tried not to imagine what would happen if she turned and met one of their eyes, if she dared to look into the crowd. She feared the pain of the blade they would drive into her, the sensation of being pierced by their judgment, their expectations, their need for her to fall apart in front of them.

She didn’t look. She wouldn’t. Instead, her focus remained ahead, her breath shallow, pulse hammering in her ears. Her feet moved forward, one step at a time, as though the act of walking could carry her away from them, from their questions, from the crushing weight of their gaze.

“Miss Jones! Do you have a statement on Crawford’s allegations?”

The voice rang out sharp, pulling her back from the thickening fog in her mind. Another flash, bright and blinding, and she flinched, her grip on her bag tightening until her knuckles ached. She forced her gaze forward, locking it on a single point—just ahead, a cracked tile on the sidewalk.

The cracked edge of it grounded her, something to hold onto in the mess of the moment, something familiar enough to cling to as she willed herself not to crumble.

“Was locking yourself in the studio worth it?”

Another voice, another flash. It felt like the cameras were multiplying, the sounds of shutters clicking so close that she could barely hear herself think. Focus, she told herself. Focus.

Her father’s voice echoed faintly in her mind. Five things you can see.

She squinted, trying to block out the flashes, trying to center herself.

Five things you can see.

The cracked pavement beneath her feet, the chipped paint on the nearest lamppost, the red scarf fluttering against the side of a woman’s coat, the white tips of her breath fogging in the cold air, the green of Freddie’s car ahead, parked just beyond the throng of reporters.

“Do you think your career is over after this?”

Cassie’s chest tightened further at the question, the implication looming over her like a shadow she couldn’t shake. Her throat constricted, her jaw clenching with the effort to hold it all in. She couldn't stop walking, couldn’t let herself falter even as the questions piled on.

Four things you can touch.

Think. Think .

Her fingers gripped the strap of her bag so tightly that her knuckles burned. The rough fabric of her coat rubbed against her arms with each step, a small reminder of the layers between herself and the world pressing in on her. The cold bite of the winter air sliced through the fabric of her clothing, its sharpness grounding her even as it threatened to freeze her in place. The faint warmth rising from her own breath, visible in the air, was a fragile comfort—an acknowledgment that she was still here, still breathing.

The crowd pressed in tighter. The noise only grew louder, more insistent. The cameras closed the distance, their flashes blinding. Eyes trained on her with hungry precision, demanding something from her, something she didn’t know if she could give.

Three things you can hear.

The flash of cameras was constant, a sharp rhythm that pounded against her skull. The voices, though—those were the worst. The questions, the demands, the judgment—they cut through the air like daggers.

“Miss Jones, is this the end of your time at Crawford’s FM?”

“Do you regret your actions of yesterday?”

“Aren't you the daughter of Matthew Jones?”

The noise, overwhelming, disorienting, built to a wave that crashed into her with each step she took. Every flash felt like it was aimed directly at her, a blinding light that numbed the world and forced her to squint, to retreat further within herself. It wasn’t just the flashes, though. It was the voices, the questions, the insistent demand for something from her.

She could feel it— they wanted her. They wanted her to crumble, to break down, to make a spectacle of herself. But she had nothing left to give. Nothing more to offer.

She felt herself drowning in it, the pressure to answer, to be something for them, something they could consume, a story they could shape and sell. But there was no way out. No safe place. She wasn’t a person to them. She was just a story—a body, walking through their storm of flashing lights and sharp words, an object to dissect, to feed on.

The truth, her truth, was being drowned in the noise.

Two things you can smell.

She tried to focus on something, anything, that would pull her back from the whirlpool of anxiety that threatened to swallow her whole. Focus, Cassie. You can do this.

The cold, biting air around her was sharp and raw, its chill sinking through her coat, its edge cutting deeper than it should. It was a reminder of the world outside the press—of the tangible, of reality.

But even it felt foreign now, distorted by everything else around her. The faint scent of gasoline mingled with the exhaust from the parked cars, the smell of something mechanical, something that didn’t belong to her. But it wasn’t just the smell of the cars—it was the smell of the crowd, too.

Sweat, metal, cold breath—the scent of people packed too closely, their energy seeping into her, their anxiety feeding into her own. There was something else, though, something unfamiliar that made her feel like the air itself was pressing in too tightly around her. Something suffocating, almost as if the weight of their gaze had become a physical force in the air.

One thing you can taste.

Her body reacted, a reflex that she couldn’t control, couldn’t stop. The taste in her mouth was dry, metallic, like blood, like copper. It wasn’t from any injury—no physical wound—but from the panic, from the rush of fear and overwhelm that surged in her chest and settled like a lead weight in her stomach.

It was the taste of her body’s fight-or-flight response. Her mouth was dry, and the bitter, coppery sensation settled on her tongue, warning her, something’s wrong .

But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t falter now, not with Freddie’s car just ahead. One more step, she thought. Just one more step.

And then— there it was.

The green of Freddie’s car, parked at the curb just ahead, a solid anchor in the chaos. The outline of Freddie leaning against it, arms casually crossed, waiting. His posture was relaxed, but Cassie could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes followed her.

He didn’t move toward her just yet—he knew better than that. But she could feel the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet readiness to step in if she needed him.

Freddie had always been that way. Even in moments like this—when the whole world seemed to close in around her, when every click of a camera or harsh question from the press felt like it was driving her deeper into a corner—he knew how to stay calm. He wasn’t a man who panicked, not for himself and certainly not for her.

And Cassie? She could almost feel the pull of his calmness, the way it anchored her, made the world outside his car feel distant, less suffocating.

Everytime she found themselves in those situations, she wondered if he didn’t give her these first minutes so she could try to stand her ground herself.

Perhaps the time she had screamed at him as a child when he tried to help her walk through a park truly traumatized him.

She kept her eyes on him, letting the sight of him be the only constant in the storm. She could tell he was waiting for her to reach him, not pushing, not rushing, but keeping his distance just enough to give her space to breathe. He knew the look on her face—the exhaustion, the determination not to break. He’d seen it in her before.

She wasn’t sure if it was the heaviness of the day or the sheer relief of seeing him, but the tension in her chest eased just slightly. One more step. One more.

As she neared the car, Freddie moved toward her, stepping into her path to shield her from the press that was pressing in too closely. His hand lightly touched her elbow as if to guide her, but not to hurry her.

It was almost written in his face: See? You could do it, I didn’t want to risk and get punched again.

“You good?” he asked, not so much a question but more a reassurance. He’d seen her more stressed than this, but it didn’t make seeing her like this any easier.

Cassie looked at him for a moment, her breath shallow but steadying, and she nodded, though the tightness in her chest hadn’t entirely gone. She couldn’t quite manage a smile, but she appreciated the simplicity of his gesture.

He wasn’t making her talk. He wasn’t pushing her. He just... Knew.

“I’ll get you out of here,” he said quietly, as they navigated through the last of the reporters. His voice was calm, not dismissive, just steady—almost like a shield that kept the world from closing in.

When they reached the car, Freddie opened the door for her with a quiet gentleness that was far removed from the scene around them. Cassie didn’t hesitate. She slipped inside, letting the car’s quiet hum swallow the noise outside. Freddie followed her, shutting the door behind him with a definitive sound that felt like the end of something—of the chaos, of the pressure.

He turned the key in the ignition, and the familiar rumble of the engine was the first real sound that felt like it belonged to her world again.

Freddie kept his hands on the wheel, his grip firm but relaxed, as the quiet rumble of the car engine filled the space between them. The steady hum felt comforting, a far cry from the chaos they’d just left behind. Cassie stared out the window, watching the blur of streets pass by, the world outside still moving while hers had felt like it had frozen in place.

She was aware of the pressure building up again in her chest, that familiar uncertainty, the questions she hadn’t yet answered echoing in her mind.

The soft click of the blinker was the only interruption to the silence. Freddie glanced at her quickly, his gaze steady, his voice almost too calm.

“What was the one thing I asked you not to do?”

She didn’t look at him, just stared out the window, biting the inside of her cheek as she replayed the conversation he was referring to in her mind.

“To not blow this up?” she said, her voice reluctant.

Freddie nodded slowly, his eyes back on the road. He didn’t sound angry—just... Resigned. Like he had been expecting this.

“And what did you do?”

Cassie shifted in her seat, her fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the door. She didn’t have the energy to lie, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to face the truth, either.

She shifted uncomfortably, leaning her head back against the headrest.

“Are you really gonna make me say it?” She asked back.

Freddie didn’t respond right away. Instead, he gave a little grunt, his focus unwavering as they passed the familiar landmarks of the town.

After a long moment, he finally spoke again, his tone gentle but with that firm edge she knew too well.

“You know,” he started, letting the words sit for a moment before continuing, “this could’ve been a lot easier if you'd just listened. You could've avoided this whole thing.”

Cassie’s eyes narrowed slightly, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Easier?” she repeated quietly, “You know I couldn’t just sit there and let them sweep everything I had done under the rug, Uncle. Not after what happened.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his gaze flicked to her, then back to the road.

The hum of the tires on the road became a steady rhythm, grounding Cassie even as her thoughts threatened to spiral.

She glanced out the window again, the passing scenery blurring into a canvas of muted colors. She recognized the landmarks of Rutshire, the same streets she’d walked as a kid, but they felt distant now, like they belonged to someone else’s story.

Freddie sighed, a low sound that seemed to carry his unspoken concerns. His hands on the wheel tightened briefly before relaxing again.

“I get it,” he said, his tone softer now, “I do . But it doesn’t make it any easier. And now you’ve got to deal with the fallout. The press is going to keep circling, and you’re not going to be able to outrun them.”

Cassie’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag, the worn leather grounding her in a way she desperately needed.

“I know," she said, her voice quieter but resolute, "But I won’t just lie down and take it. If they want to turn me into a headline, fine. I just want it to be the truth.”

Freddie glanced at her briefly, his expression unreadable.

“So what happens now?” he asked after a beat, his tone quieter but still steady, “What’s your plan?”

Cassie shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under the weight of the question.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

She hadn’t thought that far ahead, hadn’t allowed herself to. The last 24 hours had been a blur of adrenaline and consequence. She couldn’t see past the next few steps, and even those felt like quicksand.

She hesitated, her throat tightening, “I just… I don’t want Mom to know. Not yet. Please.”

Freddie let out another sigh, heavier this time.

“Cassie—she’s going to find out sooner or later. You can’t keep this from her.”

“I know,” Cassie snapped, her tone sharper than she intended. She closed her eyes briefly, exhaling slowly before continuing, “But I need time to figure it out. I need some space.”

Freddie’s gaze softened slightly as he glanced at her again, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Please, Uncle Freddie,” she asked, “She’ll just… Freak out. I can’t deal with that right now.”

He didn’t respond immediately. The quiet in the car felt almost oppressive, the unspoken tension between them stretching thin.

“Fine,” he said, sighing one more time, “I won’t tell her. But this thing, it’s not going away. You’re going to have to face it sooner or later.”

“I know,” Cassie whispered, her words barely audible, “But not yet.”

The conversation lulled, the hum of the tires filling the space again. Cassie leaned back in her seat, her body heavy with exhaustion. The familiar sight of her father’s house came into view, and for a moment, a wave of nostalgia and grief washed over her.

It had been years since she’d been back—since it had been anything but a memory she tried to keep at arm’s length. But now, it was all she had left for a couple of months.

Freddie pulled into the driveway, the car slowing to a stop. Cassie glanced over at him, his jaw tight, his expression set in that familiar way that reminded her of how he’d always been: protective, steady, the kind of presence she could rely on even when everything else felt like it was crumbling.

“Thanks for bailing me out,” she said, her voice softer now.

Freddie’s lips twitched into a small smile, but his eyes were still focused ahead.

“You’re lucky I was already there and the one who got the call, kid. If it had been your mom, you’d be locked down tighter than Fort Knox for the next week.”

Cassie let out a dry chuckle, though the sound didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’ll take my chances with you.”

Freddie shut off the engine and leaned back in his seat, glancing at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, let’s just hope the next ‘incident’ doesn’t involve a higher bail, alright?” he lifted his brows, a funny smile adorning his face, “For now, let’s get you inside.”

The click of the car doors broke the stillness, and Cassie stepped out, her boots crunching against the gravel. The air was crisp and sharp, carrying the faint smell of damp earth from the recent rain. She tugged her coat closer, her breath visible in the chilly morning light as she took in the surroundings.

The house looked much the same as it had for the past few months since she’d moved in—though a little too neat now, suspiciously so .

The front porch, which had once been stacked with deliveries and odds and ends she hadn’t yet unpacked, was clear. The flowerbeds on either side of the walkway, previously overrun with weeds she hadn’t bothered to tackle, had been trimmed and tidied, the soil freshly turned. Even the small patch of grass in front of the house, which she had ignored in favor of her work, had been cut with a precision she could never have mustered.

Her little witch house , how Bas liked so much of calling it, was a witch house no more.

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in.

“Wait a second,” she followed Freddie toward the door, “You’ve been here, haven’t you?”

“I might’ve stopped by,” he said nonchalantly, “Didn’t think you’d want to come home to a mess.”

Cassie’s gaze darted to the freshly swept porch and then back to him, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant gratitude. He wasn’t wrong—coming home to overgrown chaos would’ve made the day feel even worse. It was already getting her nervous: the chaos and her lack of time to take care of it.

Now that she was unemployed, time wouldn’t be lacking! Ha-ha!

“You’re right,” she admitted begrudgingly, crossing her arms, “But still…” She let the words trail off, “How thorough were you? Please tell me you didn’t drag her into this.”

Freddie turned to face her fully this time, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.

“Her?” he asked, his tone deliberately teasing.

Cassie groaned, her arms tightening across her chest.

“You know who,” she replied, her voice dry, “If I walk in and find that wife of yours, I’m kicking you both out. No offense, but I really don’t like her. What’s the problem with eating—”

She stopped mid-sentence as she unlocked the front door and opened it, her words dying on her lips. Standing in the living room, a teacup balanced effortlessly in one hand, was Lizzie Vereker.

Lizzie’s presence filled the room effortlessly, as it always did.

She had a certain poise that was hard to define—an air of effortless elegance mixed with sharp wit. Her blonde hair was pulled back neatly, not a strand out of place, and her fitted jacket and boots suggested she had walked straight out of a glossy magazine but didn’t care enough to admit it.

“Cassie,” Lizzie raised her teacup in greeting, “Welcome home.”

Cassie blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before her expression softened into a wide smile. The tension in her shoulders eased for the first time in hours.

“Oh, Lizzie!” she exclaimed, her tone immediately warmer, “So good to see you!”

Lizzie stepped forward gracefully, her movements fluid, as if the chaos of the world outside the house couldn’t touch her. She stopped just short of Cassie, her eyes flickering with humor as she surveyed her.

“And you,” Lizzie replied, her voice carrying that natural lilt of amusement Cassie had always liked about her, “Though I imagine this isn’t the time, I must say, I loved everything you said yesterday. It takes some courage, that’s for sure.”

Cassie’s smile faltered for a moment, the weight of the day creeping back into her mind. She opened her mouth to respond, but Freddie cut in from the doorway, where he leaned with arms crossed, clearly enjoying the exchange.

“Oh, don’t encourage her, Lizzie,” Freddie said with a grin, “She’ll think storming a studio and locking herself in was part of some grand plan.”

Cassie turned, raising an eyebrow at him, grinning herself, “And wasn’t it?”

Freddie snorted, shaking his head.

“If by ‘plan,’ you mean dragging me out of bed at some ungodly hour to try to intercept you,” Freddie said, his voice tinged with dry humor, “Failing spectacularly , and then having to bail you out— sure , let’s call it that.”

Lizzie chuckled, her eyes darting between them as if she were watching a particularly entertaining play. She took a slow sip of her tea, her smirk growing.

“Well,” she said, her tone light but unmistakably sharp, “if it was a plan, I’d say it worked. You’ve certainly got people talking.”

Cassie groaned softly, raking a hand through her hair, the tension in her body apparent.

“Yeah, talking about whether I’ve completely lost my mind.”

Lizzie didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she turned gracefully and gestured toward the living room.

“Come on, then,” she said, moving toward the small table set with a teapot and two extra cups, “Let’s get off our feet. You both look like you could use this more than me.”

Freddie followed without hesitation, while Cassie lingered for a moment, watching Lizzie’s movements. She was always so effortless, so deliberate in everything she did, as though every small gesture had its own purpose.

By the time Cassie joined them, Lizzie had already poured tea into the two remaining cups. She handed Freddie his first, then turned to Cassie, pressing the warm porcelain into her hands with a small smile.

“Drink,” she said, raising her own teacup slightly, her smirk softening into something more thoughtful.

Cassie took a cautious sip, the warmth of the tea spreading through her palms and easing the edge of the cold still clinging to her. She watched as Lizzie raised her cup again, her movements almost ceremonial.

“A touch of madness is underrated, Cassie,” Lizzie said, her voice quieter now, but no less confident, “It’s the predictable ones no one remembers.”

Cassie paused, letting the words settle in her mind. There was something about the way Lizzie said them, the precision and ease in her delivery, that made them linger.

It wasn’t just what she said but how she said it—measured and deliberate, like a writer crafting her lines with the kind of care that made them stick.

Of course, Lizzie was a writer. That’s why she could sway people so effortlessly, why her words carried weight even when they came wrapped in a smirk. It wasn’t lost on Cassie how Lizzie’s confidence seemed to fill the room, not overwhelming it but grounding it, drawing others in without demanding their attention.

The thought brought Cassie a small, unexpected comfort, easing the tension in her chest just slightly. Lizzie’s presence had a way of making things feel less chaotic, less overwhelming, as though the storm outside the house couldn’t touch them here.

It was good to see her like this, Cassie realized, enjoying the side of Lizzie that was unburdened by her husband’s presence. If anyone asked her, Cassie would have no problem saying it: Lizzie and Freddie were undoubtedly bound by their shared taste in... Less-than-ideal partners.

For the first time that morning, Cassie allowed herself to let go of her guard. She looked directly at Lizzie, meeting her gaze fully. It wasn’t something she often did—eye contact always felt like a risk, like it would slice her in a half.

But now, the act felt steadying, reassuring in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

She smiled, small but genuine, the warmth from the teacup in her hands spreading to her chest. Lizzie noticed, of course—she always noticed—but said nothing, simply tilting her head slightly in acknowledgment before taking another sip of tea.

“Then they say I’m the one talented with words,” Cassie said, her voice tinged with a trace of irony. She darted her gaze away, focusing on the warm tea in her hands, using the cup as a shield from the thoughts still swirling in her mind.

“And you are,” Lizzie said, the smile never leaving her lips, “You could write a book if you wanted. People would read it.”

Cassie let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head as she leaned back, letting the softness of the moment wrap around her like a warm blanket.

“Doubt it would sell,” she muttered.

In the corner of the room, the rotary phone began to ring, its sharp, persistent tone cutting through the warmth of their conversation. Cassie’s gaze flicked to it briefly before returning to the scattered papers on the table—notes from interviews that felt like relics of a past life.

The ringing persisted, the sound grating and insistent, like an accusation she couldn’t ignore.

“Crawford’s plan is working, though,” Cassie continued, her voice trailing off as the unease in her stomach twisted again, “He’s made sure anyone who could help me—anyone who might’ve given me a shot—they’re already turned away. Every single one of the people I had planned to interview…”

Her words faltered as her hand gestured vaguely toward the table.

Lizzie leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, her expression softening. The room, warm with the aroma of tea and faint lavender, seemed to hold its breath as she spoke.

“You’re giving Crawford too much credit,” her tone measured, as though she were trying to pull Cassie back from her spiraling thoughts, “He’s powerful, sure. But he’s not omnipotent.”

Cassie’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more a bitter acknowledgment.

The phone’s ringing continued, cutting through the air like a blade.

“You think I’m being paranoid?” Cassie asked, her voice carrying a weary edge as her eyes darted between Lizzie and Freddie.

Freddie, who had been quietly nursing his own cup of tea, leaned forward. The leather of his chair creaked softly under the shift of his weight. His elbows rested on his knees, and his hands clasped loosely as he regarded her with a steady, thoughtful gaze.

“No,” Freddie said plainly, his voice steady but not unkind, “I think you’re being too negative.”

The silence that followed seemed to settle heavily over the room, broken only by the soft hiss of the radiator. Cassie’s frown deepened as she thought more and more about what had happened, what she had done.

Freddie pushed himself up from his chair, his movements deliberate, and crossed the room. The floor creaked beneath his weight, a sound that seemed louder in the tense quiet. He stopped at the rotary phone, his gaze falling on the answering machine beside it.

“You want to talk about Crawford’s plan?” he said, resting his hand lightly on the edge of the machine, “Let’s hear it for ourselves.”

Cassie stiffened in her chair, her lips parting as though to protest, “Freddie, don’t—”

“Might as well,” Lizzie interrupted, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms, “If you’re convinced everyone’s turned their back on you, let’s see if that’s true.”

Cassie shook her head, her hands gripping the bloody teacup.

“I don’t need to hear it. I already know what they’ll say.”

“Do you?” Freddie asked, his calm tone challenging her resolve.

Cassie opened her mouth to protest, but Freddie was quicker. His fingers moved with purpose, pressing the button on the answering machine. The mechanical click echoed through the quiet room, a sound that, despite its ordinariness, seemed to sharpen the tension in the air.

Her fingers held firmly around the edges of her teacup, her knuckles pale against the porcelain as the words from the machine filled the room.

“Cassandra,” the first voice said, clipped and urgent, “This is Alan Withers. I’ve heard about the stunt you pulled, and while I understand you’re passionate, I cannot afford to be seen associated with... Good luck. ”

Cassie’s eyes dropped to her lap, the cold porcelain of the teacup doing nothing to help her. The air around her felt thinner, as if it were trying to suffocate the storm swirling inside her.

Alan . Now, a closed door.

His rejection felt personal, even though she knew it wasn’t. It was just the world she had chosen to be a part of.

But now, standing in the wake of that decision, it didn’t feel like a choice at all.

Lizzie shifted slightly, the soft clink of her teacup against the saucer as she adjusted her position. She spoke, but her words felt distant, as if they were just part of the atmosphere and not quite meant for Cassie.

“Well, that’s one way to say nothing,” she muttered under her breath, trying to lighten the moment, but the words fell flat, like a poorly thrown stone.

Cassie didn’t respond, her mind spinning with the implications of Alan’s words. She wanted to argue, to tell herself that this didn’t matter—that she was right, that she wasn’t the problem—but she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.

She shifted in her seat, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of the teacup. The warm porcelain against her fingertips should have been comforting, but her thoughts were miles away, swirling in a mix of frustration and helplessness.

The machine beeped again, and Cassie’s stomach churned with the anticipation of what might come next.

“Cassie, it’s David from Insight Weekly . I’m sorry, but after everything that’s happened, we’ve decided to shelve the feature. It’s just... Too hot right now. I wish you the best.”

Her chest tightened further at the sound of his voice. She had relied on David—trusted him as one of the few allies who might have helped her navigate the politics of this world.

But now, even he has backed away. She knew it wasn’t personal, again , she knew that—she knew it was the nature of the beast they were all a part of— but it felt personal. No matter how she tried to convince herself it wasn’t.

Every time one of them backed away, it felt like another piece of herself was chipped away.

“See?” she said softly, almost to herself, “This is exactly what Crawford wanted. He’s cut me off from everything.”

Freddie stood silently, his gaze focused on the machine, but he didn’t speak immediately. Cassie wanted to say something—wanted to ask him to turn it off. But she couldn’t find the words.

Her throat was dry, a knot in her chest, and the room felt smaller than it had just moments before.

“Cassie,” a familiar, softer voice began, “It’s Nathan. I think I might’ve found more documents you’d want to see. I can meet this weekend. Let me know.”

Cassie’s focus snapped back to the speaker, and the suddenness of the words made her pause.

Nathan’s voice brought with it a reminder of everything she had worked for—the construction scandal, the faulty materials, the cover-up that had been buried beneath corporate lies. All in his own workplace.

She remembered the late nights, the piles of documents strewn across her desk, the adrenaline of uncovering something that could actually make a difference. But those days felt distant now, like something just out of reach.

Lizzie watched her closely, a quiet acknowledgment of Cassie’s internal shift. Always reading her mind.

“See, not everyone’s written you off,” she said gently.

Cassie didn’t respond right away, lost in the recollections of what Nathan had told her. She had started this, but now the world seemed too big to handle alone. Every part of her wanted to follow through, to pick up the pieces, but the reality of being on her own—the consequences of defying Crawford—had set in. She had nothing to rely on now.

Then, another voice came through.

“Cassie,” the machine crackled, “It’s Sarah Halverson. You talked to me about the water issues near the factory. I—I’m scared. They’ve been sending people to my house, and I don’t know what to do. Please, if you’re still working on this, call me.”

Cassie stood frozen for a moment.

She remembered Sarah clearly—her face, her quiet fear as they sat together and discussed the dangers surrounding the factory. Cassie had promised Sarah she’d do everything she could to get the truth out.

But now, with everything falling apart, it felt like Sarah’s voice was just one more reminder of how far she had fallen.

For a moment, the room felt unbearably quiet, the hum of the radiator and Lizzie’s tea cup returning to her hands. Everything felt so irrelevant.

Her mind pulled her back to the interview with Sarah, her trembling hands clutching a cheap plastic cup of tea. Cassie had promised her, “I’ll make sure they hear your story.” But now?

Now Sarah was being threatened, and Cassie had no platform left to fight for her. The silence stretched on until Freddie cleared his throat, his voice breaking through her haze.

“This woman believes in you, Cassie,” he said quietly, nodding toward the phone, “She’s terrified, and she still called you. That means something.”

But Freddie’s words didn’t reach her—not fully.

"Depending on me?" she muttered, her voice barely audible.

She crossed her arms tightly, her teacup long forgotten—pacing toward the window. The pale light filtering through the sheer curtains did little to soften the storm raging inside her.

"How am I supposed to help anyone?" The words burst out of her, "I don’t have a platform, Uncle. Crawford made sure of that. No one will hire me—not after what I’ve done. I’ve got nothing."

Her fingers tightened against the window frame, the cold biting at her skin. She tried to steady her breathing, but the thought of Sarah—alone, frightened—twisted in her chest like a knife.

"I promised her I’d help," she whispered, almost to herself, "But what can I even do anymore? There’s no one left to listen."

The next message began, not giving time for Freddie or Lizzie to try arguing. Instead, both of them exchanged a look.

Cassie steeled herself. She wasn’t sure if she could handle more disappointment.

“Cassie,” came the familiar voice of her mother, chirpy and unaware. Despite everything, Cassie tried to embrace herself, but more disappointment would come for sure , “Sweetie, I miss you! How are you there? How’s your job? You do know if anything goes south, you can always come back here and I’ll help you find a good husband. Just please, give me some updates about how you’re doing there!”

Cassie groaned, dragging a hand through her hair. Her mother’s words stabbed at her, each one a reminder of how far removed her family was from her world. To her mother, Cassie’s career was just a phase—a way to delay the inevitable: s ettling down, giving up .

The gulf between their worlds had never seemed so wide.

She was exhausted—exhausted in a way that went beyond sleepless nights and long days. It was a bone-deep weariness, the kind that came from constantly trying to explain herself to people who never seemed to understand. How could they?

She had left Chicago for a reason, though even now, it felt like no one really got why. It wasn’t just about escaping the predictable future her mother envisioned for her—a housewife with a perfect smile and a carefully curated life. It was more than that.

Cassie wanted to matter.

She wanted to take the tools she had—the sharp instincts, the knack for seeing what others missed—and do something with them. The world was covered in layers of polished lies, a pristine rug under which powerful men swept their sins. She wanted to rip that rug away, to expose what lay beneath: the stolen innocence, the squandered money, the lives destroyed by greed and neglect.

And yet, no one else seemed to understand.

To her mother, ambition was just a stepping stone to disappointment. To her peers, it was easier to keep their heads down, to avoid making waves…

The loneliness of it all dragged her down, but the spark inside her refused to die. If no one else saw it, if no one else believed in it, then she would . She had to. Because if she didn’t, who would?

“Can we be done already?”

The words slipped from her lips, soft and fractured, as if she’d spoken them into a void. Cassie wasn’t talking to Lizzie or Freddie; she was talking to the storm in her head, to the endless loop of thoughts that kept dragging her under.

Freddie didn’t respond right away. Instead, he moved with deliberate calm, stepping over to the phone and turning it off, silencing missed calls. The absence of sound was deafening, the stillness thick and unyielding.

Then, he finally dared to ask, “You’re still against the idea of joining, aren’t you?”

Cassie stopped mid-step, her pulse quickening as her shoulders stiffened. She didn’t need him to say it. The meaning hung heavy in the air between them, unspoken but unmistakable . Her gaze dropped to the floor, as though meeting his eyes might shatter whatever fragile resolve she had left.

“ I can’t ,” she said, her voice trembling under the weight of her own admission. She straightened her posture, trying to steady herself, but the words felt like glass in her throat, “ I wasn’t made for that. I can’t have my face on a screen, Freddie. It’s not who I am. ”

The silence that followed felt sharper than any argument, heavier than any rebuke. She wished, desperately, that she was wrong. That she could be the person Freddie seemed to think she could be.

How much easier would everything be if she had been born with a stronger spine. If her voice didn’t falter when too many eyes turned her way…

The thought of stepping in front of a camera made her stomach churn, her pulse thrum erratically in her ears.

The idea of Venturer had been lingering for weeks now—a chance to join her uncle’s project, to have a platform big enough to amplify voices like Sarah’s and Nathan’s. It was everything she had ever wanted, yet it felt wrong , suffocating in ways she couldn’t put into words.

The thought of facing an audience, of staring into cold, unblinking cameras instead of speaking from the safety of her anonymity, made her chest tighten painfully. She shook her head as nausea crept up, sharp and relentless.

“ How would I even do it? ” she whispered, almost to herself.

Cassie looked away, fixing her gaze on the far wall as if it might anchor her.

I can barely look someone in the eyes without my nerves turning on me. How could I put myself on a screen for all of them to see? For all of them to judge?

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She had stories to tell—a cause worth fighting for. But could she sacrifice herself, her sense of safety, to make it happen?

The unease settled in deeper as her thoughts spiraled further, pulling her into darker considerations. Freddie had spent weeks trying to bring her into Venturer, his work on the project tethered to his closest friends.

But in Rutshire, nothing came without opposition, and Venturer had its rival: Tony Baddingham’s empire…

Goddamnit , she had almost forgotten about that bastard.

“Do you think that maniac, Tony Baddingham, knows anything about this yet? My... Stunt? ” Cassie’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet the concern was clear in her tone.

Lizzie raised an eyebrow, her calm demeanor not faltering.

“Probably doesn’t even know you exist,” she tried to brush the tension aside.

But Freddie’s reaction was different. His brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth tightening as his thoughts drifted to darker possibilities.

“I’ve kept my word," he said after a pause, his voice steadier than his expression, “I haven’t mentioned you to anyone in the circles you wanted to avoid. That includes Tony.”

Cassie exhaled, relief washing over her in brief, fleeting waves. But the fear lingered, shadowy and persistent.

What if they were wrong?

Her connection to Freddie had always been something she kept at arm’s length, knowing full well the consequences if someone like Baddingham found out. Her uncle had warned her countless times about the man’s ruthlessness, his uncanny ability to weaponize even the smallest vulnerabilities.

Tony Baddingham would do anything to destroy Venturer, without hesitation, and if he found out she was part of it—Freddie’s niece—she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use her against them.

Freddie stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. His touch was grounding, a small gesture meant to steady her as her thoughts threatened to spiral out of control again.

“Hey,” he said softly, “It won’t happen. You’re too careful. There’s no way for him to make the connection—not unless you want him to.”

His confidence was reassuring, but Cassie couldn’t ignore the tightness in his jaw, the unspoken acknowledgment that even Freddie couldn’t control every variable.

“We’re resilient,” he added, his hand giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, “If it comes to it, we’ll figure it out. But this?” He gestured faintly toward her, toward the doubt clouding her features, “You can’t let it paralyze you.”

Cassie nodded slowly, though the storm inside her was far from over. Still, Freddie’s presence gave her something to hold onto—a flicker of possibility in the chaos. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to take the next step forward.

“I don’t know, Uncle,” she darted her aways between him and Lizzie, “I don’t know how to help these people anymore, I don’t have a platform to do that. No radio station will hire me, and I won’t go back to Chicago.”

Freddie’s gaze held steady, his voice unwavering.

“You don’t need a platform handed to you, Cassie. You’ve always found your own way. You didn’t start because someone gave you a microphone—you started because you couldn’t stay quiet.”

Cassie’s shoulders tensed at his words, how they pondered in her mind. She leaned forward, running a hand through her hair, frustrated by the constant loop of helpless thoughts swirling in her mind.

“But that was different,” she replied, her voice strained. She rubbed her temples, trying to stave off the headache that seemed to pulse with each word, “This isn’t some blog or local tip-off. Sarah needs real help. Nathan’s risking his neck with those documents… And there is for sure more people where they came from. They need more than someone shouting into the void.”

The room seemed to close in around her as the words left her mouth, the air heavy with the unsaid. She wasn’t just talking about Sarah and Nathan anymore. She was talking about herself, the fight she had started that now felt like it was slipping out of her control.

The frustration simmered beneath her skin, making her restless.

Lizzie, who had been sitting across the table, leaned back in her chair with a slight, knowing smile. Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was a sharpness to it that Cassie couldn’t ignore.

"You make it sound like shouting into the void is nothing," Lizzie said, carrying an edge that cut through the fog in Cassie’s mind, "Maybe you forgot, but you’ve been shouting into the void for years—and people listened. That’s why you’re here."

Cassie shot Lizzie a look, but didn’t respond.

She knew Lizzie was right. Deep down, she knew it. But that didn’t make the doubt fade.

It didn’t make the uncertainty about whether she had anything left to give vanish.

She’d always believed that stories could change the world—that her voice could make the difference. But lately? Lately, it felt like all she was doing was chasing her own tail, stuck in a cycle of frustration and failure. There was too much at stake now. The fight wasn’t just hers anymore.

Her eyes wandered across the room, lingering on the mess of papers scattered on the table. Her unfinished work. Her unspoken promises. And through it all, that suffocating feeling—the one that told her she was running out of time to make any of it count.

Cassie swallowed hard, trying to push the tightness in her throat down, but it wouldn’t go.

“I don’t know if I can do it anymore,” she muttered, more to herself than to either of them.

Freddie sighed, but kept himself quiet. He could hear it in her voice—the uncertainty, the defeat she was too proud to admit. His jaw clenched briefly before he exhaled, shifting in his seat.

“Cassie, you’ve been through worse, and you’ve always come out the other side. This is no different.”

Freddie’s voice was steady, but there was something in the way he said it—something that held the weight of their shared history. She met his eyes despite the internal pain it caused, yet her gaze quickly faltered, unable to hold the connection.

His belief in her was palpable, but it only made the doubt gnaw at her harder.

“I’ve never been silenced like this before,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

She turned away slightly, her back to him, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. The room was suddenly too small, the air too thick with the pressure of his expectations.

Cassie knew what he was thinking.

He was thinking that if she accepted his offer, everything could change. She’d have a platform, a voice loud enough to make a difference. It was the opportunity she’d always dreamed of, a step up in her career. She had always prided herself on being someone who didn’t wait for opportunities to come to her—she made them.

But this? This felt different.

Her mind raced, but it wouldn’t let her consider it fully. She could see it, clear as day—the image of her face, her name, broadcasted across every screen in Rutshire, in every household. Everyone would know her. Everyone would see who she really was, the woman behind the words, the person who had always kept her distance from the limelight.

It wasn’t about the career boost. She knew this was the kind of exposure that would propel her forward, that could change everything for her. But it came with a price. The idea of being that exposed, of having every part of her life scrutinized by people who would never understand, made her stomach twist.

Would they care about the stories she told? Or would they focus on what she wore, how she stood, whether her words matched her image? She wasn’t sure she could bear the thought of being picked apart in that way, of everyone trying to dissect her every move.

She’d always been better off behind the scenes, in the shadows where she could move unnoticed, a voice without a face.

Cassie turned back to Freddie, her hands clenched at her sides.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” she said, her voice small, “To be seen. To be exposed.”

Freddie didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. He understood what she meant, even if he didn’t fully understand how deep was her turmoil.

He had his own demons, his own vulnerabilities. But Cassie wasn’t him. She wasn’t built for the spotlight in the way he might’ve been.

“I get it,” Freddie said quietly after a moment, “You don’t have to make the decision right now. But you’ve never backed down before. You’ve always had the courage to stand up and face it. This... This could be another one of those times. Just think about it, Cass.”

The words felt both comforting and suffocating. The encouragement was there, but so was the unspoken pressure, the weight of an opportunity that might slip through her fingers if she didn’t take it now. It wasn’t just about the decision anymore—it was about whether or not she had the courage to step into the unknown and face everything that would come with it.

She didn’t want to disappoint him, or herself. But this wasn’t just another story to chase. This was her life, her identity, everything she’d built and protected slipping away in an instant. And the scariest part? She didn’t know if she was ready to give that up. Not yet.

Lizzie and Freddie had been gone for about an hour, but it felt like the day had stretched into an eternity. The silence in the house was deafening, a stark contrast to the constant buzz of the phone calls and conversations that had been filling her life just days ago. Cassie leaned back in her chair, the worn wood creaking under her, as her eyes fixed on the rotary phone in the corner of the room.

The phone, once a lifeline, now seemed like an enemy. Its presence mocked her, a reminder of the calls she had ignored—the people reaching out for help, for answers. Every missed call, every voicemail, was a reminder of her failure to provide what they needed.

The truth. Justice. Their voices. Now, she was unable to even summon the will to pick up the receiver.

Her mind ran in circles.

They’re all waiting for me, and I can’t even give them the time of day, she thought bitterly.

How could she help them when she couldn’t help herself? How could she expose the corruption, the lies when she didn’t have a platform to stand on? Without the station, without any means to broadcast what she knew, the truth seemed so much more distant.

What good were all the documents, all the testimonials, if no one would listen to them? No one would care?

The fear twisted inside her, sharp and suffocating.

What am I going to do? she wondered, staring at the receiver.

She thought back to the last time she’d seen Bas, how worried he had looked when she left the bar with only one goal in mind. She hadn’t known then just how wrong things would go—how horribly everything would spiral.

All she had wanted was to make things right, to take down the people who’d been abusing their power for years. But now, what did she have left?

Nothing but the wreckage of a failed mission, the remnants of a career she’d spent years building, now in ruins.

How did it all go so wrong?

Her fingers hovered over the fabric of her sweater, fear gripping her. Every number in her contacts list felt like a mountain too high to climb. What would they think of me now?

Her father’s name, Jones—what a curse it felt like now. He had built his own reputation, a notorious one, but would it help her now if she attempted to use it in her favor now? Could it?

It was a thought that had crossed her mind more than once. If she could just use his legacy—his connections—maybe there would be a way to turn things around. Once, the mere thought of it would have hurt her dignity, but now ? She was desperate enough to consider it.

If anyone would take a chance on me now, they wouldn’t be doing it for me. They’d be doing it for my father’s name, she realized.

But was her father’s name enough to erase the stain she’d just inherited from her failed career at Crawford’s?

Her mind countered: What if it works? Then, what?

Cassie pulled a piece of paper from the pile beside her and began scribbling down names—contacts from her past stories, the ones she had been able to trust, all who had once worked with Charles Crawford. Some of them were still working at other stations. Others had long since been fired, discarded by Crawford and the network for not fitting the mold, no other stations willing to hire them.

Fired employees, they knew the dirt. Perhaps, more than her even. They could help her to tear down the last brick of Crawford’s empire.

If he wanted to tear her name apart, then, she would return the favor.

She stared at the list in front of her, wondering if any of them would be willing to talk to her now, knowing that she was, for all intents and purposes, unemployed. And so fucked up as most of them were.

It would be a long shot, and she knew it. How far using her father’s name would let her go?

But even as the thought flickered in her mind, the reality of it hit her like a wave: I don’t have anything left to work with. If no one will hire me, all of this is meaningless.

All of it.

She stared at the list again, the names swimming in her vision, and then her eyes shifted to the window. Outside, the world was moving, indifferent to her turmoil. The thought of picking up the phone and calling any of these people felt like a weight she couldn’t bear.

Would any of them be willing to talk to her? A girl with a reputation her father had left behind—a reputation I don’t even want to be a part of anymore. But, suddenly is ready to take upon what he had started?

Would they even take her seriously?

She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to shake the doubt from her mind. If only she could find someone who would listen to her for who she was and not who her father was… But that wasn’t how the world worked, if she wanted someone to still see some spark in her, she would have to play dirty and use her father’s name.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. Her heart jumped into her throat, her hands tightening around her sweater as her mind scrambled to make sense of it.

Who could that be?

She stood, her legs shaky, and made her way to the door, still holding into the edges of the damn sweater as if her life depended on it. If it was another reporter again, she didn’t know if she would be strong enough to shove them off.

For a moment, she just… Stood there, really . Her fingers moving only to hover over the knob, waiting for something—anything—to give her the clarity she needed.

"Who is it?" she called out, her voice sounding small and weak in the vast emptiness of the house.

There was a brief pause, and then the response came.

"Ahm, Declan O'Hara."

Declan O’Hara? The Declan Fucking O’Hara?

She had never spoken to him—not directly, not since she moved to Rutshire. But his name… She knew it well . It had come up in nearly every conversation with Bas, with her uncle, even Lizzie.

The man who had made a career of being sharp, ruthless, and always in control of the room.

She wasn’t sure why he would be here, at her door, now of all times .

What does he want with me? She thought, a flash of unease running through her.

Cassie’s mind raced through the stories she had heard about him—the interviews that made headlines, the scandals that had followed him like shadows, the way people either loved or hated him, but never ignored him. She had followed his career almost from the beginning, admiring the boldness in his approach, the way he could dissect a situation with just a few well-chosen words.

It was exactly what she had once wanted for herself, when she first dreamed of being a journalist. Back in Chicago.

Yet here he was, standing at her door, a reality she never could have predicted.

Why now?

Cassie stared at the door as though willing it to explain itself. Declan O’Hara—her thoughts were still tripping over the impossibility of his presence here. It didn’t make sense. Why would someone like him, a man whose name carried both weight and controversy, show up unannounced at her door?

Taking a steadying breath, she pulled the door open.

And there was he.

Declan O’Hara stood on her doorstep, casual yet undeniably present, the kind of man who didn’t knock on doors unless he already knew they’d be opened.

His features were sharper in person than in the photographs or on television—his jawline more defined, the stubble catching the dim light. His dark eyes, shadowed but piercing, seemed to size her up in an instant, taking in every detail without giving much away. The lines at the corners of his mouth hinted at a man who’d seen enough to be cynical but wore charm like a second skin instead, a disarming weapon as much as a choice.

And then, of course, there was the mustache, impeccably trimmed, adding an air of polish to someone who seemed never rushed, never flustered, and entirely too aware of the presence he carried with himself.

Cassie’s breath caught in her chest, and she wondered, not for the first time that morning, if she was still asleep and dreaming up the absurdity of it all.

“Miss Jones,” his voice even, the faint trace of a Dublin lilt giving his words an edge. He regarded her with quiet interest, his eyes scanning her face like a puzzle.

“Mr. O’Hara,” she managed, her tone steady despite the racing in her chest.

He tilted his head slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Cassie frowned, unsure how to answer. Was he joking? Interrupting what—her ongoing existential crisis?

God , he could have interrupted it anytime he preferred, really. She wouldn’t complain.

“You’ve certainly caught me off guard,” she admitted instead, her fingers tightening on the knob.

“Good,” he said simply, as though that had been his goal all along.

Cassie blinked at him, her world spinning a bit too fast. She wasn’t sure whether to be irritated or intrigued by his audacity. The air felt heavier, charged with an energy that hadn’t been there moments before.

Declan O’Hara wasn’t just a man standing at her door; he was a presence . A gravitational force pulling her in despite every instinct screaming to guard herself.

That was how his guests felt? That's why they continued in their seats even when he crossed the line?

“I heard your broadcast,” he said, the trace of an Irish lilt softening his words, “It made an impression.”

“An impression,” Cassie repeated, frowning, “I assume you’re here to tell me it was a bad one.”

Declan’s mustache twitched, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if he was suppressing a smile or a retort.

“Not quite,” he said, his voice hinting at something more than polite interest.

His dark eyes settled back on hers, unflinching and steady. There was something in his gaze, as though he were testing her, waiting to see how she’d react to his scrutiny.

It hurt her to look away, but the force of it was too much. She glanced toward the floor, the slight chill of the open doorway creeping up her spine.

Declan didn’t move, obviously

Seeing him on television was one thing—his charisma contained within the screen, his sharp words cutting through interviews like a scalpel. But here, standing in front of her, he was... Different. He wasn’t just a personality, a face attached to the stories she’d watched from a distance.

He was real . And his presence wasn’t something she’d prepared herself for.

There was a magnetic quality to him, the kind of charm that wasn’t loud or forced but instead lingered in the way he carried himself, in the deliberate cadence of his words. It unsettled her, this awareness of him.

She tried to lock the thought away before it could take root. The last thing she needed was to feel self-conscious about Declan O’Hara.

“Then what exactly are you here to tell me?” she asked, forcing her voice into a steadiness she didn’t entirely feel.

Declan’s lips curved ever so slightly, his expression one of quiet amusement.

“I’d say it’s less about telling and more about asking,” he said, his tone dropping, the lilt wrapping around each syllable with an ease that felt entirely unfair.

“Asking what ?” she pressed, her brows drawing together in suspicion.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted past her, sweeping over the interior of her home with the same sharpness he had directed at her moments ago. The soft yellow glow from the hallway lamps cast long shadows against the worn wallpaper and the scattered mess of papers on the table just visible in the background.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the space behind her. The neutrality of his tone made the question feel less like a request and more like a formality.

Cassie hesitated. For a moment, she considered shutting the door in his face, but the calm, unhurried way he stood there made her pause. Declan O’Hara didn’t knock on doors without a reason, and whatever he wanted to say, she had a feeling it wasn’t something she could afford to ignore.

She stepped back reluctantly, gesturing for him to enter.

“You’ve come this far,” she said, her voice filled with dry humor, “I suppose it would be rude to leave you standing in the cold.”

Declan’s eyes flicked back to hers, lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. She could feel his gaze over her, the way it seemed to cut through her walls without effort, slashing her insides.

There was nothing overt in the way he looked at her—no smirk, no lingering stare—but the intensity of his gaze was unsettling all the same. It wasn’t something she could pin down, and that only made it harder to shake.

That was the Declan O’Hara effect, she guessed.

“Generous of you,” he murmured, stepping inside with an ease that suggested he was no stranger to navigating unfamiliar spaces. His coat shifted as he moved, the dark fabric catching the light as he turned to take in the room.

Cassie shut the door behind him, the sound of it closing grounding her slightly. She leaned against the frame for a moment, her eyes instinctively following his movements as he took in the room.

He didn’t linger on any one thing, yet it felt as though nothing escaped his notice—the scattered papers on the table, the crumpled throw on the couch, the worn edges of the armchair by the window…

Everything felt suddenly too intimate, too exposed under his quiet scrutiny, as though her home had unwittingly laid bare the corners of her mind.

And then, he moved. Just a slight shift as he turned, the muted light catching on the sharp line of his jaw, casting shadows along his cheekbones. His coat hung open, revealing the crisp lines of his shirt beneath, the gleam of a watch peeking out from under his sleeve. The shadows softened the severity of his features, but the intensity remained, resting in the sharp focus of his dark eyes.

For a brief moment, Cassie wondered what it would be like to see him somewhere else, as a stranger in some bar—a thought she quickly pushed aside. Declan O’Hara wasn’t someone you invited to drink, in this case, her specifically .

There was no world where she would be in a bar, sat by his side, drinking and laughing about drunk jokes.

“Not what I expected,” he said, his voice breaking the silence. He didn’t elaborate, but there was no judgment in his tone, only curiosity.

Cassie raised an eyebrow, masking her unease with a wry smile.

“What were you expecting? A newsroom?”

He glanced at her, and for the briefest moment, his mustache twitched with what might have been amusement, “Something a little more... Guarded.”

“Well, that was my father’s place,” she shrugged, “I didn’t change anything since I moved in, it still has his face and personality.”

Declan’s head inclined ever so slightly, his gaze not trembling as it traced the room’s quiet details. The soft lamplight cast long shadows over the cluttered surfaces, the books stacked unevenly on the table, the photograph frames turned just slightly askew.

If he found anything notable, he didn’t show it; his face remained unreadable, save for the slightest narrowing of his eyes, as though he were cataloging each element of her space.

“It feels lived in,” he said, his voice measured, a step back from casual but not quite formal.

Cassie stilled, her weight shifting onto one foot as though to anchor herself. The idea of this place—the remnants of someone else’s life—feeling lived in was strange, almost laughable. Especially by her. It wasn’t hers, for starters.

“Borrowed,” she corrected, “It’s borrowed.”

Declan’s mouth curved weakly—not quite a smile, more of a quiet acknowledgment. He said nothing at first, letting the moment breathe. The hum of the overhead light filled the silence, a sound she hadn’t noticed until now.

“What brings you here, Mr. O’Hara?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Her words came sharper now, an effort to push through the strange atmosphere he seemed to carry with him. The air felt electrical in his presence, as though the room itself had to adjust to accommodate him.

“I told you,” he replied, meeting her eyes with a calm intensity, “Your broadcast made an impression.”

The way he said it gave her pause.

Cassie felt his gaze settle on her as though waiting to see how she’d react. She took a slow breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater.

“And that’s enough to knock on someone’s door unannounced?”

“Sometimes,” he said, with a small shrug that somehow managed not to look dismissive, “Though I’ll admit, it wasn’t just the broadcast.”

Her posture stiffened, “Then what was it?”

Declan stepped closer—not enough to invade her space, but just enough that his presence felt more immediate. The creak of the floorboards under his weight seemed louder than it should have been. His gaze flicked briefly to the papers scattered across the table, her scrawled notes forming a haphazard pile that betrayed the frantic way she’d been grasping for control.

Cassie felt his focus shift back to her. It was deliberate, calculated, and entirely unsettling. She resisted the urge to shrink back. Instead, she stayed rooted where she stood, gripping her sweater tighter.

His hesitation was subtle—so brief she might have missed it if she weren’t watching him so closely.

Declan O’Hara wasn’t someone who hesitated often, she imagined. That thought, more than anything, unsettled her even more.

“You’ve put yourself in a position where people are either going to admire you or come for you,” he said, his voice measured but low enough to make her lean in slightly to hear him.

“Admire me?” she asked dryly, the corner of her mouth quirking upward in a humorless smile, “You think that’s likely?”

Declan’s expression didn’t shift much, but the glint in his eyes pierced as he regarded her. Standing there in the muted glow of her living room, he looked entirely at ease—his posture loose, hands slipping casually into his pockets. Yet, there was a coiled energy to him, like a predator content to observe but ready to strike when necessary.

“Admire you?” His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile but close, “They’d be foolish not to. Anyone paying attention would see you’ve got something most people don’t.”

Cassie blinked at that, thrown for a moment by the unexpected turn. The words weren’t overly complimentary. Still, there was something in how he said them—deliberate and matter-of-fact—that left her feeling exposed.

“Crawford isn’t most people,” she countered, her tone cautious, “And I’m not sure anyone else is paying attention.”

Declan tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes scanning her face as if weighing her words against something he already knew, “Crawford’s watching you. I’d bet more people are too.”

The amusement in his voice hinted at more than what he was saying, but he didn’t elaborate.

Cassie felt a flicker of something sharp and unsettling under his gaze���like he was dissecting her, piecing her together in real time. She crossed her arms over her chest, more for herself than for him, and forced out a brittle laugh to deflect.

“That’s a poetic way of telling me I’ve already lost.”

Declan’s gaze drifted briefly around the room again, his expression unreadable. The warmth of the space contrasted with the calculated intensity he carried with him, making her feel simultaneously guarded and cornered.

When his eyes found her figure again, his voice softened, though it didn’t lose its power.

“You haven’t lost,” he said simply, “but making Crawford an enemy wasn’t smart.”

“Don’t you say it,” Cassie chuckled, “I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“And yet,” he said, his tone as even as ever, “you don’t seem the type to let obvious risks stop you.”

Cassie exhaled sharply, darting her gaze toward the notes scattered across the table—a deliberate escape from the way his presence seemed to charge the air between them.

“Obvious risks don’t bother me,” she replied, “Obvious consequences do.”

His head tilted slightly, the movement small but deliberate, “Is that why you haven’t made the calls yet?”

Her head snapped up, a flicker of irritation flashing in her eyes.

“You’ve been here for all of five minutes, and you think you’ve got me figured out?”

Declan didn’t rise to the bait, his expression remaining frustratingly composed. He let the question linger for a beat before answering.

“I don’t need to figure you out,” he said plainly, “It’s written all over you. You’ve gone through every word you’d say, rehearsed every answer they might give, but the phone’s still on the table.”

Cassie stiffened, her arms crossing tighter over her chest.

“And if it is?” she shot back, her tone defensive but softer, hesitant. Doubt , maybe.

“Then it tells me you’re not ready to decide what matters most,” Declan said, his voice dangerously low, if she wasn’t looking at his feet, she would be sure he had whispered in her ear.

Cassie felt the words hit their mark before she could deflect. It wasn’t just what he said but the way he said it, like he wasn’t trying to convince her of anything, merely stating the obvious. The restraint in his tone grated at her more than a lecture ever could.

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” she shot back, but the bite in her words was dulled by hesitation, “I didn’t ask you to come here and give me advice last time I checked.”

Declan didn’t step back. If anything, his presence seemed more focused, more intentional. He had a way of occupying space without crowding it, though it didn’t stop Cassie from feeling scrutinized under his gaze. His fingers brushed the edge of another page on the table, the smallest of gestures, yet it felt charged.

“Maybe not,” he admitted, the hint of a shrug in his shoulders, “But you’re the one who put your voice out there for the world to hear. That’s not the move of someone afraid to make a decision.”

Her chest tightened at the subtle jab, even though she knew it wasn’t meant to be cruel. Cassie uncrossed her arms, only to realize she had no idea what to do with her hands. They hovered awkwardly for a moment before she shoved them into the pockets of her sweater.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” she muttered, her gaze dropping to the scrawled notes on the table, “It was either speak up or keep quiet and let him win.”

“I noticed,” Declan said, his voice cutting through the air with deliberate clarity, “And for what it’s worth—you didn’t waste a single word. Your broadcast wasn’t just speaking up. It was precision. You wielded those words like a scalpel, cutting exactly where it needed to hurt.”

There was something in the way he said it—calm, matter-of-fact—that made her dizzy. The sincerity in his tone was disarming, but there was weight to it that felt impossible to carry. Her breath hitched involuntarily, her fingers curling deeper into the fabric of her sweater as though she could steady herself against it.

“You make it sound like I had thought about what I would say before I broke in Dan’s show. Maybe in my shows, yes, but not yesterday,” she muttered, her voice quiet, “ It wasn’t. I didn’t plan for any of this.”

Declan didn’t look away, his attention anchored to her with unnerving steadiness.

“Maybe not consciously,” he allowed, leaning back slightly but still holding her in his focus, “But it’s in how you speak—every pause, every shift in tone. It’s not accidental. It’s instinct, you have a gift.”

Cassie felt the words swirl in her chest, a strange mixture of unease and something she couldn’t quite name. Gratitude? Validation? She wasn’t sure, but it unsettled her all the same.

She huffed quietly, her eyes darting toward the window. The sheer curtains filtered the outside light, casting soft patterns on the walls. It was the kind of view that might have once soothed her, but right now, the delicate glow did nothing to ease the unease thrumming beneath her skin.

“You say that like it’s so simple,” she muttered, her voice tight, “Like gifts or instincts are enough to untangle all of this.”

Declan didn’t rush to respond, his silence deliberate. It wasn’t a silence that pressed or demanded—it allowed her words to sit. He moved, finally, his hand brushing against her notes scattered haphazardly, almost grasping at them.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” he said, “You didn’t just call out Crawford. You made people listen. That’s what scares him, or anyone really.”

Cassie’s fingers twitched at his words, biting her cheeks. She didn’t want to meet his eyes, but her gaze betrayed her, flicking up to find him watching her with that unrelenting steadiness.

Soon, she looked away again.

“I wasn’t trying to scare anyone,” she murmured, barely audible, “I just… Couldn’t let him get away with it.”

Declan’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Exactly,” he said, “And that’s the kind of drive we need on Venturer.”

Her breath caught, and the tension in her chest tightened like a coil.

That was what he had come to ask.

Cassie’s hands tightened into fists against her sides, her nails biting into her palms. The air in the room felt dense, not from the warmth of the radiator or the faint aroma of tea and ink, but from Declan’s words lingering in the air like a challenge she wasn’t ready to face.

“I can’t,” she said quickly, shaking her head, “I’m not made for that. I already told my uncle—”

“Freddie understands,” Declan interjected smoothly, “But I don’t think you do.”

Cassie stiffened, her shoulders rising defensively.

“I know exactly what I can and can’t do,” she snapped, “And I’m telling you: I can’t do that .”

Declan’s presence felt suffocating in its quiet intensity. The room seemed smaller with him in it, every detail sharper and more vivid under his gaze. The cold wind blowing, the soft tick of the clock on the wall—it all pressed against her, amplifying doubts swirling inside her.

How could she explain it to him, this bone-deep dread that came with the idea of being seen? Not just seen, but scrutinized, judged .

Being a voice on the airwaves had given her a layer of protection—a wall between herself and the people who listened. They could hear her passion, her anger, her conviction, but they couldn’t see the fear that sometimes gripped her chest like a vice.

They couldn’t look at her eyes and see what she truly was: a young woman afraid of every step she took.

The thought of standing in front of a camera, her face projected into thousands of homes, made her stomach churn. Every slip of the tongue, every stutter or hesitation, would be magnified a hundredfold. She wasn’t built for that kind of exposure.

“I can’t,” she said again, though her voice sounded weaker this time, frayed at the edges.

Declan didn’t move, didn’t blink. His stillness was maddening.

“Why not?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and that bloody sharpness again, something that cut straight to the heart of her defenses.

Cassie inhaled deeply, trying to quell the rising panic that threatened to choke her. Her gaze flickered across the room, seeking an escape, but there was none—not from him, not from the truth he was pushing her to confront.

“You don’t get it, Mr. O’Hara,” she said, her voice breaking slightly, “It’s not about not wanting recognition or having people listen to me. It’s about...” She trailed off, searching for the words that always seemed to slip through her fingers when she needed them most, “It’s about what happens when they don’t like what they see.”

Declan frowned, leaning forward, “What do you mean?”

Her chest ached as she struggled to articulate the knot of fear and self-doubt that had been her constant companion for as long as she could remember.

“You think it’s just about standing in front of a camera and telling the truth,” she said bitterly, her eyes hardening as she looked at the points of his shoes, “But it’s not . It’s about what happens afterward—when they pick apart every word you said, every expression you made, every tiny flaw you didn’t even realize you had. When they decide who you are based on nothing but a frozen image on a screen.”

Declan’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened slightly, a flicker of understanding passing through them.

“Cassie,” he said, his voice quieter now, “You’ve already faced that. Every time you went on air, every time you published a story. The only difference is, you couldn’t see it happening.”

Cassie’s heart pounded in her chest as Declan’s words hung in the air, each one heavy with intent. He spoke with a calm certainty that made her defenses feel paper-thin.

“I read about your work,” he began, his tone carefully measured, “I’ve listened to the records of your broadcasts. I’ve read the pieces you wrote in Chicago. And I know one thing for certain: you’re not the kind of person who hides behind a mic because she’s afraid. You do it because it’s efficient. Effective .”

Cassie stared at him immediately, her breath catching as the implication of his statement hit her. Her lips parted to respond, but no words came. She felt a strange dizziness, as if the walls of the room had tilted slightly, throwing her off balance.

How?

How could he have done all that in the span of a day ?

He had to have sought out recordings, dug through archives, tracked down articles she hadn’t thought about in years. From yesterday to now, he had made it his mission to know her, to understand her work, her voice.

It was unsettling.

It was…

“Every single one of them had one thing in common,” Declan continued, his tone softening, though his intensity never wavered.

Cassie raised her head, her brow furrowing as she finally managed to find her voice, “What’s that?”

“ You ,” he said, leaning forward again, his eyes never leaving her figure, constantly searching for her eyes, “Your voice, your perspective. You didn’t just report the facts—you made people care about them. You made them feel it. That’s not something everyone can do.”

The sincerity in his tone cut through her like a knife, carving through the doubt she had clung to for so long. She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.

She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.

Her fingers, still restless, searched for shelter in the fabric of her sweater. The tension in her body refused to ease, the heat creeping up her neck to her cheeks as she processed his gaze—so unwavering, so certain.

“You think being in front of a camera changes that?” he asked, his gaze unwavering, “It doesn’t. If anything, it amplifies it. People don’t connect to perfection—they connect to authenticity. And you, Cassie, are as authentic as it gets.”

The heat crept up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. She could feel it—a flush that she couldn’t suppress, a reaction she couldn’t control. She wanted to blame the intensity of the conversation, but deep down, she knew it was more than that.

There was something in the way he looked at her—unwavering, searching. His eyes, dark and steady, seemed to hold a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place. Admiration? Curiosity?

The corners of his lips lifted, not into a full smile, but a subtle quirk that softened the sharpness of his features. He was close—closer than he needed to be—and she couldn’t decide if it was intentional or just a consequence of his presence.

Her hands fidgeted in the fabric of her sweater again, twisting it as she fought to regain her composure.

“You’re giving me too much credit,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“I don’t think I am,” Declan replied, “If anything, I’m not giving you enough.”

The words struck her like a blow, cutting through the haze of self-doubt that had wrapped itself around her once and for all. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming.

The air between them felt charged, electric in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. Cassie couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to her like this—not with flattery, but with belief.

Her gaze darted to the window again. The pale light filtering through the sheer curtains softened the room's edges but did nothing to dull the sharp edge of Declan’s words. Outside, the distant sound of birdsong felt muted against the tension humming in the room.

Her mind raced, spiraling as it tried to keep up with the emotions swirling inside her. The compliments, the conviction in his voice—it was too much, too fast. She felt like she was teetering on the edge of a precipice, unsure whether to jump or cling to the safety of the ground beneath her feet.

“You don’t know me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “Not really.”

“I know that you’re holding yourself back,” Declan countered.

She shook her head, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You make it sound so easy,” she muttered, “Like all I have to do is step in front of a camera and everything will fall into place.”

Declan’s expression shifted, softening in a way that made her chest tighten.

“It’s not about it being easy,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle, “It’s about it being worth it.”

Cassie blinked, thrown off balance by the simplicity of his response.

“I’ve been where you are,” Declan continued, “Afraid of what people might see, what they might say. But here’s the thing: it’s not about you. It’s about the story. It’s about what you’re trying to show them, the truth you’re trying to tell.”

His words landed heavily, resonating with something deep inside her. She faltered, her gaze dropping back to her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly, and she clenched them back to her sweater to steady herself.

“You’re talented, Cassie,” Declan said, his voice gaining a firmer edge, “You’re good . You have a way of making people listen—not just to the facts, but to what they mean. We could give you a show, a platform where you can do exactly what you said yesterday: pull back the rug and show people what’s been swept under it.”

He paused, letting the words sink in before adding, “But if you’re not ready to take that jump, then tell me— what do you want to do next? ”

Cassie’s heart hammered in her chest. His words pressed against her like the weight of the world, a challenge, an invitation, all rolled into one. Beneath the pressure, there was a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time: possibility. It was a thought she couldn't shake—the idea of not just telling the truth, but having the power to shape the conversation, to expose the darkness hiding in plain sight.

What would she do next ?

For the first time, the idea didn’t feel impossible. It felt terrifying, yes , but there was a spark of curiosity beneath the fear—a small, stubborn part of her that wanted to know if she could.

Her breath hitched as she looked back at Declan, his gaze steady. Not leaving her sight, not for once.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she took the courage to say it out loud.

Declan’s lips curved into a smile, one that didn’t feel triumphant but rather understanding.

“I’ll wait,” he said, and she believed in him.

Cassie hesitated, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater as a new thought occurred to her. She glanced at him, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Can I ask you something?”.

“Of course,” he replied immediately.

“Why me?” she asked, her words laced with genuine confusion, “There are dozens of people out there trying to make noise, trying to be heard. What was so special about what I did yesterday?”

Declan’s smile deepened, but there was something else in his expression—a flicker of something warm, almost unspoken.

“It wasn’t just what you did yesterday,” he said, his tone quieter now, more intimate, “It was the way you did it. The way you made people stop and listen. You didn’t just speak—you cut through . You made them care. That’s not something you see every day.”

His gaze lingered on hers, steady and searching, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, the space between them charged with something she couldn’t name.

But, despite it feeling small… That was one of the few times that looking into someone’s eyes didn’t make her feel like drowning. Not in a hurtful way.

“You’re different, Cassie,” Declan continued, “And that scares people like Crawford. It’s also what makes you impossible to ignore. I had heard today some people are already calling you ‘Bloody Harrier’, and I don’t disagree with them, you are a harrier.”

Cassie swallowed hard, her thoughts swirling like a storm. She didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say. All she could do was nod, his words settling heavily in her chest as she tried to make sense of the possibilities now laid before her.

"That’s kind coming from someone like you,” Cassie muttered, her voice laced with skepticism, “But I don’t feel like a harrier .”

Declan’s eyes softened, a quiet understanding passing between them, “That’s because you don’t see yourself the way others do.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as his words lingered in the space between them.

Outside, the breeze rustled the leaves against the windowpane, its soft whisper contrasting with the quiet tension in the room. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though—it was waiting, expectant, as if the world was on pause, waiting for Cassie to choose whether to step forward or remain where she was.

Cassie’s gaze flickered back to him, and for a fleeting moment, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. And in that moment, she became acutely aware of how close he was. His presence, which had always been intense since he had knocked at her door, now felt almost overwhelming.

She noticed the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his lips were slightly parted as he spoke, the faintest trace of stubble that caught the light. The dim afternoon glow from the window washed over his features, softening them in a way that made everything about him seem impossibly magnetic.

It was a fleeting moment, but she felt it, that subtle charge in the air. Something unspoken, something she couldn't put into words, hanging there between them.

For a moment, Declan didn’t speak. He stood still, his gaze steady, as if he too was aware of the proximity. The air seemed to crackle, the space between them shrinking, until finally, with a slight but noticeable shift in his posture, Declan took a step back, breaking the tension.

His eyes never left hers, though, and the understanding between them lingered in the silence.

"Do you really believe that?" Cassie asked, her voice smaller, almost a whisper.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I?” Declan asked her back.

The room felt heavy after Declan’s words, his presence an anchor pulling at Cassie’s thoughts. She didn’t know what to say, and for once, she didn’t try to fill the silence. It stretched between them, thick and charged, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater in a futile attempt to ground herself.

Declan’s gaze stayed fixed on her. It wasn’t harsh or prying, but steady, as though he were trying to understand something about her that she hadn’t figured out herself. That quiet intensity unsettled her, a reminder of the kind of man he was—one who didn’t miss the small things, who didn’t let truths slip away unnoticed.

“I should go,” he said, breaking the silence himself. His voice low, almost hesitant, as if leaving wasn’t entirely what he wanted.

Cassie widened her eyes, startled by the shift in the moment. She stepped back slightly, creating a sliver of space between them, though it did nothing to untangle the knot tightening in her chest.

“Right,” she replied, the word coming out too quickly, sharper than she intended, “ Of course. ”

Declan moved toward the door, his steps well measured. He didn’t rush, as though each movement was a chance to reconsider something left unsaid. The air between them felt different now, lighter in some ways but heavy with the lingering weight of their exchange.

When he reached the door, he paused. He turned back, his posture relaxed but his expression still thoughtful.

The dim light coming through the window outlined the sharp edges of his features perfectly, it made him seem less imposing, more human .

“It was good meeting you,” he said, “I wish it had happened sooner.”

His words weren’t dramatic, but they hit somewhere deep, somewhere she didn’t know was vulnerable until now. For a moment, she didn’t respond, unsure of what to say or how to untangle the emotions his presence had stirred.

“Yeah,” she said, her words almost fragile, as if they could break in any second, “Me too.”

Declan’s lips curved into a smile—not the polished, performative kind she’d seen on screens, but something smaller, more genuine.

“Maybe it would’ve made things… Simpler,” he added, his tone light, though his words carried more meaning than they seemed to.

Cassie nodded, unsure how to respond to that . Her thoughts felt tangled, a mess of emotions she didn’t want to unravel just yet.

The least she could do was open the door for him, letting the cold evening air rush in. It swept past her, bracing and sharp, clearing the fog in her mind just enough to remind her where she was. She stepped closer to the doorway, watching as he descended the steps with the same calm confidence he carried everywhere.

At the edge of the porch, he turned back briefly. His dark coat blended with the gray evening, but his eyes caught hers one last time.

“Take care of yourself, Cassie,” he said, his voice warm and familiar, as though he had always known her.

“You too,” she replied, the words barely audible but sincere, “Mr. O’Hara.”

“Please,“ his smile widened, “Call me Declan.”

She didn’t respond immediately, her lips parting as if to say something, but nothing came. Instead, she nodded, her fingers gripping the door for balance.

“Declan ,” she said, the name feeling foreign on her tongue, heavier than it should have been.

The moment lingered settled between them, neither of them seeming in a hurry to break it. Cassie could feel his gaze, the way it softened now, lacking the intensity he’d carried earlier. It made her chest feel tight, but not in the way she was used to.

This wasn’t the suffocating pressure of fear or failure—it was something else, something unfamiliar and unsettling.

Declan glanced past her, his eyes briefly scanning the quiet house behind her. The mess of papers on the table, the dim glow of the single lamp in the corner—it was all so distinctly her, chaotic yet purposeful.

His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, as though he was about to say more, but then he stepped back, the moment slipping away.

“Goodbye,” he said one more time.

She stayed in the doorway as he walked to his car. The gravel crunched softly under his feet, the sound carrying in the quiet dusk. He opened the driver’s side door, pausing for just a moment before getting in. The headlights flared to life, cutting through the fading light as he started the engine.

Cassie watched as he pulled out of the driveway, the rumble of the car fading as he disappeared down the road. She stayed there long after he was gone, the cold creeping up her arms, her heart still beating a little faster than normal.

When she finally stepped back inside, the warmth of the house felt strange, as though she’d been away for longer than just a moment. She leaned against the door, letting out a slow breath, her thoughts still circling the man who had just left.

Her eyes drifted to the phone on the corner of the room. The list of names was still on her table, waiting for her to take the next step.

For a brief moment, she considered picking up the receiver, calling Sarah, or anyone on that list. But the weight of the decision held her back, the fear of failure keeping her frozen in place.

Declan’s words echoed in her mind: “You made people care.”

She didn’t know if she believed it. Not yet. But the thought lingered, and for now, that was enough.

Enough for her to go to the damn rotary phone and start making her calls.

Rutshire Gazette

Local Radio Dispute Sparks Drama at Crawford’s FM

By Edward Hill

In an unexpected twist during yesterday’s live broadcast, Cassandra Jones, a presenter at Crawford’s FM, took to the airwaves with allegations against station owner Charles Crawford.

Ms. Jones, who recently returned to Rutshire after spending much of her career in Chicago, accused Mr. Crawford of suppressing critical stories in favor of lighter, more commercially viable programming.

Eyewitnesses claim Ms. Jones refused to vacate the studio, reportedly locking herself in for nearly an hour before the police intervened. Sources close to the station describe the incident as “disruptive” and “unprofessional,” with one staff member alleging that Ms. Jones acted “erratically.”

Speaking to the Gazette, Mr. Crawford condemned the incident as a “stunt,” stating: “It’s unfortunate that Ms. Jones felt the need to air grievances in such an inflammatory manner, particularly when we’ve always encouraged an open-door policy for our team. Crawford’s FM prides itself on being a reliable source of entertainment and community news—values clearly lost in Ms. Jones’ actions.”

The details of Ms. Jones’ grievances remain unclear, though snippets from the broadcast suggest dissatisfaction with editorial decisions and claims of mismanagement. The station has confirmed they are pursuing legal action for trespassing and property damage.

Ms. Jones, who was arrested at the scene, declined to comment when approached outside the police station early this morning. However, her outburst has sparked debate among listeners, some of whom have voiced their support. One caller, who wished to remain anonymous, told the Gazette:

"She’s got guts. What she said about the council funds was true. But no one wants to touch it because it’s messy. I say good for her, we need more bloody harriers around here!"

Others, however, have expressed concern over Ms. Jones’ approach, questioning whether such public defiance undermines the credibility of her claims.

For now, the fate of Ms. Jones’ career remains uncertain, with many in the industry speculating whether this incident marks the end of her tenure at Crawford’s FM—or the beginning of something far more contentious.

[killeromanoff]

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | ch. 3

summary: Cassie navigates a haze of alcohol and emotions as she confronts the weight of her past and future decisions.

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Themes of Corruption, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo), Moral conflict, Slow-burn tension, Alcohol Use, Realism in Media Industry, Self-doubting

w.c: 15.7k

[prologue], [chapter one], [chapter two], [here], [chapter four]

o3. Never break the chain

The warmth of Bar Sinister wrapped around Declan the moment he stepped inside, a soft hum of voices and clinking glasses providing the backdrop. The place had a worn-in charm, like an old leather armchair—comfortably familiar yet quietly sophisticated. The light fixtures cast a muted, golden glow, pooling in corners and leaving enough shadows to feel discreet. It was the kind of place where people came to talk, not to be seen.

Declan’s gaze swept the room, scanning for Rupert.

His friend was nowhere to be found, undoubtedly caught up in whatever social entanglement he met in his way. Typical of him. Declan let out a quiet sigh, adjusting his cufflinks—a subconscious habit more than anything.

Then his gaze landed on Bas, comfortably sprawled at a counter near the far corner. The scene was familiar enough: Bas gesturing animatedly, the low light reflecting off the condensation of a half-empty glass at his side. His grin was wide, his loose posture exuding the kind of effortless charm Declan had come to associate with him.

Typical Bas.

At first, Declan had hoped to find Rupert with Bas, since both were joined at the hip.

Where Bas was, usually, Rupert was as well.

However, this time, next to Bas sat a woman, her back to Declan. Again, typical Bas.

At first glance, she didn’t seem remarkable. Dark brown hair, the soft curls catching the light to reveal subtle auburn undertones—spilling over her shoulders, posture relaxed, head tilted backwards as she laughed at something Bas had said to her.

Declan nearly dismissed it as just another encounter for Bas, who had a way of surrounding himself with women who were drawn to his easy humor and magnetic energy. But as the journalist stepped closer, something about the way the woman moved—a slight tilt of her head, a gesture of her hand—nagged at him.

And then her voice reached his ears, carrying over the soft background sound of the bar.

“You know,” she remarked, casually, “you’d make a terrible lawyer. Your evidence is a horse, and your defense strategy is sarcasm.”

Declan halted in his tracks.

That voice.

Recognition struck him like a sudden shock, and everything fell into place. It wasn’t just any woman sitting with Bas—it was Cassie.

Cassie Jones.

The realization sent a strange mix of emotions through him, each one colliding before he could fully process them. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he walked in, but it certainly wasn’t this.

Cassie, in this bar, with Bas—her back to him, her shoulders shaking with laughter—felt as unexpected as it was unnerving.

Declan’s gaze tunneled, focusing on her with newfound intent.

Her chestnut locks cascaded around her face in gentle waves, reflecting the soft golden light from above. Even from behind, she exuded a vibrant energy that drew the eye irresistibly. She leaned in gradually, resting her elbow on the table, her fingers loosely holding her glass as if it anchored her to the moment.

The sharp lines of her black blazer stood out against the cozy ambiance of the bar, yet it felt entirely appropriate. It complemented her persona—elegant and poised, yet with a hint of unpredictability that suggested she could burst into laughter at any moment.

He took a breath, but it didn’t quite steady him.

Bas let out a snort, struggling to suppress a laugh. The sound was unrestrained and familiar, waltzing through the bar with an undercurrent of satisfaction. He was clearly enjoying himself, reveling in the shared amusement between them.

This was Bas at his most infuriating—delightfully irreverent, effortlessly magnetic, and undeniably present. He had a knack for disarming people, creating an intimacy that felt both natural and easy.

It was a skill that Declan admired in theory, but witnessing it unfold with a young woman like Cassie left him unsettled in ways he preferred not to explore.

“A lawyer?” Bas said with another incredulous laugh, his voice loud enough to turn heads, “Please. Too much paperwork. I’d rather keep slinging drinks, making people laugh, and playing polo.”

“Ah, the noble profession of bartending again,” Cassie attempted to suppress another fit of giggles, her tone laced with playful sarcasm, “Defender of soy sauce incidents and peddler of questionable anecdotes.”

“Questionable?” Bas echoed, feigning shock as he clutched his chest, “That story was the highlight of my week.”

Cassie’s laughter rang out again—this time softer, almost reflective—and Declan felt its warmth wash over him before he could rein it in.

For a moment, Declan allowed himself to remain in that space, his eyes locked on her. There was something about the way she leaned in, her fingers lightly grazing the rim of her glass as she absorbed Bas’s reply, that felt... Out of place.

Not because she didn’t belong—if anything, she seamlessly blended into the bar's warm, lived-in ambiance—but because he hadn’t anticipated how effortlessly she could adapt to this relaxed environment.

Across from her, Bas lounged with an infuriating charm that seemed to flow from him like a second language. Declan felt a sharp pang grip him—something instinctual and unsettling. It wasn’t exactly anger; he wasn’t angry at Bas.

How could he be? Bas was simply being himself: witty, disarming, and entirely at ease in captivating an audience.

It was just… Complicated.

Declan’s chest tightened as he watched. There was no real justification for the feeling, just the disquieting realization that seeing Cassie and Bas together—sharing effortless laughter and moving in sync—had stirred something deep within him.

“Oh,” he said with a smooth tone, his voice slicing through the warm stillness of the bar as he paused beside the counter, “I thought Rupert would be here already.”

The words flowed easily, yet he couldn't shake the tightening sensation in his chest as he truly focused on her.

Cassie hadn’t even fully turned to acknowledge him, but he could sense her attention, which was more than he anticipated.

Bas leaned back in his chair, clearly entertained by the unfolding scene.

“Rupert’s at Mrs. Spencer’s gala,” he answered, his tone breezy, “Something about giving someone a ride.”

Declan’s thoughts wandered for a moment. Rupert at the gala.

Mrs. Spencer’s gala was the epitome of a high-society affair—too… Perfect for Rupert. The only thing that would pique his interest was the chance to engage in flirtations with anyone present.

That thought was interrupted briefly as Declan recalled his earlier conversation with Taggie about the ride to the Spencer’s residence. She had insisted she already had a ride, that she didn’t want to disturb him and his plans.

He had assumed—perhaps naively—that Mr. Spencer himself would have come to collect her. What kind of man would allow a woman like her to navigate the night alone, especially during such an extravagant gala?

Declan’s brow furrowed, though his expression remained relaxed as he turned his attention back to the conversation. He allowed a thoughtful hum to leave his lips, careful not to let his thoughts show on his face.

“Taggie’s doing their buffet, isn’t she?” His voice was quieter now, as though speaking more to himself than to them.

The casual question floated into the air between them, but Declan’s mind was elsewhere—focused on Cassie. Because why would he be thinking about her when he has Rupert to worry about?

Perhaps the one glass of whiskey he had treated himself when the show finished wasn’t hitting so well.

She was here with Bas, laughing and chatting with an ease that felt foreign to him. This vibrant side of her was a revelation, making the earlier awkwardness of their interactions fade into the background.

Bas nodded to Declan’s inquiry, which reminded him of his earlier question, a hint of satisfaction creeping into Baddingham's expression. Declan couldn't shake the sensation that he was missing out on something significant.

For the moment, he resolved to set this concern aside, leaving it for a future version of himself to figure out.

Cassie hadn’t turned completely yet, but Declan could feel the air shift the moment he entered the scene. Something was different, but he couldn’t quite place it. Perhaps it was the intensity of his thoughts, or maybe it was the realization that he hadn’t anticipated how much he would want her attention at this moment.

Whatever it was, the energy between them felt charged in a way that hadn't existed before.

“Hi, Cassie,” he said, her name rolling off his tongue with an ease that belied the intent behind it, “I imagine you saw my show tonight.”

Only then, she did finally turn, the motion was cautious, almost reluctant, like she was testing each muscle before committing to the full action. For a moment, he saw her uncertainty—unspoken but undeniable—and then her eyes met his, and everything else in the room seemed to still.

Her dark eyes caught the muted glow of the bar’s lighting, making them seem deeper, more guarded than they had earlier in the day. Her expression was unreadable at first, her lips slightly parted as though she was preparing to say something but couldn’t quite find the words.

Declan felt something stir in his chest—a pull, faint but insistent, that made him want to take a step closer. He resisted the urge, instead letting his gaze linger, unhurried, as if taking in every detail of her.

Her blazer was sharper up close, well-fitted but rumpled, suggesting she’d thrown it on in a hurry. The fade flush in her cheeks, still warm from the bar’s heat made her seem almost vulnerable. Almost.

Because if there was something that Cassie Jones wasn’t, that was that: vulnerable. She could show vulnerability, but she wasn’t one to let it define her.

He smiled, just enough to break the edge of the silence between them. It wasn’t a smirk—he knew better than to wield arrogance here—but it was self-assured.

And there it was, that subtle shift in her gaze, the telltale sign of someone trying too hard to appear unaffected. It was temporary, but he caught it, and it sent a flicker of satisfaction through him.

She held his gaze longer than he’d expected, her expression settling into something closer to defiance than uncertainty. Declan found himself appreciating the fire there, the way she refused to back down despite the tension thickening between them.

“Yes, it was… Thorough,” she replied, dismissing the tension that had lingered in her silence until she spoke.

Declan raised an eyebrow, and although he held back his reaction, he felt the sting of her understatement. Thorough? He might have laughed if he weren't slightly offended.

“Thorough,” Declan echoed, his brow lifting as if feigning offense, “I’ll take that as your version of a compliment.”

She shrugged, “Don’t get used to it.”

Bas’s laughter cut through the moment, a snort of genuine amusement as his gaze darted between the two of them. Grinning, he turned back toward the bar and began assembling Declan’s usual drink with the ease of someone who knew the routine by heart.

“Don’t listen to her,” Bas said, handing the glass to Declan with a flourish, “You should have seen her face when you said her name on television.”

Declan raised an eyebrow, intrigued, just as Cassie snapped her head toward Bas, her eyes wide in protest.

“Shut up, will you?” she shot at him, narrowing her gaze as she pointed a finger in warning.

Bas, ever the provocateur, pouted dramatically, though his grin threatened to spill over at any second.

“Sorry, American,” he said with exaggerated politeness, “I just take orders from true British.”

Declan stood silently for a beat, his drink untouched in his hand. Watching them interact, the playful rhythm of their words, the easy way they occupied the space around each other—it struck him in a way he wasn’t prepared for.

“Don’t you dare,” Cassie shot back, leaning closer, her voice sharp with faux outrage, “I was born in London, Bas. We’ve been over this!”

When he had first entered the bar and his gaze landed on them—Cassie laughing, Bas leaning closer with that mischievous grin… Something about their ease, the natural rhythm of their interaction, had snagged in his mind for just a moment.

But now, as he watched Cassie half-climb over the counter in mock outrage, her sharp retort cutting through Bas’s exaggerated pouting, whatever thought he had felt absurd.

They weren’t flirting. It was too careless, too playful—siblings bickering over nothing at all… And anyway, of course, they weren’t. If anything, they were squabbling like siblings over a childhood rivalry, their teasing lighthearted but relentless.

Still, the thought lingered in the back of his mind, refusing to fully dissipate. And even if they were?

Declan’s fingers brushed the edge of his glass, grounding himself as he let the moment play out. Whatever had crossed his mind before, it was irrelevant now. It didn’t matter. And even if it did—well, that wasn’t something he intended to examine further.

“Good to know you’ve sorted out your identity crisis,” he spoke up, trying to soothe the tension off of his shoulders.

Cassie turned her attention to him, her eyes narrowing, though the amusement still lingered in her expression. Bas, meanwhile, sat back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

“Don’t mind Declan,” Bas said to Cassie, raising his glass in an exaggerated toast, “He’s just grumpy because he missed the part where you glared at the television like it owed you money.”

Cassie groaned, dragging a hand down her face, “Bas, I swear to God—”

Bas chuckled to himself, clearly enjoying the scene, but Declan’s attention was still focused on Cassie. Despite the playful banter, something about the way she held herself, the sharpness in her eyes, intrigued him. Her guard was still up, but it felt different now. More like she was sparring with them for sport, her quick wit and retorts keeping everything at arm's length.

Declan let the silence hang for a moment, watching her as she settled back into her seat, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. It wasn’t an easy thing to hold her attention—he knew that much.

He cleared his throat, his voice softer this time, though still with the weight of the question.

“So, what did you think of the show?”

Don’t say thorough again, he almost whispered to himself.

Cassie hesitated, her fingers drumming lightly against the counter, her eyes shifting to her drink before finally meeting his gaze.

“You gave me my story back,” she said quietly, her eyes darting away to the content in her glass. Yet, Declan got a glimpse of the corners of her lips lifting, “My allegations. My accusations. You didn’t just… You credited me.”

A small smile tugged at the corner of Declan’s mouth, though he kept it restrained. He hadn’t expected to feel this... satisfied. There was something about hearing her say it that felt more than just a professional acknowledgment. It felt personal.

The past thirty minutes—Cameron’s scolding for not telling her about the section of the interview that had been planned—seemed far less important at that moment. It was all worth it.

The satisfaction from seeing her smile, from catching the brief flicker of recognition in her eyes when she’d looked at him again? That made the whole thing feel meaningful. Real.

“It was your work, Cassie,” he said simply, “It deserved to be heard the way you intended it. Besides,” he added with a smile, “I told you, I like your work. It’s sharp. Honest. You deserve the credit.”

Cassie blinked, her gaze flickering away again, and for a brief moment, Declan wondered if he had said too much. Her fingers tightened around her glass, and then the quiet stretched out between them. It wasn’t uncomfortable, exactly, but it was different—he could feel the space between them heavier than it had been moments before.

Declan watched her, trying to read the change in her, the way she seemed to retreat inward. Her face was still, but there was a tension in her posture, a thought she hadn’t voiced yet but that she was wrestling with all the same.

Bas, ever the disruptor, broke the quiet with a grin and raised his glass in a mock toast.

“Which is exactly why you should join Venturer,” he said with ease, as though it were the most obvious conclusion in the world.

Cassie widened her eyes at Bas, pausing just a moment longer than expected. For a brief second, Declan caught the glint of an unspoken question in her gaze, a hesitation she hadn’t voiced but that was plain to see. And plain it was, it wasn’t difficult to see what was storming her mind again.

Bas leaned in, his voice shifting to a more persuasive tone as he continued, “You’ve got a lot to offer, Cassie. This isn’t about diving in headfirst. It’s about giving you a platform. Venturer is where you could take the next step.”

Declan kept his focus on her as he added, “It’s not about the show or the spotlight. It’s about the stories you’ve been telling—the stories that deserve to be heard. We’re just offering the chance to help amplify them.”

Cassie’s eyes moved from one of them to the other, but she didn’t immediately respond. Declan noticed how her brows furrowed, her focus distant as she turned over their words. She wasn’t sure, not yet, but she was listening.

After a beat, she exhaled, her gaze lifting again, this time fixated on a spot behind Bas, as if she was looking for an answer elsewhere.

“What exactly would you want me to do there?” she asked quietly, as though she had already begun to weigh her options in her mind, “At Venturer?”

Declan didn’t hesitate. He leaned forward just enough to meet her eyes directly.

“I want you as my co-host,” The words slipped out before he had fully considered them.

Had he ever discussed this with anyone? He tried to remember—perhaps Freddie and Rupert, months ago, when the idea of a co-host had first come up.

They had all agreed that it would only make sense if they found someone who could match the dynamic of the show, but no one felt right. They’d searched for weeks, but no name had emerged, not one that made Declan feel this level of certainty.

He remembered Freddie saying something about making calls, but the woman he had thought of already had a job in radio—an obstacle at the time. Who would have guessed that the right person, the one he’d been unknowingly searching for, was sitting right in front of him?

The woman working at a radio, huh?

Declan’s mind shifted as he considered the situation now.

Cameron, of course, would have to sign off on this. They couldn’t move forward without her approval, and there was always the politics to manage.

Still, the thought of Cassie in that role felt more fitting than he had anticipated. Maybe it wasn’t just about the show. Maybe it was about giving her a platform, the one she deserved.

He’d handle Cameron later. He’d manage that as it came.

Declan focused back on Cassie, waiting for her response.

When she finally spoke, it was with a quiet certainty.

“I can’t be a co-host,” she said, shaking her head in a way that seemed to emphasize her decision. Her eyes briefly skimmed over his face, reading his reaction, but she didn’t hold her look too long—just enough to gauge him before continuing, “Not in a show that’s already built on your name. Your brand. That’s not where I fit.”

Declan understood, he had suspected as much, but hearing her articulate it only solidified what he had already sensed. It wasn’t about her not wanting to be a part of the show; it was about not losing herself in something that wasn’t truly hers. He admired that.

Bas, noticing the shift in the conversation, raised an eyebrow but kept quiet, waiting for Declan to respond.

Declan let the silence stretch for a moment, letting Cassie’s words sit between them. He could see the wheels turning behind her eyes, her thoughts still moving beneath the surface. And when she spoke again, her voice was calmer, more considered.

“Let’s say I accept,” she said, the decision still heavy on the tip of her tongue, though she was clearly still pondering, “What I’m offering—” she gave a small pause, underscoring the seriousness of her consideration, “Is to be part of the show, but in a way that makes sense for me. Maybe a segment. A smaller part, where I can bring in the stories I’ve been chasing. The cases I’m working with. That’s where I can make the biggest difference.”

Declan absorbed her words carefully, his expression thoughtful. The idea of a segment, a piece of the show that felt more organic to her… Made sense. It wasn’t about pushing her into something that wasn’t right—it was about finding the right space for her to thrive.

His mind raced for a moment, considering how this could fit.

“A segment. We can do that,” he nodded, a slight smile playing in his lips, “Your stories. Your voice. That’s what this is about.”

Cassie’s fingers resumed their quiet drumming on the glass, her gaze lowering for a moment as she mulled over the next words. Declan observed her closely, watching the way her fingers moved—rhythmic, methodical. It wasn’t a nervous gesture, but something deliberate, as though she was laying the foundation for her next move.

The final pieces of the puzzle were clearly clicking into place in her mind, and Declan could almost hear the thoughts running through her head.

When Cassie spoke again, her voice was more casual, the tension easing from her shoulders. But even in this more relaxed tone, there was an undeniable practicality that struck him.

“And when I’m not on screen,” she said, her eyes meeting him briefly, “I want to be part of the production side. Camera work. Editing. Anything that gives me hands-on experience. I’ve got bills to pay and if I’m going to do this, I want to understand every angle.”

Declan blinked, his lips pressed in a thin line as his mind processed her words quickly. There was no hesitation now, no reluctance in her tone. She knew what she wanted and wasn’t afraid to ask for it.

Cassie wasn’t interested in just being a figurehead, a talking head for a show. She wanted to be in the trenches, learning the ropes, understanding the mechanics of the industry. The way she expressed it—so grounded, so aware of the realities—made something in Declan click.

Bas grinned, clearly impressed.

“Practical and resourceful,” His tone was light, but Declan could sense the respect in his words, “You always surprise me, Jones.”

Cassie shot Bas a small, pointed look, but it wasn’t one of amusement. The smile that had briefly touched her lips faded quickly, replaced by that same determined expression.

“If I’m doing this, I’m not just here to be a pretty face. I want to learn.”

She wasn’t the type to hide behind vague promises or false humility. She was real, grounded. She wanted to be more than a figure in front of a camera, and that was exactly why she was the right fit for what they were trying to build.

Declan studied her, taking in the quiet confidence she exuded. Her eyes weren’t just steady—they were attentive, measuring everything around her, and there was an underlying fire in them that he couldn’t ignore. She wasn’t one to settle for the obvious answers. Her posture, too, was a study in balance—leaning forward just enough to show interest, but never fully giving herself away.

It was an energy that kept him guessing, but in the best way possible.

And for someone like Declan, with his own history in this world of media and public image, he knew exactly the kind of woman she was.

Someone who didn’t rely on the glitz of the industry, but on something real. Something genuine. That was what set her apart. That’s what would make her the perfect fit for the kind of thing they were building here.

He didn’t have the words for it. He simply watched her, knowing that this was the kind of woman who always had an edge—a razor-sharp focus on the things that mattered.

There’s the fighter, he thought, and that thought brought a small, involuntary smile to his lips.

“So?” he said, his voice still calm, a subtle nudge, but with no urgency, “What’s next?”

Because, of course, a young woman like her would have a third condition.

Cassie’s eyes softened, just the smallest trace of vulnerability appearing before she masked it again, her lips pressing into a thin line. Declan saw it, but he didn’t press.

This wasn’t a moment to rush. She was measuring her response, and that was fine with him.

“Third condition,” there was no hesitation this time, but Declan noticed the way she settled into the words, almost as though she had prepared for this moment, “I want to talk to my uncle before anything final happens.”

Declan didn’t miss the subtle emphasis she put on ‘talk’—she wasn’t asking for permission, but she was looking for a conversation. And that made sense. Cassie’s relationship with her uncle was important, and he understood the need to clear things with him first.

For a second, he wouldn’t lie, he forgot she was Freddie’s niece. Yes, they had some similarities in appearances: brownish hair and brown eyes. But, despite that? Two different people entirely.

Bas glanced at Declan, and Declan gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.

“Of course. No one’s rushing you,” Bas said, his voice filled with that easy, knowing tone.

Declan allowed himself a smile, a little quieter now.

That mattered more than he wanted to admit, it made every minute listening to Cameron’s lecture worthier than ever.

“I wish Rupert were here,” Declan chuckled as he thought about his friend, leaning back a little, “It would be nice to get his approval on this. At least then we’d know you’re already part of the team. Since, obviously, Freddie would agree.”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, a touch of amusement breaking through her previously serious expression.

“You think he’d just approve it like that? Rupert?”

Declan’s grin was small but genuine. There was something apologetic in the way he held her gaze, as if admitting that… Yes, I am that confident.

“If anyone could, it’d be him. But we can wait. Just know, when you’re ready, you’ve got a place here.”

“Wait a second,” Bas said suddenly, rising from his seat and turning to rummage behind the counter.

“I didn’t even say yes,” Cassie said with a frown, watching her friend shuffle behind the bar, his movements purposeful.

After a moment, Bas emerged with a bottle, his grin wide.

“That’s the only time I’ve seen you really consider it,” he said, pulling out two glasses from behind the bar, “You know, Declan? Me and Freddie have been trying to get her to even think about this since she moved in.”

“Really?” Declan asked, his voice tinged with a mischievous as he leaned forward, never taking his eyes off Cassie.

She shot him a look, brows raised, as though silently asking if he was being serious.

He was.

And there was something about hearing Bas’s words, seeing Cassie’s expression shift just a little, that made Declan feel a sense of quiet victory.

It wasn’t just about the idea of her joining the show anymore—it was about seeing her consider it, seeing her mind working through the possibilities. To think that the things she had been working on, her stories, could have more power, more reach... He couldn’t deny the warmth that spread through him at the thought.

To him, her name deserved to carry weight—more weight than any of the fears she still held about the public eye. Cassie’s work deserved to be heard on a broader scale, and the possibility of that, of seeing her stories unfold the way they were meant to, made his heart settle into something easier.

Bas placed the bottle on the counter with a thud, his grin widening as he poured a generous measure into three glasses. The amber liquid caught the dim light of the bar, casting golden reflections that danced on the polished surface. Cassie watched the liquid swirl, her thoughts tangling like the intricate play of light and shadow before her.

“Here’s to bad ideas,” Bas declared, raising his glass high.

Cassie smirked, shaking her head as she reluctantly took her glass. Declan, seated across from her, mirrored Bas’s motion, though his movement was slower. His eyes strayed to her, a quiet idea strangling his thoughts.

“To bad ideas,” Declan whispered, raising his own glass.

“To bad ideas,” Cassie echoed, clinking her glass against theirs. The first sip was smooth, warm, leaving a faint burn as it settled, but the growing warmth in her chest wasn’t just from the whiskey.

The conversation drifted, light and meandering, as the three of them settled into an easy rhythm. Declan’s usual formality seemed to loosen with each drink, his laugh becoming more frequent, more unrestrained. Bas, ever the raconteur, regaled them with one ridiculous story after another, his words punctuated by grand gestures that had both Cassie and Declan chuckling into their glasses.

“You should’ve seen the look on Freddie’s face when that happened,” Bas said, his grin infectious, “He was stuck between being horrified and thoroughly impressed.”

Cassie shook her head, her laughter spilling out despite herself, “Freddie’s tolerance for you must be superhuman.”

Bas placed a hand over his chest, feigning offense.

“I’ll have you know, he secretly adores me. I’m the chaos he never knew he needed.”

“I’d love to see how he’d frame that argument,” Declan chuckled, his voice tinged with genuine amusement.

As the laughter died down, Bas leaned back, swirling the whiskey in his glass thoughtfully. A sly thought passed though his mind as he glanced at Declan.

“Speaking of Freddie,” he began, deceptively casual, “he’s at Mrs. Spencer’s gala tonight. Valerie was invited too.”

Declan’s posture stiffened imperceptibly, though his smile remained intact.

“Is that so?” he said evenly, taking another sip from his glass, “Makes sense. It’s exactly the kind of event she’d enjoy.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, his grin widening knowingly.

“And Taggie’s catering for them, isn’t she? Wonder if she’s getting a ride home from Mr. Spencer himself back to your house.”

The offhand comment hit its mark precisely, Bas ever the player.

Declan’s grip on his glass tightened, and though he let out a soft laugh, it was edged with something uneasy.

The thought was absurd, of course. Mr. Spencer was kind-hearted and unassuming—a man who wouldn’t hesitate to ensure Taggie’s evening went smoothly. Still, Bas’s remark nudged at an earlier suspicion that had already fogged Declan’s mind.

Rupert at the gala, “being someone’s ride” as Bas had mentioned—what had that even meant?

Declan cleared his throat, brushing the errant thought aside.

“I was actually thinking of swinging by,” he said, the words slipping out before he could reconsider, “If only to give her a ride home. Save her from any... Unnecessary chivalry.”

Both Cassie and Bas turned to him in unison, their expressions mirrors of surprise, though Bas’s quickly shifted into a smirk.

“Unnecessary?” Cassie’s voice was teasing lilt as she tilted her head, “Sounds like you’re volunteering yourself to rescue some damsel. Isn’t Taggie your daughter?”

Declan sighed, a tired smile tugging at his lips, “Let’s just say I prefer to ensure she gets home safe.”

Bas chuckled, pouring another round.

“Well, I’m staying put,” he said, topping off Declan’s glass before sliding it back toward him, “The bar won’t run itself. But you,” he added, nodding toward Cassie, “should definitely go. Give him some company.”

Cassie blinked, clearly caught off guard, “Me? Why me?”

Declan raised an eyebrow at Bas, mirroring Cassie’s confusion. The whiskey in his glass swirled as he considered whether two a little too drunk individuals driving to a gala was even remotely a good idea.

His logical side screamed no, but the alcohol softened that resolve.

“Are you with your car?” Declan asked Cassie directly.

She shook her head, almost sheepishly.

“No. Baz dragged me out earlier,” she said, pointing at the olive-skinned man who looked far too smug for his own good, “He’s been playing chauffeur lately. Friend of the year, clearly.”

“Only when Rupert’s not around,” Bas quipped with a grin, the comment laced with purposeful provocation.

Cassie rolled her eyes, though a small smile tugged at her lips.

“Don’t flatter yourself, Bas. You’re just lucky I don’t charge you for putting up with your nonsense.”

The banter between them flowed easily, their sharp words softened by the undercurrent of camaraderie. Declan watched the exchange, bemused. There was something refreshing in their dynamic, the way Cassie’s sharp wit met Bas’s playful arrogance in a clash that was more rhythm than conflict.

As the banter went, for some reason Declan couldn’t quite understand, now they were arguing about horse riding.

British people and their fascination with horses…

“Sorry if I don’t have time for playdates with Jester and the other aristocratic ponies in the evenings,” Cassie shot back, her tone mock-serious.

“Unemployed for now,” he commented nonchalantly to his and Cassie’s banter, “Guess you’ve got all the time in the world for riding lessons for a while.”

“Piss off, you daft git,” Cassie shot back, it was hard to discern if it was faux anger or not.

Bas doubled over with laughter, nearly spilling his drink.

“Oh, now that’s rich!” he exclaimed, wiping a tear from the corner of his eye, “Full-on British, eh? Should I even ask who corrupted you so thoroughly?”

Cassie raised an eyebrow, the glint in her eyes pure mischief, “Do you really want to know? Because yesterday, your fath—”

Before their banter could spiral further, Bas pivoted smoothly, clinking his glass against Declan’s, “So-ooo, what’s the verdict, O’Hara? Gala or no gala?”

“Coward,” she said, faking a cough, her words aimed squarely at Bas.

Bas threw his hands up dramatically, leaning back in his chair.

“I’m a bartender, love, not a chauffeur. I know where my responsibilities end.”

“Oh yes,” she muttered, swirling the remnants of her drink, “I am talking about that convenience, not the previous one.”

Declan hesitated, brushing his mustache as he thought about it, his eyes slowly and lazily moving to Cassie. The bar’s golden glow caught in her hair, illuminating the soft waves that framed her face.

She was different here—lighter, freer. It was a side of her he hadn’t quite seen yet, and for reasons he couldn’t name, he found himself drawn to it. There was something magnetic about the way she wielded her wit, sharp yet never cruel, like a blade meant for dueling, not wounding.

There was something about her presence that made the idea of the whole ride less daunting.

Or perhaps it was just his mind, in a tipsy and peculiar way, trying to justify the desire to see Cassie in a different light, in a more uplifting atmosphere.

“I will pass by,” he mumbled, “And if you’re tagging along,” he added, meeting Cassie’s eyes, “you might as well meet your uncle there.”

Cassie arched an eyebrow, clearly skeptical.

“Meet my uncle? At a gala full of pretentious twats in overpriced suits? Sounds delightful.”

Bas snorted into his drink, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

“If Freddie’s there, you can have your talk with him.”

Cassie groaned, dragging her hand down her face in exaggerated frustration. It wasn’t that she agreed with Bas—far from it. She simply didn’t have the energy to argue anymore. Her day had been draining enough without adding another verbal sparring match to the list.

“Fine,” she relented, “But don’t expect me to mingle. I’ll be your shadow, nothing more.”

Declan, who had been quietly observing the back-and-forth, allowed a small smile to break through, “Deal.”

Bas, sensing his moment, leaned forward with his glass raised high. His grin widened into something bordering on wicked mischief.

“To Cassie Jones, stepping into the lion’s den. Godspeed.”

Was he referring to going to a gala she wouldn’t even get into or Venturer? By Cassie’s face, she didn’t know which was worse.

“To the Bloody Harrier!” Declan added, lifting his glass in agreement, the nickname slipping out almost too easily.

Cassie rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide the smirk tugging at her lips.

“More like dragging me into it,” she muttered as she clinked her glass against theirs.

The whiskey burned slightly less this time, the warmth spreading through her chest in a way that felt oddly comforting.

Despite her outward reluctance, resolve burned quietly beneath the surface. She had made up her mind long before they’d goaded her into it.

She tilted her glass back, finishing the last sip before setting it down with a thud. It wasn’t hesitation that had her drinking more than she should tonight; it was certainty—an attempt to drown out the anxiety that always came with choices like this.

Declan had noticed it all from the first sip. He could see the gears turning in her mind, the quiet battle she waged with herself, but he didn’t comment. Instead, he downed the rest of his drink, the burn grounding him as he rose from his seat.

“Well then,” he said, grabbing his coat and motioning toward the door, “shall we?”

Bas, still lounging comfortably in his chair, raised his glass in a mock salute.

“Try not to scare the posh ones too much if you find one of them, Harrier,” he teased, “They’re not used to someone who actually speaks their mind.”

Cassie smirked, tossing her scarf over her shoulder as she headed for the door.

“I am going there to talk with my uncle, not for the gala,” she shot over her shoulder, her tone light besides the playfulness in it, “And tell your father to not wait up.”

She also ignored the obscene gesture that Bas threw at her as she and Declan made their way out of the bar, the journalist laughing by her side.

As the bar door swung shut behind them, the crisp night air enveloped them, carrying with it the faint scent of rain and the earthy tang of distant foliage. Cassie shivered, the combination of the cool breeze and the lingering warmth of whiskey creating a pleasant contradiction in her chest. She pulled her scarf tighter around her neck, her eyes briefly meeting Declan’s.

The night felt quieter than it should have, the distant traffic barely audible over the weight of shared laughter still hanging in the air. Declan adjusted his coat, his fingers brushing the lapels as his mind caught up to the absurdity of his idea.

Why had he thought this was a good plan? Bringing Cassie along to the gala on a whim felt reckless, even by his occasionally impulsive standards. His chest rose with a deep breath, an attempt to ground himself, but his gaze drifted toward Cassie.

Her cheeks were tinged pink, likely from both the whiskey and the chill, and her steps had that subtle looseness that hinted at her being just tipsy enough to consider something like this entertaining. Her hair, illuminated under the glow of the streetlight, framed her face in soft, tousled waves. She didn’t seem like someone who’d jump at the chance to crash a society event sober, but tonight?

Tonight, she wasn’t sober.

Declan’s lips turned up despite himself. There was something about her presence that felt grounding and yet entirely unpredictable—a combination that, oddly, made his chest relax.

He couldn’t explain it, not fully. Maybe it was the way her wit cut through his occasional self-seriousness, or perhaps it was vulnerability she didn’t bother to mask. Whatever it was, it brought a strange sense of ease to his otherwise tightly-wound existence, like an unexpected breeze cutting through a stifling room.

Still, the logical part of his brain—a singular sober cell stubbornly clinging to coherence—questioned every piece of this plan.

And yet, another part of him. Whether it was the whiskey or the strange clarity that came with her company—countered with an unapologetic, why not?

A shiver passed through Cassie, pulling him from his thoughts. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, but the chill of the night seemed persistent. Without a second thought, Declan slipped his navy coat from his shoulders—the same one he’d worn during the broadcast—and draped it over hers.

Her brows lifted immediately, surprise painted across her face. She turned to face him and opened her mouth, perhaps to reject the gesture, but before the words could form, her eyes found his and then… The moment settled around them like the hush before a storm.

Their eyes met, lingering longer than either had anticipated, as if a know was being tied between the gazes.

Her eyes held his, searching, curious, and for a fraction of a second, the air between them seemed to thrum with something unnamed. Declan felt his pulse quicken—not in the way it did during a heated debate or an impassioned broadcast, but with a subtle, disarming intensity he hadn’t anticipated.

And then Cassie looked away.

Darting her eyes downward, adjusting the coat on her shoulders as though to busy herself. The spell was broken, leaving Declan standing there.

Suddenly and inexplicably aware of his own actions.

What had possessed him to do that? It was nothing—just a small kindness in the face of the cold. Yet, he couldn’t shake the strange feeling that tugged at the corners of his thoughts.

He refused to entertain the notion further. It was foolishness, plain and simple.

Cassie was Freddie’s niece, a talented journalist, someone he deeply admired professionally. There was no room for anything else, no matter how fleeting or innocent the thought.

Anything? Who had said anything? No one, of course. There wasn’t even a sign of conversation—just the rustle of the wind and the muffled hum of distant traffic.

There was nothing happening here.

No lingering tension, no unspoken understanding, no room for any of those... Passing thoughts that had crossed his mind. And certainly no reason for him to be standing there, feeling like the stillness between them was suddenly louder than it should be.

Declan cleared his throat, brushing the moment aside with the kind of practiced ease that only years of navigating sharp interviews and high-stakes debates could provide. His hand gestured toward the street ahead, the movement casual.

“Let’s go then, huh?”

Cassie didn’t respond immediately. She adjusted the coat one more time before offering him a faint, lopsided smile—one that didn’t betray whatever she might have been thinking.

“Lead the way, Declan.”

That glint in her eyes—it wasn’t mischief exactly, but it wasn’t far from it either. Whatever it was, it left him more unsettled than he cared to admit.

It wasn’t unease, not entirely. It was curiosity.

Wasn't it?

The sound of the car engine filled the quiet moments between their words, a steady undercurrent that matched the rhythm of the tires rolling over the asphalt. Declan’s hands rested on the steering wheel with a practiced ease, though his mind was anything but still. Beside him, Cassie reclined lazily, her head tilted toward the window, the streetlights casting fleeting patterns on her face.

It was the kind of quiet he might have found calming on any other night, but tonight, it felt alive with tension—unspoken words and half-formed thoughts swirling between them.

He almost didn’t notice it at first, the faint murmur of her voice rising above the hum of the car. It wasn’t until she started mumbling along to Blondie’s War Child that he realized she was singing—or, at least, trying to.

The corner of his mouth twitched upward, and for a fleeting moment, he let himself watch her out of the corner of his eye. She was too drunk to be coherent but not drunk enough to lose her rhythm entirely. It was... Endearing, in a way he hadn’t expected.

By the time London Calling by The Clash began to play, she had stopped singing and settled into an amused silence, her fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of his coat.

“You don’t do this often, do you?” she said suddenly, her voice breaking through the quiet.

“What?” Declan glanced at her, catching the flicker of her eyes in the dim light.

“Driving drunk journalists around Rutshire,” she said, a sly smirk playing on her lips.

He chuckled low, shaking his head, “Can’t say it’s part of my usual routine.”

“Didn’t think so,” she replied, her tone softening. Her fingers stopped their idle tracing, coming to rest on her lap, “You’re too... I don’t know. Controlled? Like you’ve got a vice grip on everything—your work, your life...”

Declan raised an eyebrow, half amused, half wary, “Is that so?”

Was she the same young woman he had encountered roughly... Let’s see, nearly 13 hours ago? Now he grasped how individuals typically felt when he scrutinized them. Bloody journalists, eh?

She shrugged and redirected her attention to the window.

“It’s not a bad thing,” she said after a pause, “It’s just... Heavy. On television, at least, it’s how you look but now… You look more human.

Declan’s lips parted as though to respond, but the words caught somewhere between his thoughts and his tongue. He couldn’t tell if it was the whiskey clouding his mind or the way her words seemed to cut through the fog and hit something raw.

“I don’t think it’s as easy as you make it sound,” his voice quieter now.

“That sounds unusual,” Cassie commented, lifting a brow, “Today, you’ve been the one making everything sound easy.”

A soft laugh escaped him, surprising even himself.

“Touché,” he said, shaking his head, bemused by her candor, “I suppose I walked right into that one.”

Cassie didn’t immediately reply, her gaze trailing out the window as the landscape blurred by. There was something contemplative in her expression, a quiet gravity that hadn’t been there before.

The radio continued to play softly in the background—a low thread that filled the gaps between their words. For once, Declan welcomed its presence, it gave him something to focus on other than the knot in his chest or the way her words seemed to echo louder than the music.

“You’re different than I expected,” she remarked once more, shattering the quiet. This time, her voice was gentler, tinged with uncertainty. "On television, you appear... So grand, almost unreachable. But here... You’re simply a father going to a gala, anxious to take his daughter home because he cares for her."

Declan’s grip on the steering wheel faltered, his knuckles shifting pale against the leather.

“I suppose that’s the danger of screens,” he murmured, glancing briefly at her, “They magnify what you want people to see and blur the rest.”

The words hung between them, heavier than he intended.

He regretted saying that. Not only because usually it was a thought he kept for himself but also for reminding that it was that the thing that Cassie had said that terrified her. He expected her to recoil, to retreat into her own thoughts as he had unintentionally circled back to her fears of being seen.

Instead, Cassie tilted her head, studying him for a moment before turning back to the window.

“Or maybe you’re just better at hiding than most.”

Okay, that was a surprise.

Declan didn’t respond, though her words echoed in his mind.

Hiding. It wasn’t entirely untrue, was it? How much of his life had been spent crafting a version of himself that fit the narrative, that could carry the weight of expectations without buckling?

Despite him always wanting to be his true self in the screens, it was impossible to not create another self for the audience, to the guests. Someone more humble, more in control of the situation, more certain.

But here, in this car, with her, the mask felt thinner somehow, as if her presence had a way of peeling back the layers he had built.

Cassie shifted in her seat, drawing the coat closer around her shoulders.

“Does this ever get you tired?” Cassie asked, her voice sounding casual, but there was a thread of sincerity beneath it that caught Declan’s attention. “It looks... Draining.”

Declan glanced at her, the question catching him mid-thought. He knew why she was asking, and could hear the echoes of her own struggles in the question.

Her drunkenness hadn’t dulled her insight—it had sharpened it, like a lens focusing on things she might not have addressed sober. And deep down, Declan understood why.

Almost everyone in their world knew about the tragic death of Matthew Jones, the celebrated journalist and Cassie’s father. Freddie had shared details in private over the months, filling in the gaps about the fallout that followed, the relentless media circus, and how it shaped his life at the time—as Matthew’s brother.

Declan imagined it had reshaped Cassie’s as well. It was not for nothing that she was asking.

“All the time,” he admitted quietly, surprising himself with the honesty in his voice.

Cassie nodded slowly, her gaze dropping to her hands resting in her lap. There was no triumph in her expression, no sense of having “won” something from him. Instead, her silence carried a kind of understanding that was oddly comforting. It wasn’t pity—it was recognition.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The steady hum of the engine filled the space, accompanied by the faint, familiar strains of the radio.

“You don’t have to answer,” she murmured, her voice gentler now and out of the sudden once again, “But when you’re not on screen, not on show—who are you?”

Declan didn’t react right away, his hands adjusting on the wheel as if grounding himself in the present. Her question persisted in his mind, not just in the car but in the corners of his mind, where the answers felt messy and uncertain.

“I think that’s the problem,” he wondered, his voice laced with self-awareness, “I’m not sure I know anymore.”

His own honesty surprised him… Again.

The road ahead was nearly empty, the soft glow of the gala’s lights appearing faintly on the horizon. Still, the journey felt oddly suspended in time, as though this moment in the car existed in a space separate from the reality waiting for them.

Declan exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible over the low hum of the engine.

Cassie’s question echoed in his mind, repeating again and again, threading itself through his thoughts.

For years, he had been the face of authority, the man people turned to for clarity in chaos. On screen, he was sharp and controlled, always ready with the perfect retort or the incisive question. But off-screen? The man behind the polished veneer?

He wasn’t sure he’d known that man in years.

The divorce papers from Maud had stripped away more than just their marriage—they had exposed the hollowness in parts of his life he thought were solid. He’d once imagined a future filled with quiet evenings, the warmth of family anchoring him.

He’d pictured Taggie, Caitlin, and Patrick coming home to a full house, their laughter bouncing off walls unburdened by the ghosts of his failures. But those dreams had dissolved into something messier and far lonelier.

Even the moments he had hoped to share with Maud—their plans for simpler times, away from the cameras and schedules once they were old enough to have grandchildren—had slipped through his fingers like sand, leaving behind only the ache of what could have been.

And then there was Taggie herself. Slipping through his grasp in ways he couldn’t fully define, like trying to hold on to water. He had always prided himself on their closeness, on the way she used to confide in him as a child. But now, there were signs he couldn’t ignore. The easy rapport she seemed to have with Rupert—was she confiding in him more than her own father?

Did she see him, her father, as the man he tried to be on TV or the one who fell short in real life?

Declan glanced at Cassie again. She wasn’t like anyone else in his orbit. She wasn’t asking him to perform or expecting him to have all the answers.

Her frankness, her willingness to sit in the discomfort of not knowing, felt... Disarming. Specifically when she was drunk.

He could only imagine that all these questions she had once made in her mind while they talked in the afternoon or after.

“You’re a strange one, Cassie,” he said, the faintest trace of a smile pulling at his lips.

She opened one eye, regarding him with mock suspicion, “Strange good or strange bad?”

“Just... Strange,” he replied, not knowing himself the right answer.

“I’ll take it,” Cassie snorted softly, closing her eyes again as if content to let the moment drift, “Guess I, myself, walked right into that one. Sorry if I said something stupid, I’m not exactly thinking straight.”

Declan chuckled under his breath, shaking his head as he turned his eyes back to the road.

“You’ve got an interesting way of apologizing, I’ll give you that.”

Cassie let out a quiet breath, a soft, unexpected chuckle escaping her as she absorbed something Declan had said. It was different from her usual sharp humor—lighter, more relaxed, as though the weight of her thoughts had loosened just a little as her head lolled against the seat.

“It’s a gift,” she mumbled, though her voice had lost some of its earlier edge, softening into something more reflective, drowned in the dizziness, “Maybe I’ll regret this tomorrow. Maybe not.”

“Regret what exactly?” Declan asked, glancing her way again.

She exhaled deeply, the sound filling the car as she stared out the window, almost as though the passing lights could help her figure out the answer. 

“Saying things like... Like that.” She gestured vaguely, her words slurring, “Asking questions. About you. About screens. About all this... Stuff that probably isn’t my business.”

The car slowed as they approached a turn, the glow of the gala lights becoming visible in the distance.

“You ask because you care,” he managed the words out, trying to soothe the moment, “Not because you’re trying to pry. There’s a difference, there is no need for an apology, truly.”

Cassie opened her eyes at that, turning her head to look at him properly, “That’s very diplomatic of you, Declan. How very on-brand.”

Declan’s laugh came easily this time, less guarded than before, “I’ve been accused of worse.”

The car fell silent again, though it wasn’t uncomfortable. Cassie leaned her head back, only a moment later laughing at the joke. For what it seemed, it took her sometime to realize what he meant.

“You know,” she commented, “My dad... He never talked about this stuff. About what it meant to be public. To have people look at you like you’re more than you are. Or less.”

Declan’s grip on the wheel shifted, his attention still on the road. He didn’t interrupt her, sensing there was more.

“I think he thought if he didn’t talk about it, he could shield me from it. Like if he just kept me out of the spotlight, none of it would touch me. But it did. It always does.”

Her voice trailed off, and for a moment, the only sound was the faint sound of the engine and the muted music from the radio.

Declan took a deep breath, considering his words carefully, “It’s not easy, being seen like that. Or knowing people will judge you for things they don’t even understand.”

Cassie nodded, her gaze distant.

“Yeah,” she agreed, her eyes darting away to the window once more, “And sometimes, you don’t even know if you’re judging yourself the same way they do.”

The gala loomed ahead now, its grandeur casting long shadows on the darkened road. Declan slowed the car as they approached, his attention divided between the glowing entrance and the woman beside him.

“You’re not your father, Cassie,” he stated, each word delivered with the beat of his heart, “But that’s not a bad thing. He made his impact, left his mark. You get to decide what yours will be.”

Cassie turned to him, her lips parting as though to respond, but she hesitated. His words sank in slowly, their intent more comforting than overwhelming.

Declan glanced at her once more before parking.

“The world doesn’t need another Matthew Jones. But it could use a Cassie Jones.”

Cassie felt a shift inside her, a moment of stillness before her heart seemed to give a sudden, unexpected jolt. It wasn’t fear. It wasn’t doubt. It was a warmth, something that felt almost unfamiliar but not unwelcome, growing quietly where the uncertainty once was.

How strange, she thought, that in less than a day, a man she had only known through screens could make her feel this way.

She decided it was a strange good, then.

The drive toward the gala hadn’t felt nearly long enough. For Cassie, the time between Declan’s car stopping and walking outside Bar Sinister was a blur. Yet, amidst the haze of alcohol and the disjointed events of the night, her mind circled back to one thing: Venturer.

Her clarity wasn’t rooted in confidence—it was more fragile, almost tenuous. But it clung to her nonetheless.

The calls she’d made earlier that day lingered in her thoughts, the voices of strangers who had trusted her with their pain. They had placed their faith in her, even when she wasn’t sure she deserved it. She had promised them she would do something, find some way to make their stories mean something.

And then there was Declan. She still didn’t fully understand it—the way he had used her allegations, not to diminish her, but to magnify the voices she had tried to represent. It hadn’t even been a day since they’d met, and yet, he had gone out of his way to give her story weight…

Why? Really, she couldn’t understand, why?

That question looped in her mind, unanswered and bewildering. He didn’t owe her anything, and yet, he’d offered her not just a platform but a hand to steady herself.

She didn’t know if she would ever be able to unravel his motivations. But in a way, it didn’t matter. It made her feel something she hadn’t allowed herself to feel in a long time: hope. For herself, for the people she had promised to help, and for the possibility that maybe, just maybe, she could step into a space she had always believed was too big for her.

Well, she still believed it was. But, for the first time, she wanted to believe she was wrong.

Cassie’s gaze drifted toward the glowing lights of the Spencer estate through the window. She still questioned whether she belonged in front of a camera, whether she could wield a platform like Venturer without losing herself in the process. However, everyone else seemed to believe in her—Declan, Freddie, even Bas in his teasing way.

And maybe, she wanted to believe as well.

Because if Declan O’Hara could wield her story like a weapon for justice, then surely, she could wield her own voice for the same cause… Couldn't she?

It wasn’t about being sure of herself or about proving anything to the media that had twisted her father’s legacy into something unrecognizable. It was about those voices on the other end of the line, about the people she’d promised to help. Turning away now would mean breaking that promise—not just to them, but to herself.

And for the first time, as she stepped off the car, the thought didn’t terrify her.

Cassie’s boots crunched softly on the gravel as the cool night air greeted her, crisp and grounding. The Spencer estate rose before her like a beacon, its illuminated windows spilling gold across manicured hedges and cobblestone paths. The gentle clinking of glasses and faint bursts of laughter drifted toward her, mixing with the faint, far-off hum of an orchestra.

She tugged Declan’s coat closer around her shoulders, its tailored fabric heavier than she’d expected. The faint trace of his cologne lingered, grounding her in an evening that already felt half-dream, half-dare. The coat didn’t quite fit the elegance of the gala, but that incongruity comforted her—an unspoken reminder of where she’d come from and where she was heading.

Declan rounded the car, his gaze sweeping toward the far end of the lot.

“Freddie’s over there,” he said, nodding toward a parked car, its driver’s-side door slightly ajar as a familiar silhouette leaned casually against it.

Cassie followed Declan’s gesture, her gaze easily finding Freddie among the guests. It wasn’t as much about spotting him as it was about feeling his presence, something familiar amidst the unfamiliarity of the evening. He stood a little apart, his posture relaxed but somehow still precise, as though he could never fully shed the tension in his shoulders, even in moments of ease.

The scene around him blurred, the glow of the gala's lights playing off the edges of his silhouette, but Cassie’s focus didn’t waver. She knew him too well to miss the way he held himself, the ever-present quiet that seemed to follow him, even in the crowd.

She gave a small, barely perceptible nod, tugging Declan’s coat tighter around her shoulders. The coat was warm, but it felt almost foreign against the coldness of the night air, as though it didn’t quite belong to her at this moment.

“Alright. I’ll... Talk to him,” her words trailing off as she turned toward Freddie.

Declan’s eyes softened as he observed her. The stoic composure she had become accustomed to seeing in him seemed to loosen for just a fraction of a second, his expression betraying a hint of something unreadable. But instead of pressing, he simply nodded.

"Take your time," he said quietly, his tone low but not without its own kind of reassurance, “I’ll go look for Taggie inside.”

Cassie hesitated for a moment, standing on the uneven gravel as Declan’s footsteps faded toward the glowing entrance of the gala. She turned her focus back to Freddie, who leaned casually against the side of his car. The sharp lines of his profile caught the light, casting shadows that made him look simultaneously familiar and distant.

She wasn’t entirely sure why she felt the need to speak to him, or couldn’t quite remember why the sober version of her wanted to. Maybe it was because like Declan, Freddie believed in her, even when she struggled to believe in herself. Or perhaps it was because he was one of the few people who truly understood her father—not just the media icon, but the man behind the legacy.

The alcohol in her system blurred her thoughts, turning them into fragments that didn’t quite connect. What had she meant to say? That she was ready to join Venturer? Or was she seeking reassurance, confirmation that she wasn’t about to make a colossal mistake? Or... Was it something else? A deeper need to see herself as others saw her—not as Matthew Jones’s daughter, or a reckless journalist who doesn’t know what she is doing, but as someone with her own voice, her own agency and could figure things out.

As she approached, her steps crunching against the gravel, Freddie’s head lifted. He spotted her instantly, his expression shifting from mild distraction to curiosity.

“Cass,” he greeted, his voice steady as ever, though his brows knitted, “Didn’t expect to see you here. Or... Like this.” His gaze flicked over the oversized coat draped over her shoulders.

Cassie smirked, tugging the coat closer, “Declan O’Hara has an interesting sense of chivalry.”

Freddie’s lips twitched into a smile that didn't quite get into his eyes. For a second, a suspicious look washed over his face before shifting back to curiosity, his attention lingered on her face.

“You’ve had a drink or two.” It was really that obvious? “Yesterday, you got arrested, tonight you are drunk… What do you plan to do tomorrow night?”

“Perhaps rob a bank,” she jested, finger over her chin, tapping as if she was truly thinking about it further, “Give them a true reason to arrest me, you know?”

Freddie arched a brow but didn’t press, gesturing toward the passenger side of his car, “You’re definitely too drunk. Come on, let’s sit.”

The moment they settled inside the car, Cassie found herself staring at her hands, tracing invisible patterns on her lap. The words she’d rehearsed in her mind earlier—if she had even rehearsed them—seemed to scatter.

Worse considering how drunk she was. Because let’s confess, she was too drunk. Thanks to Bas and Declan.

“Uncle, I...” She paused, frowning as she tried to organize her thoughts, “I think I’m going to do it.”

“Do what?” he asked gently, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

“Venturer,” she said, the word tumbling out in a single breath, “I’m going to take the offer.”

Freddie studied her for a long moment, his expression changing subtly. There was no dramatic change, no obvious emotion to pinpoint. Instead, there was something quieter—an intensity in the way his brow furrowed, his lips pressed together, and his eyes softened even more as though weighing every word she’d just said.

He wasn’t just listening. He was reading her, the way he always did, peeling back the layers of her drunken bravado and finding what lay beneath.

His silence drew her to continue, filling the space with her own uncertain voice.

“It’s not just about... Getting out there or proving anything,” she said, her words slower now, measured in a way that contrasted with her slightly slurred tone, “It’s about the people I promised to help. The ones I will meet someday in the future. And the ones who believed I could do something. And maybe... Maybe they’re right. Maybe I can.”

Her gaze lifted to meet his, searching for something she couldn’t quite name. If she was to be sincere, anything really.

“I don’t want to be my father’s shadow,” she whispered, her voice cracking, “But I also don’t want to ruin what he stood for. The media’s already done enough of that. I want to make him proud. I have to.”

Freddie’s expression softened, and he placed a hand on her shoulder, grounding. As always,

“You already are, Cass,” he whispered back to her, a smile adorning his lips, “Even if you don’t see it yet.”

“You think so?” she questioned him, hesitant.

“I know so,” he replied firmly, now serious, “And you don’t have to do it alone. There are people who want to help—Bas, for one. Lizzie, too. She could give you advice if you’d let her.”

Cassie hesitated, her drunken haze making it harder to parse his words, but their meaning still sank in.

“Lizzie,” she repeated softly, her thoughts meandering back to the woman’s gentle presence and subtle strength, “She seems so... Sure of herself, isn't she?” she slurred it, laughing before continuing, “I don’t know if I’m anything like that.”

“You don’t have to be Lizzie, neither like your father,” Freddie said gently, his voice threading through her rambling, “And you don’t have to figure it all out tonight. But Lizzie’s been through her share of fights, as your father. I know he’d understand what you’re facing.”

Cassie’s gaze drifted downward, her fingers absentmindedly brushing over the worn fabric of Declan’s coat draped around her shoulders. It felt heavy—she couldn’t stop herself from noticing that, but not oppressively so… More like an anchor keeping her grounded as her thoughts tumbled over themselves in a blur.

“My father...” she started, then stopped, her voice catching in her throat. The words felt fragile, like glass she was afraid to shatter. She took a breath, her hand stilling against the edge of the coat as if searching for steadiness.

“I don’t know if I can stop trying to protect him,” she admitted, her voice quieter now, her words almost drowned in the quiet of the car. “I’ve spent so much time trying to keep what he built from being ruined. I want to... I don’t want to be what they’ve turned him into.” 

Freddie stayed quiet, his gaze focused on her, urging her to continue.

“It’s like I’m always trying to put back together something I can never touch,” the frustration bleeding into her tone, “I can’t fix what they did to him. I can’t stop people from seeing him the way they painted him. But every time I try, it just... it slips through my fingers.”

Freddie’s silence lingered for a moment, almost too long, before he spoke again, his voice calm but carrying an unspoken weight.

“You’re not responsible for what happened to him, Cass. You’re carrying something that wasn’t meant for you. His legacy... It’s not about what you protect, or how many people you shield from the things they did to him. It’s what you choose to do with the pieces of him that remain—what you make of them.”

Cassie’s breath hitched, but she didn’t break down. She just nodded quietly, trying to digest his words as they tumbled around in her mind.

“It feels like everything I’ve been doing... It’s to keep him whole. But I’m just patching things up. I’m not even sure what’s left anymore to protect.”

“You don’t have to carry that burden,” Freddie replied, his gaze focused on Spencer's residence, “You don’t have to carry his mistakes or his image, trust me, I’ve been in your place, I know what I’m talking about. What matters is what you choose to do next—what you make of your own life. You’re not him, neither of us are. You don’t need to be.”

Cassie inhaled deeply, but it didn’t seem to fill her lungs. She’d heard the words before—the advice, the reassurances. It should have been enough, right? But tonight, it felt heavier, like the walls were closing in. Her mind was drawing darker pictures now, the fear bleeding into thoughts she couldn’t push aside.

Now she remembered why she didn’t usually drink.

“I’m so scared of losing him,” she finally said, her words tumbling out in a rush. The tightness that had gripped her for so long released in a rush, “Losing his name... Making it all feel like it was for nothing.”

“You’re not losing him,” he replied, his tone firm but not harsh, “He’s in you, Cassie. Not in some image the media wants to cling to. Not in the mistakes that the media blew out of proportion. He’s in the parts of you that are real—the way you see people, how you care about them. That’s what matters. That’s what counts.”

Cassie swallowed hard, but the words didn’t bring the relief she expected. She shifted in her seat, suddenly feeling the weight of the conversation and the alcohol heavier than before. Her fingers brushed over the coat again, the sensation grounding her, but her thoughts were spiraling, tugging her deeper.

Everything seemed so much worse with the drunken fog covering his mind.

“I don’t even know how to start letting go,” she whispered, her voice cracking as her gaze dropped to her lap, the coat, anything but his eyes, “I’ve spent so long keeping his name intact. His image... So careful, so guarded. And every time I try... Every time I feel like I can breathe without him, it just slips right through my fingers.”

Freddie stayed silent for a moment, letting her words hang in the air, weighted and unresolved. When he spoke again, his voice was steady.

“You don’t have to know right now,” he tried to reassure her, “It’ll come, when it’s time. And you don’t have to do it alone. I’m here.”

She couldn’t answer him right away, her mind still lost in the complexity of her own emotions. His words felt like a promise, but even in her intoxicated state, she knew they weren’t that simple.

But then, something cracked in her thoughts, a flash of clarity amid the haze.

“If I go to Venturer,” she wondered, almost to herself, “When I take the offer… What if I do what he did? What if I make the same things?” Her voice was quiet now, trembling as the thought she had been avoiding suddenly surfaced, “What if they start comparing me to him once they discover he was my father? Because they will. What if I can’t measure up? What if... I ruin everything more than they already have?”

Freddie’s silence was louder than his words could have been. The understanding between them was almost too much for her to bear. She glanced at him, waiting for an answer, but Freddie’s gaze was a quiet sea of thought.

After a pause, he spoke, the simplicity of his words hitting her harder than she expected.

“You’re not him, Cass. You’ll never be him. You don’t need to prove anything to anyone, especially not to the media or to anyone who’s already decided who you are.”

“But they’ll always remember him,” Cassie replied, the truth seeping out as a mixture of resignation and frustration, “And I’ll always be compared to him.”

She didn’t even know why she was saying it—maybe because tonight, it all felt too close to the surface. Maybe because she didn’t have the energy to keep pretending she didn’t care.

The alcohol had taken all her energy away.

Her uncle looked at her with a softness that made her want to run but somehow kept her grounded.

“People will try, Cass,” he said after a moment, “But they won’t see what you can do. They will try to make up something that is not real, but it won’t ever work. Because it would be impossible to imagine you being anything but sincere, raw, honest.”

Cassie absorbed that for a long moment, the air heavy with the vulnerability she hadn’t intended to show. The unease in her chest hadn’t disappeared, but it didn’t feel as suffocating. Still, something gnawed at her—a quiet, unrelenting fear.

Freddie looked at her more closely now, his words quieter, almost a whisper.

“You’ve always been afraid of making the same things he did, Cassie. But that fear, it’s not just about you. It’s about his shadow. And you don’t have to keep hiding from it.”

Cassie turned her gaze away, her thoughts spinning again. It wasn’t just about being seen by a grand audience and discovering she was nothing she tried to be. Neither about being seen as her father’s daughter. It was about avoiding the comparisons—avoiding becoming the next failure in a long line of missteps.

But that wasn’t the whole picture, was it?

If she took that offer—really took it—she wasn’t just signing up for a fight for herself. She was signing up for the possibility of failure, of becoming something that wasn’t perfect. Of being judged. Of losing herself in the process.

But then again… If she didn’t, what would she be?

Her father's legacy would hang like a weight around her neck, too heavy to carry and too fragile to protect.

Earlier that they, she had thought of using it as an advantage instead of considering Venturer. But now? The more she thought about that, the more she hated herself for having been so desperate at that hour.

It would have been a terrible idea.

Cassie’s thoughts churned, a tangled mess of doubts, desires, and the lingering weight of everything she couldn’t quite name. The fear of falling into the same patterns, of becoming just another misstep in the line of her father’s legacy, clawed at her. But the more she tried to run from it, the more it seemed to haunt her.

And yet, she knew that if she didn’t take the chance, if she didn’t step into the space that had been carved out for her, it would all be for nothing. She couldn’t let that happen. Not now, not after everything she’d promised.

Her heart was heavy with the weight of the choice before her, but for the first time, there was a faint sense of relief in the uncertainty. It wasn’t a clear-cut path, not a guarantee of success, but it was hers. It had to be.

Her voice was barely a whisper, the thought escaping her before she could stop it.

“Maybe I need to stop running from it.”

Freddie’s smile was small, but it was there, soft and understanding.

“You’ll be fine, Cass. I know you will.”

Cassie turned her gaze toward him, uncertain but strangely comforted by his presence, “How can you be so sure?”

Freddie’s expression shifted, becoming more distant, as if reaching back to a time and place she couldn’t fully understand. He leaned back, his hands resting on the steering wheel, gathering his thoughts before speaking again.

“When I lost him,” he began, “I was so deep in that well that I couldn’t see my way out. I couldn’t face the world. I didn’t want to. I just wanted to lay down and let time take me too.”

Cassie stayed quiet, her eyes fixed on him, waiting for him to continue.

“But,” he continued, his voice gaining strength as the memories took shape, “As time passed, as I got the help I needed and found my way back, it was when I stopped running from the world—when I stopped running from his image—that things started to make sense. I stopped fighting it and just... Understood. And one day, you’ll understand too. It won’t happen all at once. But it’ll come.”

Cassie stared out of the car window, the lights of the gala blurring in her vision. The coat around her shoulders felt heavy—not from its weight, but from the reminders it carried, of Declan and of the space she was now stepping into.

She had always thought radio would be a way to stay hidden. A way to keep her father’s name from haunting her every move. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized it had only been another form of running. Now, with Venturer on the table, she knew she couldn’t keep avoiding it forever. It wasn’t about her father’s legacy; it was about her. It was time to stop letting the past dictate her future.

Turning to Freddie, the words slipped out before she could stop them.

“I thought getting into radio was my way of staying out of this, you know? But now… If once I’m there, in front of a camera, I know I’ll be forced to face it.”

Freddie’s eyes didn’t leave her face, “You probably won’t remember most of the conversation tomorrow, but I’ll say it, you need to live it without doubting every action.”

Cassie let out a slow breath, her gaze dropping to the coat in her lap. She wasn’t sure she was ready for this, but the weight of the decision didn’t feel quite as heavy as it had before. Maybe she wasn’t meant to be someone else’s idea of who she should be. Maybe it was time to step into something real.

“Maybe you’re right,” she said quietly, “I’ll for sure forget most of the conversation.”

Freddie’s laugh came as a soft, rumbling sound, breaking through the quiet like a beacon. He shook his head slightly, his usual sardonic edge replaced with something gentler.

“You’ll think about it,” he said, his tone confident yet unpressing.

Cassie nodded slowly, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of Declan’s coat draped across her lap. The heaviness of the conversation settled, but it didn’t smother—it was lighter now, the kind of weight she felt she could hold without being crushed.

Freddie glanced toward the glow of the house, “We can talk more tomorrow. I’ll bring Lizzie with me. We’ll help you nurse your inevitable hangover and sort through the rest.”

Cassie let out a small laugh, her lips quirking into a half-smile.

“That sounds like a thrilling way to spend your day.”

“It’ll be worth it,” he said simply, his words carrying a steadiness that made her feel a little less adrift.

Cassie leaned back against the seat, the night air brushing against her cheeks as she glanced toward him.

“Speaking of Lizzie... Where is she? Is she here?”

Freddie nodded, his gaze shifting toward the entrance.

“She’s wrapping up. I promised her a ride back.”

Cassie’s brow furrowed slightly, curiosity cutting through the haze of her thoughts, “And Valerie? Is she here too?”

Freddie’s expression didn’t falter, but there was the briefest pause before he replied.

“She left earlier. Said she wasn’t feeling great—probably went home.”

Cassie blinked, her intoxicated mind seizing on the detail, “Without you?”

“She doesn’t need me to hold her hand every time she leaves,” Freddie shrugged, his tone casual.

The words stirred in Cassie’s mind, unremarkable on the surface but carrying a weight she couldn’t ignore… Until a thought crossed her mind, followed by a million more.

She tilted her head, her gaze sharpening despite the whiskey softening her edges.

“You should just end it, Uncle,” she said in the next second, the words tumbling out without the usual filter she kept in place, “Be with Lizzie, you clearly enjoy each other’s company. Valerie’s already halfway out the door, and Lizzie—”

“Cassie,” Freddie interrupted, a note of surprise threading through his voice as his eyes widened slightly, his hands lifting in a quick gesture as if to calm her down or stop the thought mid-air.

His widened eyes met Cassie’s, but the surprise on his face softened quickly, replaced by a quiet exasperation. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a short laugh—a deflection, maybe, or an attempt to shake off the weight of her words.

“Good God, Cassie. You’ve always been too blunt for your own good,” he muttered, his lips curving in a half-smile, a sad one.

Cassie blinked at him, the alcohol buzzing through her veins making her unusually bold. She wasn’t entirely sure why she’d said it—no, scratch that, she was sure. It had been brewing in her mind for weeks, months even.

Still, now that the words were out there, the implications seemed heavier, clearer.

“You know I’m right,” she said, her voice quieter this time but no less insistent.

Freddie didn’t answer immediately. He shifted his weight in the driver’s seat, his fingers drumming briefly against the steering wheel before dropping into his lap. His eyes flickered toward the faint glow of the residence beyond the windshield, the hum of distant music filtering through the cool night air.

“Lizzie’s...” He hesitated, choosing his words carefully, “She’s a friend, Cass. And Valerie—”

“Doesn’t care,” Cassie interrupted, her voice sharper now.

Freddie looked at her again, his brows drawing together. His gaze wasn’t angry, though—more contemplative, like he was weighing her words against something unspoken.

“Maybe not,” he admitted after a moment, his voice measured, “But it’s complicated. Life is complicated, and not everything is as simple as it looks from the outside.”

Cassie opened her mouth to argue, but before she could, the sound of crunching gravel outside the car caught both their attention.

Freddie’s hand moved instinctively to the door handle, but he paused, his head turning toward the approaching figures illuminated by the headlights.

Declan O’Hara stepped into view first, his sharp features carved into focus by the pale light. Behind him, Rupert strolled with an air of practiced ease, Taggie walking just a little too close at his side. Her hand brushed his arm—a fleeting gesture, but enough to catch Cassie’s notice.

The Wolfhound’s gaze swept the scene, his sharp eyes moving with deliberate calm over Freddie’s car, Cassie in the passenger seat, and the trio behind him. For a moment, his expression was carefully neutral, but there was a flicker—an almost imperceptible tension in the set of his jaw, the faint narrowing of his eyes.

Curiosity, perhaps, or something closer to suspicion. Cassie, in her drunken haze, couldn’t quite decide which.

Rupert’s grin widened as he approached, his voice breaking the silence with a deliberate cheeriness.

“Well, well, what do we have here? A cozy little pow-wow?”

Freddie’s jaw tightened subtly, though he matched Rupert’s energy with a casual smile.

“Waiting on Lizzie,” he said, his tone easy, “What about you lot?”

Declan’s gaze lingered on Cassie for a moment before he responded.

“Giving Taggie a ride. Figured she’d need one since...” He trailed off, his eyes darting briefly to Rupert before continuing smoothly, “Mr. Spencer brought her here.”

Rupert’s grin didn’t falter, but there was a sharpness in his gaze as he replied, “Taggie has plenty of options for getting home.”

Taggie interjected quickly, her voice light and steady. “Dad was kind enough to offer, that’s all.”

The tension crackled between them, subtle but undeniable. Cassie’s attention shifted from one face to the next, her drunk mind trying to piece together what wasn’t being said.

Cassie’s gaze darted between them, her mind sluggish but still catching the undercurrent of something unspoken. The faint pressure in Declan’s voice, the way Rupert’s easy grin didn’t reach his eyes, and Taggie’s too-smooth interjection all seemed to hum with an almost imperceptible strain. Like a string pulled just tight enough to vibrate but not yet snap.

It was the kind of tension that didn’t need loud arguments to make itself known—it lived in the pauses, the glances, the spaces between words.

Taggie turned her attention to Cassie, her smile warm, trying to soothe the moment.

“You must be Cassie, right?” she said smoothly, her voice carrying the lightness of someone who had perfected small talk, “I’m Taggie. I’m a big fan of yours—I listened to your show every night.”

“Thanks,” Cassie replied, her lips curving into a small smile, “I really enjoyed working there but, you know, sometimes we must recognize that we deserve better.”

Taggie’s polite nod came quickly, her smile not quite meeting her eyes. The soft glow of the car headlights bounced off the curves of her features, and Cassie could feel Taggie’s thoughts wandering away from their exchange.

Declan’s expression remained inscrutable, but Cassie didn’t miss the way his gaze flicked briefly to Taggie, then Rupert. The angle of his stance shifted slightly, subtle yet calculated, as though bracing for something.

“So, you must be the famous Cassie Jones, Freddie’s niece!” Rupert said, breaking the silence with a grin that leaned toward the theatrical, “Quite the reunion out here. I’m Rupert—”

“I know who you are,” Cassie interrupted, raising her hands, “Minister of Sport. I’m more surprised you know who I am.” Her voice had a touch of amusement, though her brow arched as she spoke, the tiniest edge of challenge lacing her words.

Rupert chuckled, his hands spreading out in mock innocence.

“Well, your uncle telling us nothing about you didn’t make it easier,” he said, his tone light but not entirely devoid of calculation, “But you must imagine it, stirring with people like Crawford tends to bring attention.”

Cassie held back a laugh. Despite being drunk, she knew better than saying it was her who asked her uncle not to mention her.

She knew once she said that, the night would never end.

Cassie fought the urge to laugh, biting the inside of her cheek. Even in her drunken haze, she knew better than to let it slip that it was her idea to keep her uncle quiet about her. Admitting that would guarantee a night full of relentless questioning—and she was already past her limit.

Declan’s voice cut in smoothly, his tone casual but laced with a playful edge.

“Freddie, you keeping this one out of trouble?” His gesture toward Cassie was easy, but his gaze flicked briefly between Rupert and Taggie, his stance just a little too composed.

Freddie’s smile was polite but taut, his tone balancing on the edge of friendliness. “I will try.”

Cassie, emboldened by the alcohol humming through her veins, turned to Freddie with a grin.

“I can assure you,” she said, her voice lilting with mock seriousness, “I’ll sleep the second we hit the road.”

Taggie laughed lightly, the sound warm but carefully measured.

“You’re even funnier in person,” she said, her eyes flitting toward Declan for just a moment before returning to Cassie, “You’d be a great addition to Venturer.”

Cassie’s gaze shifted to Declan, her expression softening despite herself. “I’ve heard that before,” she said, her voice quieter, more reflective.

For a moment, their eyes locked. It was subtle—barely a pause—but the space between them seemed to shift. Declan’s mouth curved into the faintest smile, though there was something restrained in his expression, as if he were holding back a thought.

Freddie, sitting silently in the periphery, seemed to notice the moment, his gaze narrowing just slightly before returning to neutral.

“We should be on our way,” Declan said finally, his voice smooth but carrying a note of finality.

Rupert, however, seemed in no hurry to leave. He rocked back on his heels, hands shoved into his pockets as his gaze drifted lazily around the lot.

“No rush, is there? It’s a nice night.”

Declan’s brow twitched, a barely perceptible shift that Cassie might have missed if she weren’t already hyper-aware of his presence. His voice remained measured, calm.

“It’s late, and I’d like to get Taggie home before it gets any later.”

The words landed with a certain punch, though Cassie’s tipsy mind grappled with why. There was something about the phrasing—precise, intentional—that caught her attention.

She glanced between Declan and Taggie again, noting how Rupert’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes. Weird.

Freddie cleared his throat, cutting through the subtle tension.

“We’re heading out too,” Freddie said, his voice carrying a casual lilt, though his hand moved almost instinctively toward the coat draped across Cassie’s shoulders. His gaze flicked briefly toward the house before settling back on Declan, “We’ll just wait for Lizzie; I’m giving her a ride.”

Cassie glanced down, her fingers curling absently into the soft folds of the coat. It still carried a faint warmth, a strange mix of comfort and weight she couldn’t quite place.

“Oh, right. I should give this back.” Her voice wavered slightly, a mix of tiredness and awkwardness, as she lifted the coat and held it toward Declan.

For a moment, Declan didn’t move. His gaze found hers, steady and searching, and the faintest flicker of something—hesitation? Thoughtfulness?—crossed his expression.

“Keep it,” he said at last, his lips curving faintly. The smile was almost shy as it widened, “You can return it another time.”

Cassie hesitated, caught between the instinct to protest and the sudden quiet that seemed to settle between them. Her fingers faltered mid-motion.

Before she could decide, Freddie’s hand intercepted the coat mid-motion.

“It’s fine,” Freddie said, his voice calm but firm, a hint of finality in the undertone, “It’s warmer in the car.”

The air shifted, the unspoken tension stretching thin one more time as Freddie and Declan’s gazes met. Declan’s stance didn’t tremble, but his expression tightened—briefly, imperceptibly—before smoothing into neutrality.

“Of course,” Declan replied, his tone polite but noticeably cooler.

Cassie rose from her seat, the motion drawing her closer to Declan. Her eyes lifted to meet his, and for a moment, their gazes held. It wasn’t a charged look, not exactly—it was quieter, a lingering acknowledgment of something.

Something that Cassie’s drunk mind didn’t even acknowledge truly. If her drunk version was to be sincere, she only appreciated looking into his dark eyes, she felt lighter every time she found them tonight.

Declan reached out, taking the coat gently from her hands. His fingers brushed the fabric, a fleeting touch that felt heavier than it should have.

After tonight, Cassie silently swore that she would never drink again.

“Thank you,” she murmured, though her voice was almost lost in the space between them.

He inclined his head, the trace of a smile returning to his face.

“Goodnight, Cassie. Freddie.” He faced the man, bowing his head briefly.

Cassie watched, still lingering by the car, as Rupert climbed into his vehicle, the door slamming shut with a soft thud. Declan moved fluidly beside him, offering Taggie a brief but courteous smile before opening the door for her. The brief interaction was almost too smooth, too polished to feel completely natural. Cassie couldn’t help but notice the way Declan’s posture remained perfectly composed, how his movements were precise.

As she slid into the backseat of Freddie's car, Cassie leaned her head against the cool window, her thoughts still racing. The events of the night clung to her, fragmented pieces of conversation and moments flickering in her mind like disjointed images. The cool glass against her skin was grounding, but the unease still lingered.

Declan’s smile, the way he had looked at her earlier… Sincerely, the whole day sit sat in the pit of her stomach

Her eyes followed Rupert’s car as it pulled away from the lot, the taillights fading into the distance before disappearing entirely. She then watched as Declan’s car followed suit, the two of them driving off into the night with an almost eerie synchronicity.

Freddie’s sigh filled the quiet space between her and Freddie, pulling her back from the haze of her thoughts. She hadn’t realized how much of the night she had been holding her breath. Freddie, however, seemed unfazed, his eyes focused on something else.

Cassie hadn’t seen him glance at Declan, but as the car’s headlights illuminated the road ahead, she caught the subtle change in Freddie’s demeanor. His gaze flickered toward the rear view mirror before quickly turning back to the residence, waiting for Lizzie.

The moment was brief, but something in the way he carried himself shifted—a slight tension, a quiet little figure that she wouldn’t grasp even if she had noticed the whole sudden reaction.

“You alright, Uncle?” Cassie turned to face him, knitting her brows.

Freddie nodded slowly, but his answer wasn’t as certain as he wanted it to be.

“Yeah,” he replied, her voice a little hoarse, “Just... Thinking.”

Cassie hummed, turning her attention back to the window as her mind drifted once more, still tangled with the events of the day.

What a day, really.

[killeromanoff]

hey guys................ hehe

15K words..................... i will revise it later

hey guys......... hehe