Chapter 49 Media Inquiries
Violet
The first question is wrong.
Not aggressive. Not hostile. Not even rude.
Just… wrong in a way that makes my stomach tighten.
“Hi,” the woman says brightly, stepping up to my desk like she belongs there. Mid-thirties, tailored blazer, notebook tucked under her arm. Her eyes don’t flick to the directory or the signage. They go straight to me. “I’m with the Sentinel. I’m looking for a comment.”
I don’t look up from my screen. “All media inquiries are handled through legal.”
She doesn’t leave.
Instead, she shifts her weight and lowers her voice, like we’re conspirators.
“About Councilwoman Hargrove,” she says. “Specifically her relationship with Ashcroft Industries.”
My fingers pause mid-keystroke.
That’s not public.
I lift my eyes slowly. “All media inquiries are handled through legal.”
She smiles wider, the kind that’s practiced in a mirror.
“Of course. But off the record—”
“No.”
The word lands flat. Final.
Her smile flickers, then steadies. “People are saying her recent comments about your CEO’s instability might be connected to the firing of Avery Quinneth.”
Camille’s chair squeaks behind me.
I don’t turn.
“All media inquiries are handled through legal.”
The journalist tilts her head. “You’ve said that three times.”
“I’ll say it as many times as necessary.”
Her eyes narrow just a fraction. “You’re very loyal.”
“I’m professional.”
She glances around the lobby, lowering her voice again. “Must be hard, working for men who run this place like a boys’ club.”
Theo’s name isn’t public.
Rowan’s schedule isn’t public.
My pulse doesn’t spike — it locks.
“All media inquiries are handled through legal.”
She exhales sharply, irritation bleeding through the charm. “Okay. Let’s talk facts then. Allegations of illegal lobbying. Bribes disguised as development fees. Shell companies laundering—”
“That’s enough,” Camille snaps, standing.
I raise a finger without looking at her.
Camille stops mid-step like she hit an invisible wall. Good. I can deal with Camille later. I can’t deal with this wrongness if my own people start feeding it oxygen.
The journalist’s smile turns predatory. “So you deny it?”
“I’m not commenting,” I say. “All media inquiries—”
“—are handled through legal,” she finishes. “Yes, I know. But silence speaks volumes.”
She steps closer to my desk.
“Do you personally approve of how Mr. Ashcroft treats women?” she asks lightly. “Or is that just part of the job description?”
That’s when I stand.
Slow. Deliberate. Calm.
“This interaction is over,” I say. “You are trespassing.”
She laughs. “This is a public lobby.”
“It’s private property,” I reply. “And you’ve been asked to leave.”
She opens her mouth again—
—and Camille is already dialing.
“Legal,” Camille says into her phone. “Now. And get Theo.”
The journalist scoffs. “Calling backup?”
“No,” I say. “Calling consequences.”
Her gaze flicks up.
To the security cameras mounted overhead.
Then back to me.
“You’re very composed,” she says. “Even with everything you know.”
“You’re assuming I know anything,” I reply. “That’s your second mistake.”
Her brows lift. “Second?”
“The first was thinking you could walk in here and bully anyone into talking.”
She smiles, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m not bullying. I’m doing my job.”
“Then do it through legal.”
She taps her notebook, eyes cutting to Camille’s phone. “They sending the cavalry? Or just someone to threaten me in a nicer voice?”
“Legal doesn’t threaten,” Camille says tightly.
“I do,” I add, and the journalist looks at me like she didn’t expect teeth.
Footsteps approach quickly.
Theo appears first, jacket half on, hair slightly disheveled like he ran out of a meeting to be entertained. His eyes sweep the lobby—me, Camille, the journalist—then settle on the woman like he’s deciding what level of rude is appropriate.
“What’s going on?” he asks.
The journalist turns toward him eagerly, like she’s been waiting for an opening.
“Theo Ashcroft—”
“Not interested,” Theo cuts in. “Who let you in?”
“I walked,” she snaps. “That’s how doors work.”
Theo’s mouth quirks. “Congratulations. You discovered mobility.”
Camille makes a sound like a cough that might be a laugh if she lets it.
The journalist’s nostrils flare. “I have a right to be here.”
“Actually,” Theo says, voice suddenly calm in a way that’s more dangerous than his sarcasm, “you don’t.”
He gestures vaguely at the floor. “This isn’t a mall. It’s not City Hall. It’s private property. That’s why the security guards aren’t wearing rent-a-cop polos.”
The journalist’s smile hardens. “So you’re denying access to press.”
“We’re denying access to you,” Theo replies. “Big difference.”
She turns back to me, eyes sharper now. “You’re the gatekeeper.”
“I’m the receptionist,” I say evenly.
Theo snorts. “Sure.”
The journalist steps closer again, and Theo shifts half a step—subtle, but placing himself between her and my desk without making a show of it.
“What’s your name?” she asks me.
“I don’t give personal information to strangers.”
“That’s not personal,” she says. “That’s normal.”
“Normal is not showing up uninvited and asking questions you already have answers to,” I reply. “So we can skip your version of normal.”
Her lips press together. “Okay. Then we’ll do it the official way.”
She reaches into her folder.
Pulls out a stack of papers.
And sets them on my desk like she’s dropping evidence in court.
“That,” she says, tapping the top page, “is a financial draft marked ‘internal’ that shows irregularities in your company’s development fee allocations.”
My stomach drops.
Not because she has a draft.
Because she has the wrong one.
The top page is formatted like our internal reports—logo in the corner, headings, even the footer looks almost right—but the spacing is off by a hair. The font is a fraction too bold. And the internal code in the top right corner?
Wrong.
Close enough to fool anyone who doesn’t live inside this system.
Not close enough to fool me.
Theo leans in, eyes narrowing. “Where the hell did you get that?”
She looks pleased with herself. “A source.”
“A source who can’t proofread,” Theo mutters.
My eyes scan fast. Numbers. Lines. “Consulting fees” routed into entities with names that sound like corporate shell games. The kind of thing a headline loves.
But then my eyes snag on a detail that makes my blood turn to ice.
A note in the margin.
A note that shouldn’t exist anywhere but my head.
Blue tags for allies. Red tags for liabilities.
My fingers go numb.
Theo’s breath catches. Camille’s mouth opens, closes.
The journalist watches my face with microscopic focus, like she’s waiting for me to crack. “Recognize it?” she asks softly.
My voice comes out level only because I refuse to give her the satisfaction of hearing it shake. “That document is not ours.”
She smiles slowly. “Is that your official statement?”
“All media inquiries are handled through legal,” I say. “And you’re in possession of what appears to be stolen company material.”
She tilts her head. “Appears.”
Theo straightens. “Violet. Don’t.”
I don’t look at him. “How do you know that note?” I ask the journalist.
Her eyes glint. “So it is yours.”
“I asked a question.”
“And I asked for a comment.”
We stare at each other.