Chapter 50 Consent
Violet
She’s enjoying this. She’s not here for truth—she’s here for reaction.
Camille’s voice cuts in. “Give it back.”
The journalist laughs. “No.”
Theo’s patience snaps like a rubber band. “Lady, you’re about three seconds away from being carried out like a folding chair.”
“Touch me,” she says, and her phone appears in her hand like a weapon, “and your company gets a lawsuit, a headline, and a trending hashtag.”
Theo smiles without humor. “I’ve survived worse than a hashtag.”
“Then why are you sweating?” she shoots back.
Theo’s smile widens. “Because you smell like desperation and cheap perfume, and it’s a lot at three in the afternoon.”
Camille chokes.
The journalist’s eyes flash. “Classy.”
Theo shrugs. “You started it.”
I keep my gaze on the paper. The wrong paper. The fake draft with the too-right note.
Which means someone knows my internal shorthand.
Or someone has been watching me use it.
My skin crawls.
“I’m going to ask you once,” I say calmly, sliding the papers back across the desk without touching them more than necessary. “Leave.”
She doesn’t.
She leans in. “Is it true that Councilwoman Hargrove has been using Ashcroft Industries as a private funding channel?”
“All media inquiries—”
“Are handled through legal,” she finishes again, and now her voice is sharper, meaner. “Yeah. But here’s the thing. Legal didn’t write this.”
She taps the margin note.
“You did.”
My throat tightens.
Theo’s head turns slowly toward me. “Violet.”
Camille’s gaze darts between us, confused.
I don’t blink. I don’t give the journalist anything.
“You’re reaching,” I say.
“No,” she says, and her bright reporter mask slips for half a second, showing something colder underneath. “I’m confirming.”
“How?” I ask.
She smiles again, too smooth. “Because you’re careful. You’re not the type to leak. Which means someone else did. Someone with access.”
My spine stiffens.
Theo’s voice is low. “Okay. That’s enough.”
The journalist’s eyes flick to him. “Oh? You’re going to throw me out now?”
“I’m going to have security throw you out,” Theo corrects. “And then legal will contact your editor.”
She laughs. “Do it. You think that scares me?”
“It should,” a new voice says.
Rowan Ashcroft steps into the lobby.
The air shifts immediately.
He doesn’t rush. He doesn’t posture. He simply arrives, and the building rearranges itself around him like it knows who owns it.
He doesn’t look at the journalist first.
He looks at me.
Just once.
A silent question.
Are you okay? Are you contained? Did she touch you? Did she get anything?
I give a small nod.
Then he turns to her.
“What do you want?” Rowan asks.
Relief flashes across her face like she’s been trying to get past the receptionist wall and finally found the door.
“Mr. Ashcroft,” she says, voice bright again. “Finally. I’m just trying to get a statement regarding—”
“You have none,” he says.
Her smile falters.
She holds up the papers. “I was told there were financial irregularities—”
“You were lied to,” Rowan replies calmly. “And you’re done here.”
Her jaw tightens. “Are you threatening me?”
“No,” Rowan says. “I’m informing you.”
She straightens, trying to regain control. “The public deserves transparency.”
“The public deserves facts,” Rowan replies. “Not fishing expeditions.”
She turns the papers toward him like she’s offering proof. “These speak for themselves.”
Rowan doesn’t take them.
He doesn’t even glance at the numbers.
He looks at the margin note.
The exact line that made my stomach twist.
Blue tags for allies. Red tags for liabilities.
His eyes narrow.
Just slightly.
So he knows.
Not the system—he knows that this is a detail that shouldn’t be in anyone else’s hands.
The journalist catches the micro-expression and pounces.
“That,” she says, voice quick, “is from your internal workflow. Your staff uses it to categorize—”
“Stop,” Rowan says.
One word.
The journalist’s mouth actually shuts.
Theo watches Rowan like he’s enjoying the show.
Rowan’s gaze stays on the journalist. “Who gave you that?”
She lifts her chin. “A source.”
Rowan’s mouth curves. Not a smile. A warning. “Your source is sloppy.”
Her eyes widen. “Excuse me?”
Rowan finally looks at the draft properly, scanning the header. The wrong code. The slightly-off formatting.
“This isn’t even our template,” he says, bored. “Whoever gave you this couldn’t even steal correctly.”
Theo lets out a delighted sound. “Oh my God.”
The journalist flushes. “It contains real internal information.”
Rowan’s gaze snaps back to the margin note.
“Only one line,” he says softly. “And you’re waving it around like it’s a confession.”
“It is,” she insists.
“It’s bait,” Rowan corrects. “And you took it.”
The journalist’s confidence wavers. She tries to recover fast. “So you’re denying allegations of illegal lobbying and financial laundering?”
“I’m denying you oxygen,” Rowan says. “Leave.”
She opens her mouth again, but Rowan doesn’t let her breathe.
“Security,” he says, not raising his voice.
Two guards appear like they were waiting for the cue.
The journalist’s hand tightens around her phone. “You can’t silence me.”
“Watch me,” Theo murmurs.
One of the guards steps forward. “Ma’am. You need to exit the premises.”
“This is harassment,” she snaps.
The guard’s expression doesn’t change. “This is policy.”
She looks to Rowan, desperate to regain the upper hand. “I’m recording.”
Rowan’s gaze slides to her phone.
Then up to the cameras.
Then back down.
“Good,” he says.
She blinks.
He steps closer, lowering his voice just enough that I can tell he wants it to sting.
“You’re on private property,” Rowan says. “And those cameras you keep looking at?” He gestures lightly overhead. “They’re recording too. With posted consent. With security signage. With legal coverage.”
Her face pales.
The journalist’s eyes dart around, realizing—too late—that she’s not the predator here.
She’s the one who walked into a cage.
Legal arrives then—two attorneys in matching suits, already tired, already done with this kind of day.
One of them, a woman with sharp cheekbones and a smile like a scalpel, looks directly at the journalist.
“You’ve been recording,” the lawyer says.
“That’s legal,” the journalist snaps.
“Not here,” the lawyer replies. “And not without consent.”
Theo leans in, stage-whispering to Camille, “We should start charging admission to the lobby. It’s like a zoo.”
Camille hisses, “Theo.”
“What?” he whispers back. “I’m coping.”
The journalist looks between them, furious. “You can’t make this go away.”
The lawyer’s smile doesn’t change. “We don’t have to. We only have to make you careful.”
The journalist tries one last shot, eyes snapping to me.
“You,” she says, voice sharpening. “You wrote that note. You know what’s going on. Are you really going to protect them?”
Protect them.
Like I’m not one of the people standing here with my own spine, my own choices, my own survival.
Rowan cuts in, voice flat. “She’s done.”
The guards step in again.
The journalist’s mask cracks. “This isn’t over,” she snaps.
I meet her eyes. “It rarely is.”
The guards escort her toward the doors.
She twists her head back as she’s walking, voice raised so the lobby hears it.
“Somebody’s going to talk,” she calls. “Somebody always does.”
Rowan doesn’t react.
Theo flips her a lazy wave. “Try Yelp next!”
Camille makes a strangled sound, half laugh, half horror.
The doors shut behind the journalist.
The lobby exhales like a single organism.
For a moment, nobody moves.
Rowan turns his head slightly toward legal. “I want to know where that line came from.”
The lawyer nods once. “We’ll handle it.”