Chapter 32 Exposure Therapy
Sloane’s POV
The studio lights were hot enough that sweat trickled between my shoulder blades, but I could not tell if it was the heat or the way every camera lens felt like a rifle sight.
“We will keep this controlled,” my comms director said from off to the side, as if control was something I still had. “Opening statement from you to frame the narrative, then pre screened questions.”
Narrative. My life as a story they were all very eager to tell.
I looked straight into the central camera when the countdown hit zero. My own reflection stared back from the glass, smaller than the version splashed across gossip sites.
“In recent weeks there has been understandable concern,” I said, voice level. “About the attempted abduction in my building, about the false alarms, and yes, about where I have been while my team and our partners strengthened our defensive systems.”
I kept my language cool. No drama. Emphasis on the ongoing threat, on the work, on process. “I rely on a skilled, trusted security team,” I continued. “Because the threats I face are not theoretical. They are real. I will not be shamed for needing protection. On my private life, I will not comment. My focus remains what it has always been. Keeping the things that matter safe.”
PR would be proud. It was almost exactly what they wanted, with enough of me left in it that I did not choke.
Then they let the wolves in, dressed up as pre selected press.
Questions about the ethics review. About investor confidence. About whether the government would still trust Mercer with national infrastructure. I parried with numbers, milestones, reassurance.
Then a woman near the back stood, eyes bright. “Is it true you disappeared with your bodyguard to a remote location for several days,” she asked. “How do you respond to accusations that you are distracted by a relationship during a national security concern”
There it was.
“My security measures are proportionate to the threats I face,” I said. “And I trust my team. Period.”
“And the relationship,” she pressed.
“Is not the subject of this briefing,” I said. “Your next question should be about security or contracts. If it is not, we are done.”
Before she could decide how badly she wanted more clicks, my comms director’s tablet buzzed, his face shifting as he read. On the wall of background monitors behind the cameras, one of the feeds flickered to a social platform.
Headline text. A play button.
Someone tapped it before anyone could stop them.
A woman’s soft moan filled the room. A man’s voice, low and husky, saying, Relax, I have got you. The muffled ambience of a hotel room that could have been anywhere.
I knew that sound. The pitch of my own breath when I forgot to manage it. The way he had said those words into my hair in Berlin.
The clip was short. No names. No faces. Just enough air and rustle and voice to be plausible, to be cut and remixed and whispered about.
My stomach lurched. For a second the floor felt unstable, like the whole building had shifted two inches to the left. I forced my face to stay neutral. I would not give them a flinch, not on camera.
Reporters’ phones lit up like a field of fireflies. Some glanced at me, then at their screens, trying to match the woman in the audio with the woman in front of them.
“This,” I said calmly, even as my pulse pounded in my throat, “is not a forum for anonymous, unverifiable smear campaigns about my private life. When you have serious, sourced questions about our security work, I will be here. Until then, this briefing is over.”
I walked off before they could press further, dignity held together by sheer stubbornness.
Backstage, the veneer cracked.
I leaned against the wall, palms flat, head tipped back, trying to breathe past the nausea. The sounds from the clip kept replaying in my head over and over, like someone had pressed loop on my worst mistake.
Eli appeared out of nowhere, jaw clenched, eyes burning. “I heard it,” he said. “They have that now too.”
“In front of everyone,” I said. My laugh came out thin. “Our one night in Berlin turned into their ringtone.”
In my office, with the door shut and Mila pulled in, I made myself play it again. We needed to hear what they had cut, what they had left out.
Mila watched the waveform with fury, fingers digging into her own arms. Eli stood like a statue by the window, back rigid. He did not look at the screen when my moan hit the speakers. He looked at me.
“I will find whoever is doing this,” he said. Each word was a promise that sounded a lot like a threat to someone else.
I shook my head, a tear slipping before I could stop it. “We cannot,” I blurted. “We cannot keep pretending this is survivable. Whatever this is between us, it is killing my credibility.”
His face went very still. “You think this goes away if I do,” he asked quietly. “You think they stop because I am not standing next to you in photos”
“They are stitching together a story,” I said. “Berlin. The dock. The stage. Now the sound. Every time we are in the same frame, they get more material. Maybe I need to stop handing them ammunition.”
The words tasted like rust and self betrayal.
He took a breath like he had been hit. “They are not attacking me, Sloane,” he said. “They are attacking you. I am just the camera angle. You could fire me tomorrow and they would still dig into every person you have ever touched.”
I knew he was right. It did not make it hurt less.
I turned away so I would not see his expression. “Maybe,” I whispered, eyes wet, “but I am the one handing them the frames.”
And for the first time, I was not sure which hurt more. The idea of losing him.
Or the idea that keeping him might cost me everything else.