Strategist

The red light of the camera flashes on, signaling the start of the broadcast. I straighten in my chair, doing my best to ignore the dull, lingering ache in my ribs from that night at the resort. The panel doesn’t bother with a warm welcome; they go straight for the jugular with hard questions and traps disguised as curiosity. Each loaded phrase hits like a punch I’m not allowed to block, sending my pulse spiking and tightening my chest.

Then, I feel it—a hand on my leg.

It’s small, controlled, and entirely deliberate. I don’t know Elena Russo personally, but I know the whispers. They say she’s the kind of power-player who can make or break a career with a single conversation. I have no intention of becoming her next project.

I pull my leg away, shifting just enough to break the contact without making a scene. Her hand withdraws smoothly as if she expected the rejection, and her expression remains a perfect, unreadable mask for the cameras. I push through the rest of the segment, my voice remaining steady even as my heart hammers against my ribs. I survive the barrage, but only just.

When the producer finally signals a cut, the lights soften and the tension in the room evaporates. One of the interviewers—the one who spent the last ten minutes trying to dismantle me—steps away to answer a call. I watch her posture shift instantly; her jaw tightens and she looks corrected, as if a higher power just reined her in. When she returns, she wears a sugary, **** smile that makes my stomach drop.

“So,” she says, her voice suddenly bright. “Let’s talk about something a little more personal. Are you dating anyone right now?”

The rest of the panel leans in, smiling too widely. She asks Jasmyn Ellison about her latest concert, then they call me a sought-after bachelor and tease me about being single, while reporter leans forward with a polished glow, asking what kind of woman inspires me. I offer a safe, vague answer that seems to satisfy them, and the segment finally ends.

Elena rises smoothly, brushing imaginary dust from her jacket. She gives me a small, knowing smile before disappearing, leaving me to step into the hallway and finally let my shoulders drop.

But I freeze the moment I hear a familiar voice around the corner.

“…yeah, he’ll meet you at the ranch. Mom already set it up.”

I stop cold. I’d know that Malibu-sun-kissed energy anywhere. I turn the corner and find Savannah, Vanna, leaning against the wall in a short summer dress, looking entirely too carefree for a building full of stiff suits. She ends her call and her eyes light up the second she sees me.

“Big B!” she says, grinning. “Why are you lurking like a horror-movie extra?”

“Vanna… what are you doing here?” I ask, blinking in confusion.

She saunters over like she owns the building, poking my chest playfully. “Just checking on my big brother to make sure you didn’t faint on live TV. You almost did, you know. Your face did that thing it does when you’re trying not to panic—I’ve had front-row seats to that look for twenty years.”

I rub a hand over my face, exhausted. “Vanna, seriously. Why are you here?”

Her expression shifts to that mischievous smile that always signals trouble. “Relax. I’m just the messenger. Mom set something up—someone you need to meet. Someone who can help you, big time.” She nudges my arm, already heading toward the exit. “Come on. Don’t make me drag you. You’ll thank me later.”