The studio was colder than she expected, one of those glass-box sets they used for high-profile “special interviews,” polished within an inch of its life, but still smelling faintly of coffee, nerves, and old wiring.
Celeste sat alone at first, the countdown clock blinking red in the corner, a quiet pulse in her periphery. Across from her, the single chair Arthur Fielding would occupy sat empty, its leather seat gleaming under the ring lights.
She rested her hands on her knees, fingers smoothing the fabric of her pale silk blouse. Jade had picked it, something soft but serious, no statement pieces, no sharp shoulder pads, just Celeste, clean and unarmored.
Damien stood behind the cameras, just outside the cone of lights. His arms folded, expression unreadable except for the subtle clenc
