"I'm awesome." I sit up, leaning to ruffle his hair. He squirms with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. "Look at me, champ. You know anyone more awesome than me?"
This is how most of my mornings start. Logic dictates that it's easier to get up with Ash at little shit o'clock than it is to fend off his plastic weaponry. I find him easy enough to get around; so far, so normal. I don't think mom had time to get to him, the way she did with me. Maybe he'll be like us. And maybe he won't.
If I can't love him, I can at least be fascinated by him.
Ah, children.
***
"So." Tuija drops a piece of paper on my desk with a gleeful smirk. "Looks like there's trouble in paradise."
I scowl at her. She knows I hate being made to read things just so she can bask in a Big Reveal. "So?"
"Dietrich Montgomery slapped a massive gagging order on Redworld Media this morning."
Now I'm interested. "Did he?"
"They've got something on him. I don't know what—"
"And why the fuck not? Jesus, what do I pay you for?"
She feigns a pout. "Like I haven't already reached out to our sources."
I give a swift nod. "Good girl."
"I'm tickling their prostates as we speak. Figuratively. Anyway—" She perches on the bare edge of my desk, "Word is, he got caught with his pants down. No idea who yet. Wife number three is not going to like that."
"Bet she won't like the pre-nup either, when she finally reads it."
"Maybe. Either way, it's all hush-hush for now. Judge ruled in his favour."
"For now." I can feel my grin spreading, and in front of Tuija, I don't hide it. She doesn't know what I am, of course—nobody really does—but she shares my fondness for cutthroat business and triumph. Human nature is like nails on a chalkboard, no matter what your diagnosis is.
Montgomery is the CEO of my biggest competitor, Global News Systems. He has a couple more channels in the Middle East, but all things considered, we're pretty much equal. On the surface, we get on well—drinks, comfy chatter, the upcoming ball. But neither of us is happy to be equal. Predators never are.
I take Tuija's printed email and scrunch it in my fist. "I want intel. Get Harvey on it. Montgomery'll be extra careful in the wake of this shit...but I'm willing to be patient on this one."
Harvey Bell is my head of security: ex-military, built like an angry quarterback and always, always on the hunt. Probably had some detestable nickname in college like Black Panther. Probably made some lucky girls very happy, and some poor bastards limp for their troubles. He's never afraid of the necessary; he's not a Yes Man, but he never tells me no. Bell is my kind of creature. If anyone can pick Montgomery apart, it's him.
Tuija spreads her freshly manicured nails out and stares at them, sighing. Pure scarlet: atypical choice. "You're going to put the GNS stock in the gutter, aren't you?"
"Yep." I lean back in my chair and put my hands behind my head. "And then buy it in buckets."
"You're such a bastard."
"Language." I roll my eyes at her. "Actually—speaking of gagging orders, did Carson get back to you about the biography?"
Her face falls. "Uh. Yeah. About that..."
"Do not tell me that they can't block it."
"Okay. I won't tell you." She purses her painted, glossy lips. "But it won't make it any less true."
At that moment, my desk phone springs to life, its soft ringtone echoing around the high ceiling of my office. And I recognise the number: SilentWitn3ss. I'd instructed Fliss, my secretary, to buzz any call straight though...but I hadn't expected one this soon. I'll take care of the biographers later.
"Out." I wave Tuija away sharply. "Now."
She glances at the phone before backing away. "Your hooker booking get rejected again?"
"Fuck off and get my fucking sources," I call after her. "Bitch."
"Heil!" she yells, striding out of my office and letting the door click behind her.
I swoop down toward the phone, tucking it between my chin and shoulder. "Aeron Lore."
"Aeron. Hello." That distinctly British voice, husky and tainted with surprise.
"Leontine." The pleasure in my own tone is genuine. I pour it down the receiver with no shame. "I knew Carson was quick, but this is a new record."
"Oh, it's not about the contract. Yet." She pauses. I hear her pink tongue click against her teeth. "I came in this morning to find your tickets." Another pause; an awkward giggle. "The Suicide Ball? Really?"
"The Journalistic Academy Awards," I correct. "I thought you might like the opportunity to network." And she might—it's a prestigious industry event—which just happens to be famous for the fact that every year, at least one idiot gets too drunk, spills classified information, and commits career suicide.
"Sounds risky," she says.
"Sounds entertaining, if you ask me."
"So you'll be there?"
"I have to support the various employees at Lore Corp who excel in their field. Kasha Elliot—you've heard of her, yes?"
"Of course."