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killeromanoff · 2 months ago

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I KNOW YOUR GHOST | ch. 1

summary: Cassie Jones thought she had it all figured out—a career built on exposing the truth, a reputation for digging where others wouldn’t, and a burning drive to make the world listen. But after a fallout with her station, the looming shadow of Crawford’s FM... She’s left with nothing but unanswered calls and a shrinking list of allies. Enter Declan O’Hara, a man she’s admired from a distance but never spoken to until now. As he steps into her life, his presence ignites more questions than answers.

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Some political and media industry-related themes, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo), Moral conflict, Slow-burn tension

w.c: 16k

[prologue], [here], [chapter two], [chapter three], [chapter four]

o1. But we could be safer, just for one day

The morning was biting, the kind of cold that seeped through layers and clung stubbornly to the skin. The air smelled faintly of damp stone and the remnants of an early frost that had yet to burn away under the pale winter sun. Cassie stepped out of the station, her boots scraping against the worn stone steps, each movement deliberate, as though bracing herself for the gauntlet that awaited.

Cassie squinted against the glare of the weak sunlight reflecting off the windows of parked cars. The cold was biting, but the sharp light stung her eyes more than the chill ever could. She pulled her coat tighter around herself, the fabric worn but comforting, even as the weight of the morning pressed down on her shoulders.

Every exhale fogged in the cold air, each one a fleeting reminder of how little control she had over the situation.

The street outside looked deceptively calm at first glance—just another morning in Rutshire. Yet, the moment she stepped outside, everything shifted.

The sound of murmurs started low but quickly grew, swelling into a wave as if the whole town had been holding its breath and now it was released all at once. Cameras snapped into focus, their lenses swinging toward her with mechanical precision. She froze for half a second, her fingers tightening reflexively around the strap of her bag.

It wasn’t fear, exactly, but… Complicated , something complicated lodging itself deep in her gut.

The flash of cameras disoriented her, each click and whirr slicing through the air like a small, deliberate insult. The noise built up, crashing into her like an ocean, drowning out everything else. Her breath caught in her throat, her body instinctively wanting to shrink, to step back, but she couldn’t. She forced herself to keep moving, step by step, as though the very act of walking could outrun their focus, could break free from the suffocating weight of their gaze.

The worst of it wasn’t the flashes of light. It wasn’t the blinding intensity of the cameras, each burst of light cutting through the air like a sharp, unwelcome reminder of her visibility. No, the worst of it was how their eyes turned toward her, narrowing like daggers, gleaming with hunger, tracking her every movement.

She could feel them at her back, their stares pressing into her skin, each one sharper than the last, more invasive. It was as if they were waiting—waiting for her to make a mistake, to falter, to give them the moment they’d been thirsting for.

Cassie could almost feel the weight of their stares like knives against her body. She tried not to imagine what would happen if she turned and met one of their eyes, if she dared to look into the crowd. She feared the pain of the blade they would drive into her, the sensation of being pierced by their judgment, their expectations, their need for her to fall apart in front of them.

She didn’t look. She wouldn’t. Instead, her focus remained ahead, her breath shallow, pulse hammering in her ears. Her feet moved forward, one step at a time, as though the act of walking could carry her away from them, from their questions, from the crushing weight of their gaze.

“Miss Jones! Do you have a statement on Crawford’s allegations?”

The voice rang out sharp, pulling her back from the thickening fog in her mind. Another flash, bright and blinding, and she flinched, her grip on her bag tightening until her knuckles ached. She forced her gaze forward, locking it on a single point—just ahead, a cracked tile on the sidewalk.

The cracked edge of it grounded her, something to hold onto in the mess of the moment, something familiar enough to cling to as she willed herself not to crumble.

“Was locking yourself in the studio worth it?”

Another voice, another flash. It felt like the cameras were multiplying, the sounds of shutters clicking so close that she could barely hear herself think. Focus, she told herself. Focus.

Her father’s voice echoed faintly in her mind. Five things you can see.

She squinted, trying to block out the flashes, trying to center herself.

Five things you can see.

The cracked pavement beneath her feet, the chipped paint on the nearest lamppost, the red scarf fluttering against the side of a woman’s coat, the white tips of her breath fogging in the cold air, the green of Freddie’s car ahead, parked just beyond the throng of reporters.

“Do you think your career is over after this?”

Cassie’s chest tightened further at the question, the implication looming over her like a shadow she couldn’t shake. Her throat constricted, her jaw clenching with the effort to hold it all in. She couldn't stop walking, couldn’t let herself falter even as the questions piled on.

Four things you can touch.

Think. Think .

Her fingers gripped the strap of her bag so tightly that her knuckles burned. The rough fabric of her coat rubbed against her arms with each step, a small reminder of the layers between herself and the world pressing in on her. The cold bite of the winter air sliced through the fabric of her clothing, its sharpness grounding her even as it threatened to freeze her in place. The faint warmth rising from her own breath, visible in the air, was a fragile comfort—an acknowledgment that she was still here, still breathing.

The crowd pressed in tighter. The noise only grew louder, more insistent. The cameras closed the distance, their flashes blinding. Eyes trained on her with hungry precision, demanding something from her, something she didn’t know if she could give.

Three things you can hear.

The flash of cameras was constant, a sharp rhythm that pounded against her skull. The voices, though—those were the worst. The questions, the demands, the judgment—they cut through the air like daggers.

“Miss Jones, is this the end of your time at Crawford’s FM?”

“Do you regret your actions of yesterday?”

“Aren't you the daughter of Matthew Jones?”

The noise, overwhelming, disorienting, built to a wave that crashed into her with each step she took. Every flash felt like it was aimed directly at her, a blinding light that numbed the world and forced her to squint, to retreat further within herself. It wasn’t just the flashes, though. It was the voices, the questions, the insistent demand for something from her.

She could feel it— they wanted her. They wanted her to crumble, to break down, to make a spectacle of herself. But she had nothing left to give. Nothing more to offer.

She felt herself drowning in it, the pressure to answer, to be something for them, something they could consume, a story they could shape and sell. But there was no way out. No safe place. She wasn’t a person to them. She was just a story—a body, walking through their storm of flashing lights and sharp words, an object to dissect, to feed on.

The truth, her truth, was being drowned in the noise.

Two things you can smell.

She tried to focus on something, anything, that would pull her back from the whirlpool of anxiety that threatened to swallow her whole. Focus, Cassie. You can do this.

The cold, biting air around her was sharp and raw, its chill sinking through her coat, its edge cutting deeper than it should. It was a reminder of the world outside the press—of the tangible, of reality.

But even it felt foreign now, distorted by everything else around her. The faint scent of gasoline mingled with the exhaust from the parked cars, the smell of something mechanical, something that didn’t belong to her. But it wasn’t just the smell of the cars—it was the smell of the crowd, too.

Sweat, metal, cold breath—the scent of people packed too closely, their energy seeping into her, their anxiety feeding into her own. There was something else, though, something unfamiliar that made her feel like the air itself was pressing in too tightly around her. Something suffocating, almost as if the weight of their gaze had become a physical force in the air.

One thing you can taste.

Her body reacted, a reflex that she couldn’t control, couldn’t stop. The taste in her mouth was dry, metallic, like blood, like copper. It wasn’t from any injury—no physical wound—but from the panic, from the rush of fear and overwhelm that surged in her chest and settled like a lead weight in her stomach.

It was the taste of her body’s fight-or-flight response. Her mouth was dry, and the bitter, coppery sensation settled on her tongue, warning her, something’s wrong .

But she couldn’t stop. She couldn’t falter now, not with Freddie’s car just ahead. One more step, she thought. Just one more step.

And then— there it was.

The green of Freddie’s car, parked at the curb just ahead, a solid anchor in the chaos. The outline of Freddie leaning against it, arms casually crossed, waiting. His posture was relaxed, but Cassie could see the tension in his shoulders, the way his eyes followed her.

He didn’t move toward her just yet—he knew better than that. But she could feel the steadiness in his gaze, the quiet readiness to step in if she needed him.

Freddie had always been that way. Even in moments like this—when the whole world seemed to close in around her, when every click of a camera or harsh question from the press felt like it was driving her deeper into a corner—he knew how to stay calm. He wasn’t a man who panicked, not for himself and certainly not for her.

And Cassie? She could almost feel the pull of his calmness, the way it anchored her, made the world outside his car feel distant, less suffocating.

Everytime she found themselves in those situations, she wondered if he didn’t give her these first minutes so she could try to stand her ground herself.

Perhaps the time she had screamed at him as a child when he tried to help her walk through a park truly traumatized him.

She kept her eyes on him, letting the sight of him be the only constant in the storm. She could tell he was waiting for her to reach him, not pushing, not rushing, but keeping his distance just enough to give her space to breathe. He knew the look on her face—the exhaustion, the determination not to break. He’d seen it in her before.

She wasn’t sure if it was the heaviness of the day or the sheer relief of seeing him, but the tension in her chest eased just slightly. One more step. One more.

As she neared the car, Freddie moved toward her, stepping into her path to shield her from the press that was pressing in too closely. His hand lightly touched her elbow as if to guide her, but not to hurry her.

It was almost written in his face: See? You could do it, I didn’t want to risk and get punched again.

“You good?” he asked, not so much a question but more a reassurance. He’d seen her more stressed than this, but it didn’t make seeing her like this any easier.

Cassie looked at him for a moment, her breath shallow but steadying, and she nodded, though the tightness in her chest hadn’t entirely gone. She couldn’t quite manage a smile, but she appreciated the simplicity of his gesture.

He wasn’t making her talk. He wasn’t pushing her. He just... Knew.

“I’ll get you out of here,” he said quietly, as they navigated through the last of the reporters. His voice was calm, not dismissive, just steady—almost like a shield that kept the world from closing in.

When they reached the car, Freddie opened the door for her with a quiet gentleness that was far removed from the scene around them. Cassie didn’t hesitate. She slipped inside, letting the car’s quiet hum swallow the noise outside. Freddie followed her, shutting the door behind him with a definitive sound that felt like the end of something—of the chaos, of the pressure.

He turned the key in the ignition, and the familiar rumble of the engine was the first real sound that felt like it belonged to her world again.

Freddie kept his hands on the wheel, his grip firm but relaxed, as the quiet rumble of the car engine filled the space between them. The steady hum felt comforting, a far cry from the chaos they’d just left behind. Cassie stared out the window, watching the blur of streets pass by, the world outside still moving while hers had felt like it had frozen in place.

She was aware of the pressure building up again in her chest, that familiar uncertainty, the questions she hadn’t yet answered echoing in her mind.

The soft click of the blinker was the only interruption to the silence. Freddie glanced at her quickly, his gaze steady, his voice almost too calm.

“What was the one thing I asked you not to do?”

She didn’t look at him, just stared out the window, biting the inside of her cheek as she replayed the conversation he was referring to in her mind.

“To not blow this up?” she said, her voice reluctant.

Freddie nodded slowly, his eyes back on the road. He didn’t sound angry—just... Resigned. Like he had been expecting this.

“And what did you do?”

Cassie shifted in her seat, her fingers drumming lightly on the edge of the door. She didn’t have the energy to lie, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to face the truth, either.

She shifted uncomfortably, leaning her head back against the headrest.

“Are you really gonna make me say it?” She asked back.

Freddie didn’t respond right away. Instead, he gave a little grunt, his focus unwavering as they passed the familiar landmarks of the town.

After a long moment, he finally spoke again, his tone gentle but with that firm edge she knew too well.

“You know,” he started, letting the words sit for a moment before continuing, “this could’ve been a lot easier if you'd just listened. You could've avoided this whole thing.”

Cassie’s eyes narrowed slightly, her frustration bubbling to the surface.

“Easier?” she repeated quietly, “You know I couldn’t just sit there and let them sweep everything I had done under the rug, Uncle. Not after what happened.”

He didn’t respond right away, but his gaze flicked to her, then back to the road.

The hum of the tires on the road became a steady rhythm, grounding Cassie even as her thoughts threatened to spiral.

She glanced out the window again, the passing scenery blurring into a canvas of muted colors. She recognized the landmarks of Rutshire, the same streets she’d walked as a kid, but they felt distant now, like they belonged to someone else’s story.

Freddie sighed, a low sound that seemed to carry his unspoken concerns. His hands on the wheel tightened briefly before relaxing again.

“I get it,” he said, his tone softer now, “I do . But it doesn’t make it any easier. And now you’ve got to deal with the fallout. The press is going to keep circling, and you’re not going to be able to outrun them.”

Cassie’s fingers curled around the strap of her bag, the worn leather grounding her in a way she desperately needed.

“I know," she said, her voice quieter but resolute, "But I won’t just lie down and take it. If they want to turn me into a headline, fine. I just want it to be the truth.”

Freddie glanced at her briefly, his expression unreadable.

“So what happens now?” he asked after a beat, his tone quieter but still steady, “What’s your plan?”

Cassie shifted in her seat, uncomfortable under the weight of the question.

“I don’t know,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

She hadn’t thought that far ahead, hadn’t allowed herself to. The last 24 hours had been a blur of adrenaline and consequence. She couldn’t see past the next few steps, and even those felt like quicksand.

She hesitated, her throat tightening, “I just… I don’t want Mom to know. Not yet. Please.”

Freddie let out another sigh, heavier this time.

“Cassie—she’s going to find out sooner or later. You can’t keep this from her.”

“I know,” Cassie snapped, her tone sharper than she intended. She closed her eyes briefly, exhaling slowly before continuing, “But I need time to figure it out. I need some space.”

Freddie’s gaze softened slightly as he glanced at her again, his brow furrowed with concern.

“Please, Uncle Freddie,” she asked, “She’ll just… Freak out. I can’t deal with that right now.”

He didn’t respond immediately. The quiet in the car felt almost oppressive, the unspoken tension between them stretching thin.

“Fine,” he said, sighing one more time, “I won’t tell her. But this thing, it’s not going away. You’re going to have to face it sooner or later.”

“I know,” Cassie whispered, her words barely audible, “But not yet.”

The conversation lulled, the hum of the tires filling the space again. Cassie leaned back in her seat, her body heavy with exhaustion. The familiar sight of her father’s house came into view, and for a moment, a wave of nostalgia and grief washed over her.

It had been years since she’d been back—since it had been anything but a memory she tried to keep at arm’s length. But now, it was all she had left for a couple of months.

Freddie pulled into the driveway, the car slowing to a stop. Cassie glanced over at him, his jaw tight, his expression set in that familiar way that reminded her of how he’d always been: protective, steady, the kind of presence she could rely on even when everything else felt like it was crumbling.

“Thanks for bailing me out,” she said, her voice softer now.

Freddie’s lips twitched into a small smile, but his eyes were still focused ahead.

“You’re lucky I was already there and the one who got the call, kid. If it had been your mom, you’d be locked down tighter than Fort Knox for the next week.”

Cassie let out a dry chuckle, though the sound didn’t quite reach her eyes.

“I’ll take my chances with you.”

Freddie shut off the engine and leaned back in his seat, glancing at her with a raised eyebrow.

“Well, let’s just hope the next ‘incident’ doesn’t involve a higher bail, alright?” he lifted his brows, a funny smile adorning his face, “For now, let’s get you inside.”

The click of the car doors broke the stillness, and Cassie stepped out, her boots crunching against the gravel. The air was crisp and sharp, carrying the faint smell of damp earth from the recent rain. She tugged her coat closer, her breath visible in the chilly morning light as she took in the surroundings.

The house looked much the same as it had for the past few months since she’d moved in—though a little too neat now, suspiciously so .

The front porch, which had once been stacked with deliveries and odds and ends she hadn’t yet unpacked, was clear. The flowerbeds on either side of the walkway, previously overrun with weeds she hadn’t bothered to tackle, had been trimmed and tidied, the soil freshly turned. Even the small patch of grass in front of the house, which she had ignored in favor of her work, had been cut with a precision she could never have mustered.

Her little witch house , how Bas liked so much of calling it, was a witch house no more.

Her eyes narrowed, suspicion creeping in.

“Wait a second,” she followed Freddie toward the door, “You’ve been here, haven’t you?”

“I might’ve stopped by,” he said nonchalantly, “Didn’t think you’d want to come home to a mess.”

Cassie’s gaze darted to the freshly swept porch and then back to him, her expression caught somewhere between disbelief and reluctant gratitude. He wasn’t wrong—coming home to overgrown chaos would’ve made the day feel even worse. It was already getting her nervous: the chaos and her lack of time to take care of it.

Now that she was unemployed, time wouldn’t be lacking! Ha-ha!

“You’re right,” she admitted begrudgingly, crossing her arms, “But still…” She let the words trail off, “How thorough were you? Please tell me you didn’t drag her into this.”

Freddie turned to face her fully this time, leaning against the doorframe with a smirk.

“Her?” he asked, his tone deliberately teasing.

Cassie groaned, her arms tightening across her chest.

“You know who,” she replied, her voice dry, “If I walk in and find that wife of yours, I’m kicking you both out. No offense, but I really don’t like her. What’s the problem with eating—”

She stopped mid-sentence as she unlocked the front door and opened it, her words dying on her lips. Standing in the living room, a teacup balanced effortlessly in one hand, was Lizzie Vereker.

Lizzie’s presence filled the room effortlessly, as it always did.

She had a certain poise that was hard to define—an air of effortless elegance mixed with sharp wit. Her blonde hair was pulled back neatly, not a strand out of place, and her fitted jacket and boots suggested she had walked straight out of a glossy magazine but didn’t care enough to admit it.

“Cassie,” Lizzie raised her teacup in greeting, “Welcome home.”

Cassie blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before her expression softened into a wide smile. The tension in her shoulders eased for the first time in hours.

“Oh, Lizzie!” she exclaimed, her tone immediately warmer, “So good to see you!”

Lizzie stepped forward gracefully, her movements fluid, as if the chaos of the world outside the house couldn’t touch her. She stopped just short of Cassie, her eyes flickering with humor as she surveyed her.

“And you,” Lizzie replied, her voice carrying that natural lilt of amusement Cassie had always liked about her, “Though I imagine this isn’t the time, I must say, I loved everything you said yesterday. It takes some courage, that’s for sure.”

Cassie’s smile faltered for a moment, the weight of the day creeping back into her mind. She opened her mouth to respond, but Freddie cut in from the doorway, where he leaned with arms crossed, clearly enjoying the exchange.

“Oh, don’t encourage her, Lizzie,” Freddie said with a grin, “She’ll think storming a studio and locking herself in was part of some grand plan.”

Cassie turned, raising an eyebrow at him, grinning herself, “And wasn’t it?”

Freddie snorted, shaking his head.

“If by ‘plan,’ you mean dragging me out of bed at some ungodly hour to try to intercept you,” Freddie said, his voice tinged with dry humor, “Failing spectacularly , and then having to bail you out— sure , let’s call it that.”

Lizzie chuckled, her eyes darting between them as if she were watching a particularly entertaining play. She took a slow sip of her tea, her smirk growing.

“Well,” she said, her tone light but unmistakably sharp, “if it was a plan, I’d say it worked. You’ve certainly got people talking.”

Cassie groaned softly, raking a hand through her hair, the tension in her body apparent.

“Yeah, talking about whether I’ve completely lost my mind.”

Lizzie didn’t reply immediately. Instead, she turned gracefully and gestured toward the living room.

“Come on, then,” she said, moving toward the small table set with a teapot and two extra cups, “Let’s get off our feet. You both look like you could use this more than me.”

Freddie followed without hesitation, while Cassie lingered for a moment, watching Lizzie’s movements. She was always so effortless, so deliberate in everything she did, as though every small gesture had its own purpose.

By the time Cassie joined them, Lizzie had already poured tea into the two remaining cups. She handed Freddie his first, then turned to Cassie, pressing the warm porcelain into her hands with a small smile.

“Drink,” she said, raising her own teacup slightly, her smirk softening into something more thoughtful.

Cassie took a cautious sip, the warmth of the tea spreading through her palms and easing the edge of the cold still clinging to her. She watched as Lizzie raised her cup again, her movements almost ceremonial.

“A touch of madness is underrated, Cassie,” Lizzie said, her voice quieter now, but no less confident, “It’s the predictable ones no one remembers.”

Cassie paused, letting the words settle in her mind. There was something about the way Lizzie said them, the precision and ease in her delivery, that made them linger.

It wasn’t just what she said but how she said it—measured and deliberate, like a writer crafting her lines with the kind of care that made them stick.

Of course, Lizzie was a writer. That’s why she could sway people so effortlessly, why her words carried weight even when they came wrapped in a smirk. It wasn’t lost on Cassie how Lizzie’s confidence seemed to fill the room, not overwhelming it but grounding it, drawing others in without demanding their attention.

The thought brought Cassie a small, unexpected comfort, easing the tension in her chest just slightly. Lizzie’s presence had a way of making things feel less chaotic, less overwhelming, as though the storm outside the house couldn’t touch them here.

It was good to see her like this, Cassie realized, enjoying the side of Lizzie that was unburdened by her husband’s presence. If anyone asked her, Cassie would have no problem saying it: Lizzie and Freddie were undoubtedly bound by their shared taste in... Less-than-ideal partners.

For the first time that morning, Cassie allowed herself to let go of her guard. She looked directly at Lizzie, meeting her gaze fully. It wasn’t something she often did—eye contact always felt like a risk, like it would slice her in a half.

But now, the act felt steadying, reassuring in a way she hadn’t anticipated.

She smiled, small but genuine, the warmth from the teacup in her hands spreading to her chest. Lizzie noticed, of course—she always noticed—but said nothing, simply tilting her head slightly in acknowledgment before taking another sip of tea.

“Then they say I’m the one talented with words,” Cassie said, her voice tinged with a trace of irony. She darted her gaze away, focusing on the warm tea in her hands, using the cup as a shield from the thoughts still swirling in her mind.

“And you are,” Lizzie said, the smile never leaving her lips, “You could write a book if you wanted. People would read it.”

Cassie let out a dry chuckle, shaking her head as she leaned back, letting the softness of the moment wrap around her like a warm blanket.

“Doubt it would sell,” she muttered.

In the corner of the room, the rotary phone began to ring, its sharp, persistent tone cutting through the warmth of their conversation. Cassie’s gaze flicked to it briefly before returning to the scattered papers on the table—notes from interviews that felt like relics of a past life.

The ringing persisted, the sound grating and insistent, like an accusation she couldn’t ignore.

“Crawford’s plan is working, though,” Cassie continued, her voice trailing off as the unease in her stomach twisted again, “He’s made sure anyone who could help me—anyone who might’ve given me a shot—they’re already turned away. Every single one of the people I had planned to interview…”

Her words faltered as her hand gestured vaguely toward the table.

Lizzie leaned forward slightly, resting her elbows on her knees, her expression softening. The room, warm with the aroma of tea and faint lavender, seemed to hold its breath as she spoke.

“You’re giving Crawford too much credit,” her tone measured, as though she were trying to pull Cassie back from her spiraling thoughts, “He’s powerful, sure. But he’s not omnipotent.”

Cassie’s lips twitched into something that wasn’t quite a smile—more a bitter acknowledgment.

The phone’s ringing continued, cutting through the air like a blade.

“You think I’m being paranoid?” Cassie asked, her voice carrying a weary edge as her eyes darted between Lizzie and Freddie.

Freddie, who had been quietly nursing his own cup of tea, leaned forward. The leather of his chair creaked softly under the shift of his weight. His elbows rested on his knees, and his hands clasped loosely as he regarded her with a steady, thoughtful gaze.

“No,” Freddie said plainly, his voice steady but not unkind, “I think you’re being too negative.”

The silence that followed seemed to settle heavily over the room, broken only by the soft hiss of the radiator. Cassie’s frown deepened as she thought more and more about what had happened, what she had done.

Freddie pushed himself up from his chair, his movements deliberate, and crossed the room. The floor creaked beneath his weight, a sound that seemed louder in the tense quiet. He stopped at the rotary phone, his gaze falling on the answering machine beside it.

“You want to talk about Crawford’s plan?” he said, resting his hand lightly on the edge of the machine, “Let’s hear it for ourselves.”

Cassie stiffened in her chair, her lips parting as though to protest, “Freddie, don’t—”

“Might as well,” Lizzie interrupted, leaning back in her seat and crossing her arms, “If you’re convinced everyone’s turned their back on you, let’s see if that’s true.”

Cassie shook her head, her hands gripping the bloody teacup.

“I don’t need to hear it. I already know what they’ll say.”

“Do you?” Freddie asked, his calm tone challenging her resolve.

Cassie opened her mouth to protest, but Freddie was quicker. His fingers moved with purpose, pressing the button on the answering machine. The mechanical click echoed through the quiet room, a sound that, despite its ordinariness, seemed to sharpen the tension in the air.

Her fingers held firmly around the edges of her teacup, her knuckles pale against the porcelain as the words from the machine filled the room.

“Cassandra,” the first voice said, clipped and urgent, “This is Alan Withers. I’ve heard about the stunt you pulled, and while I understand you’re passionate, I cannot afford to be seen associated with... Good luck. ”

Cassie’s eyes dropped to her lap, the cold porcelain of the teacup doing nothing to help her. The air around her felt thinner, as if it were trying to suffocate the storm swirling inside her.

Alan . Now, a closed door.

His rejection felt personal, even though she knew it wasn’t. It was just the world she had chosen to be a part of.

But now, standing in the wake of that decision, it didn’t feel like a choice at all.

Lizzie shifted slightly, the soft clink of her teacup against the saucer as she adjusted her position. She spoke, but her words felt distant, as if they were just part of the atmosphere and not quite meant for Cassie.

“Well, that’s one way to say nothing,” she muttered under her breath, trying to lighten the moment, but the words fell flat, like a poorly thrown stone.

Cassie didn’t respond, her mind spinning with the implications of Alan’s words. She wanted to argue, to tell herself that this didn’t matter—that she was right, that she wasn’t the problem—but she couldn’t bring herself to say it out loud.

She shifted in her seat, her fingers lightly tracing the edge of the teacup. The warm porcelain against her fingertips should have been comforting, but her thoughts were miles away, swirling in a mix of frustration and helplessness.

The machine beeped again, and Cassie’s stomach churned with the anticipation of what might come next.

“Cassie, it’s David from Insight Weekly . I’m sorry, but after everything that’s happened, we’ve decided to shelve the feature. It’s just... Too hot right now. I wish you the best.”

Her chest tightened further at the sound of his voice. She had relied on David—trusted him as one of the few allies who might have helped her navigate the politics of this world.

But now, even he has backed away. She knew it wasn’t personal, again , she knew that—she knew it was the nature of the beast they were all a part of— but it felt personal. No matter how she tried to convince herself it wasn’t.

Every time one of them backed away, it felt like another piece of herself was chipped away.

“See?” she said softly, almost to herself, “This is exactly what Crawford wanted. He’s cut me off from everything.”

Freddie stood silently, his gaze focused on the machine, but he didn’t speak immediately. Cassie wanted to say something—wanted to ask him to turn it off. But she couldn’t find the words.

Her throat was dry, a knot in her chest, and the room felt smaller than it had just moments before.

“Cassie,” a familiar, softer voice began, “It’s Nathan. I think I might’ve found more documents you’d want to see. I can meet this weekend. Let me know.”

Cassie’s focus snapped back to the speaker, and the suddenness of the words made her pause.

Nathan’s voice brought with it a reminder of everything she had worked for—the construction scandal, the faulty materials, the cover-up that had been buried beneath corporate lies. All in his own workplace.

She remembered the late nights, the piles of documents strewn across her desk, the adrenaline of uncovering something that could actually make a difference. But those days felt distant now, like something just out of reach.

Lizzie watched her closely, a quiet acknowledgment of Cassie’s internal shift. Always reading her mind.

“See, not everyone’s written you off,” she said gently.

Cassie didn’t respond right away, lost in the recollections of what Nathan had told her. She had started this, but now the world seemed too big to handle alone. Every part of her wanted to follow through, to pick up the pieces, but the reality of being on her own—the consequences of defying Crawford—had set in. She had nothing to rely on now.

Then, another voice came through.

“Cassie,” the machine crackled, “It’s Sarah Halverson. You talked to me about the water issues near the factory. I—I’m scared. They’ve been sending people to my house, and I don’t know what to do. Please, if you’re still working on this, call me.”

Cassie stood frozen for a moment.

She remembered Sarah clearly—her face, her quiet fear as they sat together and discussed the dangers surrounding the factory. Cassie had promised Sarah she’d do everything she could to get the truth out.

But now, with everything falling apart, it felt like Sarah’s voice was just one more reminder of how far she had fallen.

For a moment, the room felt unbearably quiet, the hum of the radiator and Lizzie’s tea cup returning to her hands. Everything felt so irrelevant.

Her mind pulled her back to the interview with Sarah, her trembling hands clutching a cheap plastic cup of tea. Cassie had promised her, “I’ll make sure they hear your story.” But now?

Now Sarah was being threatened, and Cassie had no platform left to fight for her. The silence stretched on until Freddie cleared his throat, his voice breaking through her haze.

“This woman believes in you, Cassie,” he said quietly, nodding toward the phone, “She’s terrified, and she still called you. That means something.”

But Freddie’s words didn’t reach her—not fully.

"Depending on me?" she muttered, her voice barely audible.

She crossed her arms tightly, her teacup long forgotten—pacing toward the window. The pale light filtering through the sheer curtains did little to soften the storm raging inside her.

"How am I supposed to help anyone?" The words burst out of her, "I don’t have a platform, Uncle. Crawford made sure of that. No one will hire me—not after what I’ve done. I’ve got nothing."

Her fingers tightened against the window frame, the cold biting at her skin. She tried to steady her breathing, but the thought of Sarah—alone, frightened—twisted in her chest like a knife.

"I promised her I’d help," she whispered, almost to herself, "But what can I even do anymore? There’s no one left to listen."

The next message began, not giving time for Freddie or Lizzie to try arguing. Instead, both of them exchanged a look.

Cassie steeled herself. She wasn’t sure if she could handle more disappointment.

“Cassie,” came the familiar voice of her mother, chirpy and unaware. Despite everything, Cassie tried to embrace herself, but more disappointment would come for sure , “Sweetie, I miss you! How are you there? How’s your job? You do know if anything goes south, you can always come back here and I’ll help you find a good husband. Just please, give me some updates about how you’re doing there!”

Cassie groaned, dragging a hand through her hair. Her mother’s words stabbed at her, each one a reminder of how far removed her family was from her world. To her mother, Cassie’s career was just a phase—a way to delay the inevitable: s ettling down, giving up .

The gulf between their worlds had never seemed so wide.

She was exhausted—exhausted in a way that went beyond sleepless nights and long days. It was a bone-deep weariness, the kind that came from constantly trying to explain herself to people who never seemed to understand. How could they?

She had left Chicago for a reason, though even now, it felt like no one really got why. It wasn’t just about escaping the predictable future her mother envisioned for her—a housewife with a perfect smile and a carefully curated life. It was more than that.

Cassie wanted to matter.

She wanted to take the tools she had—the sharp instincts, the knack for seeing what others missed—and do something with them. The world was covered in layers of polished lies, a pristine rug under which powerful men swept their sins. She wanted to rip that rug away, to expose what lay beneath: the stolen innocence, the squandered money, the lives destroyed by greed and neglect.

And yet, no one else seemed to understand.

To her mother, ambition was just a stepping stone to disappointment. To her peers, it was easier to keep their heads down, to avoid making waves…

The loneliness of it all dragged her down, but the spark inside her refused to die. If no one else saw it, if no one else believed in it, then she would . She had to. Because if she didn’t, who would?

“Can we be done already?”

The words slipped from her lips, soft and fractured, as if she’d spoken them into a void. Cassie wasn’t talking to Lizzie or Freddie; she was talking to the storm in her head, to the endless loop of thoughts that kept dragging her under.

Freddie didn’t respond right away. Instead, he moved with deliberate calm, stepping over to the phone and turning it off, silencing missed calls. The absence of sound was deafening, the stillness thick and unyielding.

Then, he finally dared to ask, “You’re still against the idea of joining, aren’t you?”

Cassie stopped mid-step, her pulse quickening as her shoulders stiffened. She didn’t need him to say it. The meaning hung heavy in the air between them, unspoken but unmistakable . Her gaze dropped to the floor, as though meeting his eyes might shatter whatever fragile resolve she had left.

“ I can’t ,” she said, her voice trembling under the weight of her own admission. She straightened her posture, trying to steady herself, but the words felt like glass in her throat, “ I wasn’t made for that. I can’t have my face on a screen, Freddie. It’s not who I am. ”

The silence that followed felt sharper than any argument, heavier than any rebuke. She wished, desperately, that she was wrong. That she could be the person Freddie seemed to think she could be.

How much easier would everything be if she had been born with a stronger spine. If her voice didn’t falter when too many eyes turned her way…

The thought of stepping in front of a camera made her stomach churn, her pulse thrum erratically in her ears.

The idea of Venturer had been lingering for weeks now—a chance to join her uncle’s project, to have a platform big enough to amplify voices like Sarah’s and Nathan’s. It was everything she had ever wanted, yet it felt wrong , suffocating in ways she couldn’t put into words.

The thought of facing an audience, of staring into cold, unblinking cameras instead of speaking from the safety of her anonymity, made her chest tighten painfully. She shook her head as nausea crept up, sharp and relentless.

“ How would I even do it? ” she whispered, almost to herself.

Cassie looked away, fixing her gaze on the far wall as if it might anchor her.

I can barely look someone in the eyes without my nerves turning on me. How could I put myself on a screen for all of them to see? For all of them to judge?

Her hands clenched into fists at her sides. She had stories to tell—a cause worth fighting for. But could she sacrifice herself, her sense of safety, to make it happen?

The unease settled in deeper as her thoughts spiraled further, pulling her into darker considerations. Freddie had spent weeks trying to bring her into Venturer, his work on the project tethered to his closest friends.

But in Rutshire, nothing came without opposition, and Venturer had its rival: Tony Baddingham’s empire…

Goddamnit , she had almost forgotten about that bastard.

“Do you think that maniac, Tony Baddingham, knows anything about this yet? My... Stunt? ” Cassie’s voice was barely above a whisper, yet the concern was clear in her tone.

Lizzie raised an eyebrow, her calm demeanor not faltering.

“Probably doesn’t even know you exist,” she tried to brush the tension aside.

But Freddie’s reaction was different. His brow furrowed, the corners of his mouth tightening as his thoughts drifted to darker possibilities.

“I’ve kept my word," he said after a pause, his voice steadier than his expression, “I haven’t mentioned you to anyone in the circles you wanted to avoid. That includes Tony.”

Cassie exhaled, relief washing over her in brief, fleeting waves. But the fear lingered, shadowy and persistent.

What if they were wrong?

Her connection to Freddie had always been something she kept at arm’s length, knowing full well the consequences if someone like Baddingham found out. Her uncle had warned her countless times about the man’s ruthlessness, his uncanny ability to weaponize even the smallest vulnerabilities.

Tony Baddingham would do anything to destroy Venturer, without hesitation, and if he found out she was part of it—Freddie’s niece—she knew he wouldn’t hesitate to use her against them.

Freddie stepped closer, his hand resting lightly on her shoulder. His touch was grounding, a small gesture meant to steady her as her thoughts threatened to spiral out of control again.

“Hey,” he said softly, “It won’t happen. You’re too careful. There’s no way for him to make the connection—not unless you want him to.”

His confidence was reassuring, but Cassie couldn’t ignore the tightness in his jaw, the unspoken acknowledgment that even Freddie couldn’t control every variable.

“We’re resilient,” he added, his hand giving her shoulder a gentle squeeze, “If it comes to it, we’ll figure it out. But this?” He gestured faintly toward her, toward the doubt clouding her features, “You can’t let it paralyze you.”

Cassie nodded slowly, though the storm inside her was far from over. Still, Freddie’s presence gave her something to hold onto—a flicker of possibility in the chaos. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to take the next step forward.

“I don’t know, Uncle,” she darted her aways between him and Lizzie, “I don’t know how to help these people anymore, I don’t have a platform to do that. No radio station will hire me, and I won’t go back to Chicago.”

Freddie’s gaze held steady, his voice unwavering.

“You don’t need a platform handed to you, Cassie. You’ve always found your own way. You didn’t start because someone gave you a microphone—you started because you couldn’t stay quiet.”

Cassie’s shoulders tensed at his words, how they pondered in her mind. She leaned forward, running a hand through her hair, frustrated by the constant loop of helpless thoughts swirling in her mind.

“But that was different,” she replied, her voice strained. She rubbed her temples, trying to stave off the headache that seemed to pulse with each word, “This isn’t some blog or local tip-off. Sarah needs real help. Nathan’s risking his neck with those documents… And there is for sure more people where they came from. They need more than someone shouting into the void.”

The room seemed to close in around her as the words left her mouth, the air heavy with the unsaid. She wasn’t just talking about Sarah and Nathan anymore. She was talking about herself, the fight she had started that now felt like it was slipping out of her control.

The frustration simmered beneath her skin, making her restless.

Lizzie, who had been sitting across the table, leaned back in her chair with a slight, knowing smile. Her tone was light, almost teasing, but there was a sharpness to it that Cassie couldn’t ignore.

"You make it sound like shouting into the void is nothing," Lizzie said, carrying an edge that cut through the fog in Cassie’s mind, "Maybe you forgot, but you’ve been shouting into the void for years—and people listened. That’s why you’re here."

Cassie shot Lizzie a look, but didn’t respond.

She knew Lizzie was right. Deep down, she knew it. But that didn’t make the doubt fade.

It didn’t make the uncertainty about whether she had anything left to give vanish.

She’d always believed that stories could change the world—that her voice could make the difference. But lately? Lately, it felt like all she was doing was chasing her own tail, stuck in a cycle of frustration and failure. There was too much at stake now. The fight wasn’t just hers anymore.

Her eyes wandered across the room, lingering on the mess of papers scattered on the table. Her unfinished work. Her unspoken promises. And through it all, that suffocating feeling—the one that told her she was running out of time to make any of it count.

Cassie swallowed hard, trying to push the tightness in her throat down, but it wouldn’t go.

“I don’t know if I can do it anymore,” she muttered, more to herself than to either of them.

Freddie sighed, but kept himself quiet. He could hear it in her voice—the uncertainty, the defeat she was too proud to admit. His jaw clenched briefly before he exhaled, shifting in his seat.

“Cassie, you’ve been through worse, and you’ve always come out the other side. This is no different.”

Freddie’s voice was steady, but there was something in the way he said it—something that held the weight of their shared history. She met his eyes despite the internal pain it caused, yet her gaze quickly faltered, unable to hold the connection.

His belief in her was palpable, but it only made the doubt gnaw at her harder.

“I’ve never been silenced like this before,” she whispered, the words slipping out before she could stop them.

She turned away slightly, her back to him, her fingers gripping the edge of the table. The room was suddenly too small, the air too thick with the pressure of his expectations.

Cassie knew what he was thinking.

He was thinking that if she accepted his offer, everything could change. She’d have a platform, a voice loud enough to make a difference. It was the opportunity she’d always dreamed of, a step up in her career. She had always prided herself on being someone who didn’t wait for opportunities to come to her—she made them.

But this? This felt different.

Her mind raced, but it wouldn’t let her consider it fully. She could see it, clear as day—the image of her face, her name, broadcasted across every screen in Rutshire, in every household. Everyone would know her. Everyone would see who she really was, the woman behind the words, the person who had always kept her distance from the limelight.

It wasn’t about the career boost. She knew this was the kind of exposure that would propel her forward, that could change everything for her. But it came with a price. The idea of being that exposed, of having every part of her life scrutinized by people who would never understand, made her stomach twist.

Would they care about the stories she told? Or would they focus on what she wore, how she stood, whether her words matched her image? She wasn’t sure she could bear the thought of being picked apart in that way, of everyone trying to dissect her every move.

She’d always been better off behind the scenes, in the shadows where she could move unnoticed, a voice without a face.

Cassie turned back to Freddie, her hands clenched at her sides.

“I don’t know if I’m ready for that,” she said, her voice small, “To be seen. To be exposed.”

Freddie didn’t respond immediately. He didn’t need to. He understood what she meant, even if he didn’t fully understand how deep was her turmoil.

He had his own demons, his own vulnerabilities. But Cassie wasn’t him. She wasn’t built for the spotlight in the way he might’ve been.

“I get it,” Freddie said quietly after a moment, “You don’t have to make the decision right now. But you’ve never backed down before. You’ve always had the courage to stand up and face it. This... This could be another one of those times. Just think about it, Cass.”

The words felt both comforting and suffocating. The encouragement was there, but so was the unspoken pressure, the weight of an opportunity that might slip through her fingers if she didn’t take it now. It wasn’t just about the decision anymore—it was about whether or not she had the courage to step into the unknown and face everything that would come with it.

She didn’t want to disappoint him, or herself. But this wasn’t just another story to chase. This was her life, her identity, everything she’d built and protected slipping away in an instant. And the scariest part? She didn’t know if she was ready to give that up. Not yet.

Lizzie and Freddie had been gone for about an hour, but it felt like the day had stretched into an eternity. The silence in the house was deafening, a stark contrast to the constant buzz of the phone calls and conversations that had been filling her life just days ago. Cassie leaned back in her chair, the worn wood creaking under her, as her eyes fixed on the rotary phone in the corner of the room.

The phone, once a lifeline, now seemed like an enemy. Its presence mocked her, a reminder of the calls she had ignored—the people reaching out for help, for answers. Every missed call, every voicemail, was a reminder of her failure to provide what they needed.

The truth. Justice. Their voices. Now, she was unable to even summon the will to pick up the receiver.

Her mind ran in circles.

They’re all waiting for me, and I can’t even give them the time of day, she thought bitterly.

How could she help them when she couldn’t help herself? How could she expose the corruption, the lies when she didn’t have a platform to stand on? Without the station, without any means to broadcast what she knew, the truth seemed so much more distant.

What good were all the documents, all the testimonials, if no one would listen to them? No one would care?

The fear twisted inside her, sharp and suffocating.

What am I going to do? she wondered, staring at the receiver.

She thought back to the last time she’d seen Bas, how worried he had looked when she left the bar with only one goal in mind. She hadn’t known then just how wrong things would go—how horribly everything would spiral.

All she had wanted was to make things right, to take down the people who’d been abusing their power for years. But now, what did she have left?

Nothing but the wreckage of a failed mission, the remnants of a career she’d spent years building, now in ruins.

How did it all go so wrong?

Her fingers hovered over the fabric of her sweater, fear gripping her. Every number in her contacts list felt like a mountain too high to climb. What would they think of me now?

Her father’s name, Jones—what a curse it felt like now. He had built his own reputation, a notorious one, but would it help her now if she attempted to use it in her favor now? Could it?

It was a thought that had crossed her mind more than once. If she could just use his legacy—his connections—maybe there would be a way to turn things around. Once, the mere thought of it would have hurt her dignity, but now ? She was desperate enough to consider it.

If anyone would take a chance on me now, they wouldn’t be doing it for me. They’d be doing it for my father’s name, she realized.

But was her father’s name enough to erase the stain she’d just inherited from her failed career at Crawford’s?

Her mind countered: What if it works? Then, what?

Cassie pulled a piece of paper from the pile beside her and began scribbling down names—contacts from her past stories, the ones she had been able to trust, all who had once worked with Charles Crawford. Some of them were still working at other stations. Others had long since been fired, discarded by Crawford and the network for not fitting the mold, no other stations willing to hire them.

Fired employees, they knew the dirt. Perhaps, more than her even. They could help her to tear down the last brick of Crawford’s empire.

If he wanted to tear her name apart, then, she would return the favor.

She stared at the list in front of her, wondering if any of them would be willing to talk to her now, knowing that she was, for all intents and purposes, unemployed. And so fucked up as most of them were.

It would be a long shot, and she knew it. How far using her father’s name would let her go?

But even as the thought flickered in her mind, the reality of it hit her like a wave: I don’t have anything left to work with. If no one will hire me, all of this is meaningless.

All of it.

She stared at the list again, the names swimming in her vision, and then her eyes shifted to the window. Outside, the world was moving, indifferent to her turmoil. The thought of picking up the phone and calling any of these people felt like a weight she couldn’t bear.

Would any of them be willing to talk to her? A girl with a reputation her father had left behind—a reputation I don’t even want to be a part of anymore. But, suddenly is ready to take upon what he had started?

Would they even take her seriously?

She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to shake the doubt from her mind. If only she could find someone who would listen to her for who she was and not who her father was… But that wasn’t how the world worked, if she wanted someone to still see some spark in her, she would have to play dirty and use her father’s name.

Her thoughts were interrupted by a sudden knock on the door. Her heart jumped into her throat, her hands tightening around her sweater as her mind scrambled to make sense of it.

Who could that be?

She stood, her legs shaky, and made her way to the door, still holding into the edges of the damn sweater as if her life depended on it. If it was another reporter again, she didn’t know if she would be strong enough to shove them off.

For a moment, she just… Stood there, really . Her fingers moving only to hover over the knob, waiting for something—anything—to give her the clarity she needed.

"Who is it?" she called out, her voice sounding small and weak in the vast emptiness of the house.

There was a brief pause, and then the response came.

"Ahm, Declan O'Hara."

Declan O’Hara? The Declan Fucking O’Hara?

She had never spoken to him—not directly, not since she moved to Rutshire. But his name… She knew it well . It had come up in nearly every conversation with Bas, with her uncle, even Lizzie.

The man who had made a career of being sharp, ruthless, and always in control of the room.

She wasn’t sure why he would be here, at her door, now of all times .

What does he want with me? She thought, a flash of unease running through her.

Cassie’s mind raced through the stories she had heard about him—the interviews that made headlines, the scandals that had followed him like shadows, the way people either loved or hated him, but never ignored him. She had followed his career almost from the beginning, admiring the boldness in his approach, the way he could dissect a situation with just a few well-chosen words.

It was exactly what she had once wanted for herself, when she first dreamed of being a journalist. Back in Chicago.

Yet here he was, standing at her door, a reality she never could have predicted.

Why now?

Cassie stared at the door as though willing it to explain itself. Declan O’Hara—her thoughts were still tripping over the impossibility of his presence here. It didn’t make sense. Why would someone like him, a man whose name carried both weight and controversy, show up unannounced at her door?

Taking a steadying breath, she pulled the door open.

And there was he.

Declan O’Hara stood on her doorstep, casual yet undeniably present, the kind of man who didn’t knock on doors unless he already knew they’d be opened.

His features were sharper in person than in the photographs or on television—his jawline more defined, the stubble catching the dim light. His dark eyes, shadowed but piercing, seemed to size her up in an instant, taking in every detail without giving much away. The lines at the corners of his mouth hinted at a man who’d seen enough to be cynical but wore charm like a second skin instead, a disarming weapon as much as a choice.

And then, of course, there was the mustache, impeccably trimmed, adding an air of polish to someone who seemed never rushed, never flustered, and entirely too aware of the presence he carried with himself.

Cassie’s breath caught in her chest, and she wondered, not for the first time that morning, if she was still asleep and dreaming up the absurdity of it all.

“Miss Jones,” his voice even, the faint trace of a Dublin lilt giving his words an edge. He regarded her with quiet interest, his eyes scanning her face like a puzzle.

“Mr. O’Hara,” she managed, her tone steady despite the racing in her chest.

He tilted his head slightly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, “I hope I’m not interrupting.”

Cassie frowned, unsure how to answer. Was he joking? Interrupting what—her ongoing existential crisis?

God , he could have interrupted it anytime he preferred, really. She wouldn’t complain.

“You’ve certainly caught me off guard,” she admitted instead, her fingers tightening on the knob.

“Good,” he said simply, as though that had been his goal all along.

Cassie blinked at him, her world spinning a bit too fast. She wasn’t sure whether to be irritated or intrigued by his audacity. The air felt heavier, charged with an energy that hadn’t been there moments before.

Declan O’Hara wasn’t just a man standing at her door; he was a presence . A gravitational force pulling her in despite every instinct screaming to guard herself.

That was how his guests felt? That's why they continued in their seats even when he crossed the line?

“I heard your broadcast,” he said, the trace of an Irish lilt softening his words, “It made an impression.”

“An impression,” Cassie repeated, frowning, “I assume you’re here to tell me it was a bad one.”

Declan’s mustache twitched, and for a fleeting moment, she wondered if he was suppressing a smile or a retort.

“Not quite,” he said, his voice hinting at something more than polite interest.

His dark eyes settled back on hers, unflinching and steady. There was something in his gaze, as though he were testing her, waiting to see how she’d react to his scrutiny.

It hurt her to look away, but the force of it was too much. She glanced toward the floor, the slight chill of the open doorway creeping up her spine.

Declan didn’t move, obviously

Seeing him on television was one thing—his charisma contained within the screen, his sharp words cutting through interviews like a scalpel. But here, standing in front of her, he was... Different. He wasn’t just a personality, a face attached to the stories she’d watched from a distance.

He was real . And his presence wasn’t something she’d prepared herself for.

There was a magnetic quality to him, the kind of charm that wasn’t loud or forced but instead lingered in the way he carried himself, in the deliberate cadence of his words. It unsettled her, this awareness of him.

She tried to lock the thought away before it could take root. The last thing she needed was to feel self-conscious about Declan O’Hara.

“Then what exactly are you here to tell me?” she asked, forcing her voice into a steadiness she didn’t entirely feel.

Declan’s lips curved ever so slightly, his expression one of quiet amusement.

“I’d say it’s less about telling and more about asking,” he said, his tone dropping, the lilt wrapping around each syllable with an ease that felt entirely unfair.

“Asking what ?” she pressed, her brows drawing together in suspicion.

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his gaze shifted past her, sweeping over the interior of her home with the same sharpness he had directed at her moments ago. The soft yellow glow from the hallway lamps cast long shadows against the worn wallpaper and the scattered mess of papers on the table just visible in the background.

“May I?” he asked, gesturing toward the space behind her. The neutrality of his tone made the question feel less like a request and more like a formality.

Cassie hesitated. For a moment, she considered shutting the door in his face, but the calm, unhurried way he stood there made her pause. Declan O’Hara didn’t knock on doors without a reason, and whatever he wanted to say, she had a feeling it wasn’t something she could afford to ignore.

She stepped back reluctantly, gesturing for him to enter.

“You’ve come this far,” she said, her voice filled with dry humor, “I suppose it would be rude to leave you standing in the cold.”

Declan’s eyes flicked back to hers, lingering for a fraction longer than necessary. She could feel his gaze over her, the way it seemed to cut through her walls without effort, slashing her insides.

There was nothing overt in the way he looked at her—no smirk, no lingering stare—but the intensity of his gaze was unsettling all the same. It wasn’t something she could pin down, and that only made it harder to shake.

That was the Declan O’Hara effect, she guessed.

“Generous of you,” he murmured, stepping inside with an ease that suggested he was no stranger to navigating unfamiliar spaces. His coat shifted as he moved, the dark fabric catching the light as he turned to take in the room.

Cassie shut the door behind him, the sound of it closing grounding her slightly. She leaned against the frame for a moment, her eyes instinctively following his movements as he took in the room.

He didn’t linger on any one thing, yet it felt as though nothing escaped his notice—the scattered papers on the table, the crumpled throw on the couch, the worn edges of the armchair by the window…

Everything felt suddenly too intimate, too exposed under his quiet scrutiny, as though her home had unwittingly laid bare the corners of her mind.

And then, he moved. Just a slight shift as he turned, the muted light catching on the sharp line of his jaw, casting shadows along his cheekbones. His coat hung open, revealing the crisp lines of his shirt beneath, the gleam of a watch peeking out from under his sleeve. The shadows softened the severity of his features, but the intensity remained, resting in the sharp focus of his dark eyes.

For a brief moment, Cassie wondered what it would be like to see him somewhere else, as a stranger in some bar—a thought she quickly pushed aside. Declan O’Hara wasn’t someone you invited to drink, in this case, her specifically .

There was no world where she would be in a bar, sat by his side, drinking and laughing about drunk jokes.

“Not what I expected,” he said, his voice breaking the silence. He didn’t elaborate, but there was no judgment in his tone, only curiosity.

Cassie raised an eyebrow, masking her unease with a wry smile.

“What were you expecting? A newsroom?”

He glanced at her, and for the briefest moment, his mustache twitched with what might have been amusement, “Something a little more... Guarded.”

“Well, that was my father’s place,” she shrugged, “I didn’t change anything since I moved in, it still has his face and personality.”

Declan’s head inclined ever so slightly, his gaze not trembling as it traced the room’s quiet details. The soft lamplight cast long shadows over the cluttered surfaces, the books stacked unevenly on the table, the photograph frames turned just slightly askew.

If he found anything notable, he didn’t show it; his face remained unreadable, save for the slightest narrowing of his eyes, as though he were cataloging each element of her space.

“It feels lived in,” he said, his voice measured, a step back from casual but not quite formal.

Cassie stilled, her weight shifting onto one foot as though to anchor herself. The idea of this place—the remnants of someone else’s life—feeling lived in was strange, almost laughable. Especially by her. It wasn’t hers, for starters.

“Borrowed,” she corrected, “It’s borrowed.”

Declan’s mouth curved weakly—not quite a smile, more of a quiet acknowledgment. He said nothing at first, letting the moment breathe. The hum of the overhead light filled the silence, a sound she hadn’t noticed until now.

“What brings you here, Mr. O’Hara?” she asked, crossing her arms.

Her words came sharper now, an effort to push through the strange atmosphere he seemed to carry with him. The air felt electrical in his presence, as though the room itself had to adjust to accommodate him.

“I told you,” he replied, meeting her eyes with a calm intensity, “Your broadcast made an impression.”

The way he said it gave her pause.

Cassie felt his gaze settle on her as though waiting to see how she’d react. She took a slow breath, her fingers curling into the fabric of her sweater.

“And that’s enough to knock on someone’s door unannounced?”

“Sometimes,” he said, with a small shrug that somehow managed not to look dismissive, “Though I’ll admit, it wasn’t just the broadcast.”

Her posture stiffened, “Then what was it?”

Declan stepped closer—not enough to invade her space, but just enough that his presence felt more immediate. The creak of the floorboards under his weight seemed louder than it should have been. His gaze flicked briefly to the papers scattered across the table, her scrawled notes forming a haphazard pile that betrayed the frantic way she’d been grasping for control.

Cassie felt his focus shift back to her. It was deliberate, calculated, and entirely unsettling. She resisted the urge to shrink back. Instead, she stayed rooted where she stood, gripping her sweater tighter.

His hesitation was subtle—so brief she might have missed it if she weren’t watching him so closely.

Declan O’Hara wasn’t someone who hesitated often, she imagined. That thought, more than anything, unsettled her even more.

“You’ve put yourself in a position where people are either going to admire you or come for you,” he said, his voice measured but low enough to make her lean in slightly to hear him.

“Admire me?” she asked dryly, the corner of her mouth quirking upward in a humorless smile, “You think that’s likely?”

Declan’s expression didn’t shift much, but the glint in his eyes pierced as he regarded her. Standing there in the muted glow of her living room, he looked entirely at ease—his posture loose, hands slipping casually into his pockets. Yet, there was a coiled energy to him, like a predator content to observe but ready to strike when necessary.

“Admire you?” His lips curved slightly, not quite a smile but close, “They’d be foolish not to. Anyone paying attention would see you’ve got something most people don’t.”

Cassie blinked at that, thrown for a moment by the unexpected turn. The words weren’t overly complimentary. Still, there was something in how he said them—deliberate and matter-of-fact—that left her feeling exposed.

“Crawford isn’t most people,” she countered, her tone cautious, “And I’m not sure anyone else is paying attention.”

Declan tilted his head slightly, his dark eyes scanning her face as if weighing her words against something he already knew, “Crawford’s watching you. I’d bet more people are too.”

The amusement in his voice hinted at more than what he was saying, but he didn’t elaborate.

Cassie felt a flicker of something sharp and unsettling under his gaze—like he was dissecting her, piecing her together in real time. She crossed her arms over her chest, more for herself than for him, and forced out a brittle laugh to deflect.

“That’s a poetic way of telling me I’ve already lost.”

Declan’s gaze drifted briefly around the room again, his expression unreadable. The warmth of the space contrasted with the calculated intensity he carried with him, making her feel simultaneously guarded and cornered.

When his eyes found her figure again, his voice softened, though it didn’t lose its power.

“You haven’t lost,” he said simply, “but making Crawford an enemy wasn’t smart.”

“Don’t you say it,” Cassie chuckled, “I think that’s pretty obvious.”

“And yet,” he said, his tone as even as ever, “you don’t seem the type to let obvious risks stop you.”

Cassie exhaled sharply, darting her gaze toward the notes scattered across the table—a deliberate escape from the way his presence seemed to charge the air between them.

“Obvious risks don’t bother me,” she replied, “Obvious consequences do.”

His head tilted slightly, the movement small but deliberate, “Is that why you haven’t made the calls yet?”

Her head snapped up, a flicker of irritation flashing in her eyes.

“You’ve been here for all of five minutes, and you think you’ve got me figured out?”

Declan didn’t rise to the bait, his expression remaining frustratingly composed. He let the question linger for a beat before answering.

“I don’t need to figure you out,” he said plainly, “It’s written all over you. You’ve gone through every word you’d say, rehearsed every answer they might give, but the phone’s still on the table.”

Cassie stiffened, her arms crossing tighter over her chest.

“And if it is?” she shot back, her tone defensive but softer, hesitant. Doubt , maybe.

“Then it tells me you’re not ready to decide what matters most,” Declan said, his voice dangerously low, if she wasn’t looking at his feet, she would be sure he had whispered in her ear.

Cassie felt the words hit their mark before she could deflect. It wasn’t just what he said but the way he said it, like he wasn’t trying to convince her of anything, merely stating the obvious. The restraint in his tone grated at her more than a lecture ever could.

“I’m not sure that’s any of your business,” she shot back, but the bite in her words was dulled by hesitation, “I didn’t ask you to come here and give me advice last time I checked.”

Declan didn’t step back. If anything, his presence seemed more focused, more intentional. He had a way of occupying space without crowding it, though it didn’t stop Cassie from feeling scrutinized under his gaze. His fingers brushed the edge of another page on the table, the smallest of gestures, yet it felt charged.

“Maybe not,” he admitted, the hint of a shrug in his shoulders, “But you’re the one who put your voice out there for the world to hear. That’s not the move of someone afraid to make a decision.”

Her chest tightened at the subtle jab, even though she knew it wasn’t meant to be cruel. Cassie uncrossed her arms, only to realize she had no idea what to do with her hands. They hovered awkwardly for a moment before she shoved them into the pockets of her sweater.

“I didn’t exactly have a choice,” she muttered, her gaze dropping to the scrawled notes on the table, “It was either speak up or keep quiet and let him win.”

“I noticed,” Declan said, his voice cutting through the air with deliberate clarity, “And for what it’s worth—you didn’t waste a single word. Your broadcast wasn’t just speaking up. It was precision. You wielded those words like a scalpel, cutting exactly where it needed to hurt.”

There was something in the way he said it—calm, matter-of-fact—that made her dizzy. The sincerity in his tone was disarming, but there was weight to it that felt impossible to carry. Her breath hitched involuntarily, her fingers curling deeper into the fabric of her sweater as though she could steady herself against it.

“You make it sound like I had thought about what I would say before I broke in Dan’s show. Maybe in my shows, yes, but not yesterday,” she muttered, her voice quiet, “ It wasn’t. I didn’t plan for any of this.”

Declan didn’t look away, his attention anchored to her with unnerving steadiness.

“Maybe not consciously,” he allowed, leaning back slightly but still holding her in his focus, “But it’s in how you speak—every pause, every shift in tone. It’s not accidental. It’s instinct, you have a gift.”

Cassie felt the words swirl in her chest, a strange mixture of unease and something she couldn’t quite name. Gratitude? Validation? She wasn’t sure, but it unsettled her all the same.

She huffed quietly, her eyes darting toward the window. The sheer curtains filtered the outside light, casting soft patterns on the walls. It was the kind of view that might have once soothed her, but right now, the delicate glow did nothing to ease the unease thrumming beneath her skin.

“You say that like it’s so simple,” she muttered, her voice tight, “Like gifts or instincts are enough to untangle all of this.”

Declan didn’t rush to respond, his silence deliberate. It wasn’t a silence that pressed or demanded—it allowed her words to sit. He moved, finally, his hand brushing against her notes scattered haphazardly, almost grasping at them.

“You’re not giving yourself enough credit,” he said, “You didn’t just call out Crawford. You made people listen. That’s what scares him, or anyone really.”

Cassie’s fingers twitched at his words, biting her cheeks. She didn’t want to meet his eyes, but her gaze betrayed her, flicking up to find him watching her with that unrelenting steadiness.

Soon, she looked away again.

“I wasn’t trying to scare anyone,” she murmured, barely audible, “I just… Couldn’t let him get away with it.”

Declan’s lips twitched into something resembling a smile, though it didn’t reach his eyes.

“Exactly,” he said, “And that’s the kind of drive we need on Venturer.”

Her breath caught, and the tension in her chest tightened like a coil.

That was what he had come to ask.

Cassie’s hands tightened into fists against her sides, her nails biting into her palms. The air in the room felt dense, not from the warmth of the radiator or the faint aroma of tea and ink, but from Declan’s words lingering in the air like a challenge she wasn’t ready to face.

“I can’t,” she said quickly, shaking her head, “I’m not made for that. I already told my uncle—”

“Freddie understands,” Declan interjected smoothly, “But I don’t think you do.”

Cassie stiffened, her shoulders rising defensively.

“I know exactly what I can and can’t do,” she snapped, “And I’m telling you: I can’t do that .”

Declan’s presence felt suffocating in its quiet intensity. The room seemed smaller with him in it, every detail sharper and more vivid under his gaze. The cold wind blowing, the soft tick of the clock on the wall—it all pressed against her, amplifying doubts swirling inside her.

How could she explain it to him, this bone-deep dread that came with the idea of being seen? Not just seen, but scrutinized, judged .

Being a voice on the airwaves had given her a layer of protection—a wall between herself and the people who listened. They could hear her passion, her anger, her conviction, but they couldn’t see the fear that sometimes gripped her chest like a vice.

They couldn’t look at her eyes and see what she truly was: a young woman afraid of every step she took.

The thought of standing in front of a camera, her face projected into thousands of homes, made her stomach churn. Every slip of the tongue, every stutter or hesitation, would be magnified a hundredfold. She wasn’t built for that kind of exposure.

“I can’t,” she said again, though her voice sounded weaker this time, frayed at the edges.

Declan didn’t move, didn’t blink. His stillness was maddening.

“Why not?” he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and that bloody sharpness again, something that cut straight to the heart of her defenses.

Cassie inhaled deeply, trying to quell the rising panic that threatened to choke her. Her gaze flickered across the room, seeking an escape, but there was none—not from him, not from the truth he was pushing her to confront.

“You don’t get it, Mr. O’Hara,” she said, her voice breaking slightly, “It’s not about not wanting recognition or having people listen to me. It’s about...” She trailed off, searching for the words that always seemed to slip through her fingers when she needed them most, “It’s about what happens when they don’t like what they see.”

Declan frowned, leaning forward, “What do you mean?”

Her chest ached as she struggled to articulate the knot of fear and self-doubt that had been her constant companion for as long as she could remember.

“You think it’s just about standing in front of a camera and telling the truth,” she said bitterly, her eyes hardening as she looked at the points of his shoes, “But it’s not . It’s about what happens afterward—when they pick apart every word you said, every expression you made, every tiny flaw you didn’t even realize you had. When they decide who you are based on nothing but a frozen image on a screen.”

Declan’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes softened slightly, a flicker of understanding passing through them.

“Cassie,” he said, his voice quieter now, “You’ve already faced that. Every time you went on air, every time you published a story. The only difference is, you couldn’t see it happening.”

Cassie’s heart pounded in her chest as Declan’s words hung in the air, each one heavy with intent. He spoke with a calm certainty that made her defenses feel paper-thin.

“I read about your work,” he began, his tone carefully measured, “I’ve listened to the records of your broadcasts. I’ve read the pieces you wrote in Chicago. And I know one thing for certain: you’re not the kind of person who hides behind a mic because she’s afraid. You do it because it’s efficient. Effective .”

Cassie stared at him immediately, her breath catching as the implication of his statement hit her. Her lips parted to respond, but no words came. She felt a strange dizziness, as if the walls of the room had tilted slightly, throwing her off balance.

How?

How could he have done all that in the span of a day ?

He had to have sought out recordings, dug through archives, tracked down articles she hadn’t thought about in years. From yesterday to now, he had made it his mission to know her, to understand her work, her voice.

It was unsettling.

It was…

“Every single one of them had one thing in common,” Declan continued, his tone softening, though his intensity never wavered.

Cassie raised her head, her brow furrowing as she finally managed to find her voice, “What’s that?”

“ You ,” he said, leaning forward again, his eyes never leaving her figure, constantly searching for her eyes, “Your voice, your perspective. You didn’t just report the facts—you made people care about them. You made them feel it. That’s not something everyone can do.”

The sincerity in his tone cut through her like a knife, carving through the doubt she had clung to for so long. She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.

She didn’t know how to respond, so she didn’t.

Her fingers, still restless, searched for shelter in the fabric of her sweater. The tension in her body refused to ease, the heat creeping up her neck to her cheeks as she processed his gaze—so unwavering, so certain.

“You think being in front of a camera changes that?” he asked, his gaze unwavering, “It doesn’t. If anything, it amplifies it. People don’t connect to perfection—they connect to authenticity. And you, Cassie, are as authentic as it gets.”

The heat crept up her neck, spreading to her cheeks. She could feel it—a flush that she couldn’t suppress, a reaction she couldn’t control. She wanted to blame the intensity of the conversation, but deep down, she knew it was more than that.

There was something in the way he looked at her—unwavering, searching. His eyes, dark and steady, seemed to hold a flicker of something she couldn’t quite place. Admiration? Curiosity?

The corners of his lips lifted, not into a full smile, but a subtle quirk that softened the sharpness of his features. He was close—closer than he needed to be—and she couldn’t decide if it was intentional or just a consequence of his presence.

Her hands fidgeted in the fabric of her sweater again, twisting it as she fought to regain her composure.

“You’re giving me too much credit,” she said finally, her voice quieter now, almost hesitant.

“I don’t think I am,” Declan replied, “If anything, I’m not giving you enough.”

The words struck her like a blow, cutting through the haze of self-doubt that had wrapped itself around her once and for all. For a moment, she thought she was dreaming.

The air between them felt charged, electric in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying. Cassie couldn’t remember the last time someone had spoken to her like this—not with flattery, but with belief.

Her gaze darted to the window again. The pale light filtering through the sheer curtains softened the room's edges but did nothing to dull the sharp edge of Declan’s words. Outside, the distant sound of birdsong felt muted against the tension humming in the room.

Her mind raced, spiraling as it tried to keep up with the emotions swirling inside her. The compliments, the conviction in his voice—it was too much, too fast. She felt like she was teetering on the edge of a precipice, unsure whether to jump or cling to the safety of the ground beneath her feet.

“You don’t know me,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper, “Not really.”

“I know that you’re holding yourself back,” Declan countered.

She shook her head, frustration bubbling to the surface.

“You make it sound so easy,” she muttered, “Like all I have to do is step in front of a camera and everything will fall into place.”

Declan’s expression shifted, softening in a way that made her chest tighten.

“It’s not about it being easy,” he said, his voice quieter now, almost gentle, “It’s about it being worth it.”

Cassie blinked, thrown off balance by the simplicity of his response.

“I’ve been where you are,” Declan continued, “Afraid of what people might see, what they might say. But here’s the thing: it’s not about you. It’s about the story. It’s about what you’re trying to show them, the truth you’re trying to tell.”

His words landed heavily, resonating with something deep inside her. She faltered, her gaze dropping back to her hands. Her fingers trembled slightly, and she clenched them back to her sweater to steady herself.

“You’re talented, Cassie,” Declan said, his voice gaining a firmer edge, “You’re good . You have a way of making people listen—not just to the facts, but to what they mean. We could give you a show, a platform where you can do exactly what you said yesterday: pull back the rug and show people what’s been swept under it.”

He paused, letting the words sink in before adding, “But if you’re not ready to take that jump, then tell me— what do you want to do next? ”

Cassie’s heart hammered in her chest. His words pressed against her like the weight of the world, a challenge, an invitation, all rolled into one. Beneath the pressure, there was a flicker of something she hadn’t felt in a long time: possibility. It was a thought she couldn't shake—the idea of not just telling the truth, but having the power to shape the conversation, to expose the darkness hiding in plain sight.

What would she do next ?

For the first time, the idea didn’t feel impossible. It felt terrifying, yes , but there was a spark of curiosity beneath the fear—a small, stubborn part of her that wanted to know if she could.

Her breath hitched as she looked back at Declan, his gaze steady. Not leaving her sight, not for once.

“I’ll have to think about it,” she took the courage to say it out loud.

Declan’s lips curved into a smile, one that didn’t feel triumphant but rather understanding.

“I’ll wait,” he said, and she believed in him.

Cassie hesitated, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater as a new thought occurred to her. She glanced at him, her brow furrowing slightly.

“Can I ask you something?”.

“Of course,” he replied immediately.

“Why me?” she asked, her words laced with genuine confusion, “There are dozens of people out there trying to make noise, trying to be heard. What was so special about what I did yesterday?”

Declan’s smile deepened, but there was something else in his expression—a flicker of something warm, almost unspoken.

“It wasn’t just what you did yesterday,” he said, his tone quieter now, more intimate, “It was the way you did it. The way you made people stop and listen. You didn’t just speak—you cut through . You made them care. That’s not something you see every day.”

His gaze lingered on hers, steady and searching, and for a moment, the room felt smaller, the space between them charged with something she couldn’t name.

But, despite it feeling small… That was one of the few times that looking into someone’s eyes didn’t make her feel like drowning. Not in a hurtful way.

“You’re different, Cassie,” Declan continued, “And that scares people like Crawford. It’s also what makes you impossible to ignore. I had heard today some people are already calling you ‘Bloody Harrier’, and I don’t disagree with them, you are a harrier.”

Cassie swallowed hard, her thoughts swirling like a storm. She didn’t know how to respond, didn’t know what to say. All she could do was nod, his words settling heavily in her chest as she tried to make sense of the possibilities now laid before her.

"That’s kind coming from someone like you,” Cassie muttered, her voice laced with skepticism, “But I don’t feel like a harrier .”

Declan’s eyes softened, a quiet understanding passing between them, “That’s because you don’t see yourself the way others do.”

The room seemed to hold its breath as his words lingered in the space between them.

Outside, the breeze rustled the leaves against the windowpane, its soft whisper contrasting with the quiet tension in the room. It wasn’t uncomfortable, though—it was waiting, expectant, as if the world was on pause, waiting for Cassie to choose whether to step forward or remain where she was.

Cassie’s gaze flickered back to him, and for a fleeting moment, the rest of the world seemed to vanish. And in that moment, she became acutely aware of how close he was. His presence, which had always been intense since he had knocked at her door, now felt almost overwhelming.

She noticed the sharp angles of his jaw, the way his lips were slightly parted as he spoke, the faintest trace of stubble that caught the light. The dim afternoon glow from the window washed over his features, softening them in a way that made everything about him seem impossibly magnetic.

It was a fleeting moment, but she felt it, that subtle charge in the air. Something unspoken, something she couldn't put into words, hanging there between them.

For a moment, Declan didn’t speak. He stood still, his gaze steady, as if he too was aware of the proximity. The air seemed to crackle, the space between them shrinking, until finally, with a slight but noticeable shift in his posture, Declan took a step back, breaking the tension.

His eyes never left hers, though, and the understanding between them lingered in the silence.

"Do you really believe that?" Cassie asked, her voice smaller, almost a whisper.

“I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t, would I?” Declan asked her back.

The room felt heavy after Declan’s words, his presence an anchor pulling at Cassie’s thoughts. She didn’t know what to say, and for once, she didn’t try to fill the silence. It stretched between them, thick and charged, her fingers twisting the hem of her sweater in a futile attempt to ground herself.

Declan’s gaze stayed fixed on her. It wasn’t harsh or prying, but steady, as though he were trying to understand something about her that she hadn’t figured out herself. That quiet intensity unsettled her, a reminder of the kind of man he was—one who didn’t miss the small things, who didn’t let truths slip away unnoticed.

“I should go,” he said, breaking the silence himself. His voice low, almost hesitant, as if leaving wasn’t entirely what he wanted.

Cassie widened her eyes, startled by the shift in the moment. She stepped back slightly, creating a sliver of space between them, though it did nothing to untangle the knot tightening in her chest.

“Right,” she replied, the word coming out too quickly, sharper than she intended, “ Of course. ”

Declan moved toward the door, his steps well measured. He didn’t rush, as though each movement was a chance to reconsider something left unsaid. The air between them felt different now, lighter in some ways but heavy with the lingering weight of their exchange.

When he reached the door, he paused. He turned back, his posture relaxed but his expression still thoughtful.

The dim light coming through the window outlined the sharp edges of his features perfectly, it made him seem less imposing, more human .

“It was good meeting you,” he said, “I wish it had happened sooner.”

His words weren’t dramatic, but they hit somewhere deep, somewhere she didn’t know was vulnerable until now. For a moment, she didn’t respond, unsure of what to say or how to untangle the emotions his presence had stirred.

“Yeah,” she said, her words almost fragile, as if they could break in any second, “Me too.”

Declan’s lips curved into a smile—not the polished, performative kind she’d seen on screens, but something smaller, more genuine.

“Maybe it would’ve made things… Simpler,” he added, his tone light, though his words carried more meaning than they seemed to.

Cassie nodded, unsure how to respond to that . Her thoughts felt tangled, a mess of emotions she didn’t want to unravel just yet.

The least she could do was open the door for him, letting the cold evening air rush in. It swept past her, bracing and sharp, clearing the fog in her mind just enough to remind her where she was. She stepped closer to the doorway, watching as he descended the steps with the same calm confidence he carried everywhere.

At the edge of the porch, he turned back briefly. His dark coat blended with the gray evening, but his eyes caught hers one last time.

“Take care of yourself, Cassie,” he said, his voice warm and familiar, as though he had always known her.

“You too,” she replied, the words barely audible but sincere, “Mr. O’Hara.”

“Please,“ his smile widened, “Call me Declan.”

She didn’t respond immediately, her lips parting as if to say something, but nothing came. Instead, she nodded, her fingers gripping the door for balance.

“Declan ,” she said, the name feeling foreign on her tongue, heavier than it should have been.

The moment lingered settled between them, neither of them seeming in a hurry to break it. Cassie could feel his gaze, the way it softened now, lacking the intensity he’d carried earlier. It made her chest feel tight, but not in the way she was used to.

This wasn’t the suffocating pressure of fear or failure—it was something else, something unfamiliar and unsettling.

Declan glanced past her, his eyes briefly scanning the quiet house behind her. The mess of papers on the table, the dim glow of the single lamp in the corner—it was all so distinctly her, chaotic yet purposeful.

His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, as though he was about to say more, but then he stepped back, the moment slipping away.

“Goodbye,” he said one more time.

She stayed in the doorway as he walked to his car. The gravel crunched softly under his feet, the sound carrying in the quiet dusk. He opened the driver’s side door, pausing for just a moment before getting in. The headlights flared to life, cutting through the fading light as he started the engine.

Cassie watched as he pulled out of the driveway, the rumble of the car fading as he disappeared down the road. She stayed there long after he was gone, the cold creeping up her arms, her heart still beating a little faster than normal.

When she finally stepped back inside, the warmth of the house felt strange, as though she’d been away for longer than just a moment. She leaned against the door, letting out a slow breath, her thoughts still circling the man who had just left.

Her eyes drifted to the phone on the corner of the room. The list of names was still on her table, waiting for her to take the next step.

For a brief moment, she considered picking up the receiver, calling Sarah, or anyone on that list. But the weight of the decision held her back, the fear of failure keeping her frozen in place.

Declan’s words echoed in her mind: “You made people care.”

She didn’t know if she believed it. Not yet. But the thought lingered, and for now, that was enough.

Enough for her to go to the damn rotary phone and start making her calls.

Rutshire Gazette

Local Radio Dispute Sparks Drama at Crawford’s FM

By Edward Hill

In an unexpected twist during yesterday’s live broadcast, Cassandra Jones, a presenter at Crawford’s FM, took to the airwaves with allegations against station owner Charles Crawford.

Ms. Jones, who recently returned to Rutshire after spending much of her career in Chicago, accused Mr. Crawford of suppressing critical stories in favor of lighter, more commercially viable programming.

Eyewitnesses claim Ms. Jones refused to vacate the studio, reportedly locking herself in for nearly an hour before the police intervened. Sources close to the station describe the incident as “disruptive” and “unprofessional,” with one staff member alleging that Ms. Jones acted “erratically.”

Speaking to the Gazette, Mr. Crawford condemned the incident as a “stunt,” stating: “It’s unfortunate that Ms. Jones felt the need to air grievances in such an inflammatory manner, particularly when we’ve always encouraged an open-door policy for our team. Crawford’s FM prides itself on being a reliable source of entertainment and community news—values clearly lost in Ms. Jones’ actions.”

The details of Ms. Jones’ grievances remain unclear, though snippets from the broadcast suggest dissatisfaction with editorial decisions and claims of mismanagement. The station has confirmed they are pursuing legal action for trespassing and property damage.

Ms. Jones, who was arrested at the scene, declined to comment when approached outside the police station early this morning. However, her outburst has sparked debate among listeners, some of whom have voiced their support. One caller, who wished to remain anonymous, told the Gazette:

"She’s got guts. What she said about the council funds was true. But no one wants to touch it because it’s messy. I say good for her, we need more bloody harriers around here!"

Others, however, have expressed concern over Ms. Jones’ approach, questioning whether such public defiance undermines the credibility of her claims.

For now, the fate of Ms. Jones’ career remains uncertain, with many in the industry speculating whether this incident marks the end of her tenure at Crawford’s FM—or the beginning of something far more contentious.

#declan o'hara #rivals 2024 #rupert campbell black #taggie o'hara #taggie x rupert #cameron cook #tony baddingham #declan o'hara x reader #declan o'hara x female original character #declan o'hara x oc #freedie jones #lizzie vereker #bas baddingham #i know your ghost

158 notes · View notes

killeromanoff · 3 months ago

Text

I KNOW YOUR GHOST | prologue

summary: Declan O'Hara is intrigued by Cassandra "Cassie" Jones, Freddie’s niece, who’s trying to carve her own place in the Rutshire media world. After her bold broadcast challenges the status quo, Declan finds himself unexpectedly drawn to her unapologetic spirit and the fight she's ready to wage. Will their paths collide in ways they hadn't anticipated?

pairing: Declan O’Hara x Cassandra 'Cassie' Jones (Female OC)

warnings: Mild language, Some political and media industry-related themes, Power dynamics, Age-Gap (Cassie is 25 yo)

w.c: 9.8k

notes: would you want me to continue the series

[here], [chapter one], [chapter two], [chapter three], [chapter four]

oo. You know what your words can mean

The air in the radio station’s office was stagnant, thick with the mingling scents of stale coffee, damp paper, and the faint tang of cheap cleaning spray. The room was cluttered—stacks of forgotten paperwork teetered on desks, old coffee mugs lined the corners, and a dusty fan in the corner rotated half-heartedly.

A cluster of staff milled about near the break room door, chatting idly as they shuffled papers or scrolled on their phones.

Cassie stood apart, her notepad clutched tightly against her chest, a contrast to the chaos around her. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a low ponytail, though a few stray strands framed her face. She wore a plain navy blouse and slacks that were practical but pressed, betraying her effort to maintain a professional appearance in an environment that hardly seemed to care.

Mr. Crawford sat slouched at his desk, a man whose very posture radiated disinterest. His graying mustache twitched slightly as he leaned back in his chair, fingers laced over his stomach, the top button of his shirt undone. He smelled faintly of sweat and cigarette smoke, with an undertone of something sharper—perhaps the remnants of last night’s whiskey.

Cassie’s eyes flicked to the desk in front of him. It was a mess of coffee-stained papers and pens chewed down to the plastic, with no sign of the kind of attention she hoped to command.

“Mr. Crawford,” she began, her voice calm but firm despite the tightness in her chest. She gestured slightly with her notepad as she spoke, “I’ve done the research. This story—about the council’s missing funds—it’s got everything. Corruption , negligence , people suffering because the money meant for community projects vanished into thin air. Listeners would eat it up.”

Crawford didn’t bother glancing at her notes or meeting her eyes. Instead, his gaze drifted lazily to the window behind her, as if the striped sunlight cutting through the blinds offered him more intrigue than the words she’d painstakingly prepared.

Cassie sighed, her grip tightening on the notepad as she shifted her weight. She watched him for a moment, taking in the deep-set lines of his face and his air of detached superiority. A pang of doubt gnawed at her resolve, but she quickly shoved it aside.

“It’s not the right fit, love,” he said finally, his words accompanied by the faint wheeze of his breath, “People don’t tune in to your show for all that doom and gloom. They want something lighter. Cheerier . Something that makes them smile while they’re making dinner.”

Cassie’s stomach churned at his words, a familiar mix of frustration and resignation settling over her. Lighter. Cheerier. The phrases clanged in her mind like hollow bells, reminders of how often her ideas had been whittled down to something palatable, something safe.

Her show—once a source of pride—had become a shadow of what she’d envisioned when she first started. She’d imagined herself uncovering stories that mattered: injustices, hidden truths, the kind of reporting that made people sit up and pay attention. Instead, her work had been boxed into a mold. Segments about bake-offs, local fairs, and feel-good community spotlights.

To her credit, she’d done her best to inject some life into it. Her voice carried a natural rhythm, a way of pulling people in even when the content was mundane. If the story was about a garden club’s latest flower show, she’d spin it into a tale of passion and rivalry. If it was a town charity event, she’d find the human angle, weaving a thread of emotion through the narrative.

Her listeners seemed to love her for it, but it wasn’t enough—not for her.

This wasn’t the kind of work that made a difference. It wasn’t the kind of work that could.

“I can make it engaging,” she said, her voice firmer now, her hands gripping the edges of her notes, “It doesn’t have to be doom and gloom. It’s about accountability, about the truth—”

“Drop it,” he interrupted, leaning forward slightly as he spoke, his eyes flickering with annoyance. He rubbed his temple, as though her persistence was giving him a headache, “You stick with what you’re good at—human interest, fluff pieces. Now, for tonight, you’ll cover that story about the charity bake-off. The station promised them a mention.”

The lead weight in her chest grew heavier. Stick with what you’re good at. The words stung, a sharp reminder of how small her ambitions had been made to feel.

Her mouth opened to protest, but she hesitated. This was the game, wasn’t it? Push too far, and she’d get a reputation—difficult, too ambitious, “not a team player.” She let the words die in her throat, swallowing the frustration that threatened to rise.

“May I at least drop it with you?” she asked instead, her tone even but tinged with determination. She held out her notes, “Just give it a glance before dropping the idea completely?”

Crawford didn’t even glance at her. He busied himself straightening a stack of papers with a theatrical air of importance.

“Sure,” he said with a shrug, though his tone betrayed no real intention, “Leave it on my desk.”

Cassie placed the notepad down carefully, the motion deliberate, almost defiant. Her heart was pounding in her chest, her mind racing through every frustration she’d swallowed working here. She thought of her show—the one she’d once been so proud of.

It was supposed to be hers, a reflection of her passion for storytelling. Instead, it had been molded into something safe, toothless. Segments on community bake-offs and local fairs. Puff pieces designed to please advertisers and offend no one.

And yet, even in that confined space, she’d tried. She’d poured herself into every script, every broadcast, weaving intrigue where there was none, giving even the dullest stories a pulse. Her audience deserved that much.

But what about her?

Cassie straightened, her eyes meeting Crawford’s impassive expression one last time.

“Thank you,” she said, her voice clipped.

She turned on her heel and left the office, her pulse a mix of anger and resolve.

The studio felt colder than usual, the faint hum of the equipment doing little to fill the oppressive silence. Cassie stepped inside, shutting the door firmly behind her. The gesture felt more like shutting herself in a cage than anything else.

Her seat creaked as she sank into it, the familiar sounds of the studio offering no comfort tonight. The charity bake-off notes were already on her desk, neatly arranged, as though mocking her with their pristine lines.

She picked them up, her hands moving on autopilot. She read through the bullet points about the local bakery donating proceeds, the heartfelt quotes from participants, the token mention of the funds going to a children’s hospital. It was the kind of story that would barely take five minutes to write, but she couldn’t bring herself to put pen to paper yet.

She leaned back in her chair, her gaze drifting to the control board in front of her, where the green lights flickered faintly.

This wasn’t why she’d chosen this path. Journalism had always been about chasing the truth, shining a light where others dared not look. But here she was, with her voice reduced to narrating bake-offs and community fairs, as though the world didn’t need accountability or courage—just distraction.

Her eyes fluttered shut for a moment as her mind drifted. She thought of the council’s missing funds, the questions no one else dared to ask, the answers that could have made a real difference. That story could have mattered, could have uncovered truths that changed lives.

But instead, she was here.

With a deep breath, Cassie forced her focus back to the present. She adjusted the microphone, the familiar motion grounding her.

Flipping the switch, she spoke into the void, her voice steady despite the resentment simmering beneath the surface.

“Good evening, Rutshire!” she began, her tone warm and inviting, practiced to perfection, “This is your host, Cassandra Jones, but as you all well know, you can always call me Cassie! Always bringing you the stories that make our little corner of the world shine.”

It wasn’t just words. It was how she said them, the little pauses, the way she adjusted her tempo, making it sound effortless. One time, one lady at the mall had stopped ehr when she recognized the Jones' voice, telling how listen to her voice always made her day.

And, well, her show usually started at 4 PM, so that was something.

“Tonight, I want to tell you about a community coming together for something truly special: the annual charity bake-off . Bakers from all over Rutshire have gathered to compete—and to give back. This year’s proceeds will go to the Rutshire Children’s Hospital, providing resources and care to the kids who need it most.”

Her voice filled the space with an easy warmth, the facts rolling out with a smoothness that made them seem lighter, more immediate. Even in her dissatisfaction, she knew how to shape a story, how to give it weight when needed.

“This isn’t just about the competition,” she continued, a slight shift in her tone adding a layer of sincerity, “but about the kindness and generosity that make Rutshire such a special place to call home.”

Her delivery was careful, but not forced, as though she was telling a friend a story she didn’t mind repeating. She wasn’t changing the facts—she was simply breathing life into them.

And as she knew how to do it, she continued to deliver the news, despite the anger lingering in her chest.

The streetlights flickered as Cassie drove through the quiet, familiar streets of Rutshire. The sound of the tires humming against the asphalt felt almost too loud in the silence that surrounded her. She turned the radio dial absentmindedly, tuning out the stories of community events and local happenings. She’d heard them all before—enough to make her feel like a bystander in her own life, watching the world pass her by through the windshield of her car.

Her phone buzzed in the cupholder, and she glanced at the screen. It was her uncle.

“Hey, kiddo,” his voice greeted her warmly through the speaker. She smiled instantly, the sound of his voice always bringing a momentary relief, even if it couldn’t erase the tension curling in her chest.

“Hey, old man,” she replied, the words more automatic than anything else.

“You were great tonight, Cass,” Freddie said, his enthusiasm practically spilling through the phone, “I swear, you made that bake-off sound like the bloody Oscars.”

Cassie glanced at the radio, hearing her colleague's voice spill into the car. The words blurred together in a familiar, comforting hum, but something inside her had already tuned out. She wasn’t sure whether it was the exhaustion, the frustration, or just the monotony of it all, but she felt herself disconnecting from it all, like she was hearing it from a distance.

She responded quietly, “Thanks, Uncle Freddie,” her tone calm, but there was a touch of distance she couldn’t quite mask.

There was a pause on the other end of the line. She could almost picture Freddie’s face, that half-grin of his, layered with the usual care he always tried to hide.

“I mean it, Cass. You’ve got something they don’t understand. The way you tell a story—you give it life! It’s like… You make people see the world differently.”

Cassie’s grip on the steering wheel tightened almost imperceptibly. Freddie was right—she had always known how to make the smallest detail come alive, to make people care. It had been her strength, her passion, the reason she’d chosen journalism.

But tonight? Tonight, it felt empty.

The bake-off story—it was just noise. Safe. Easy. The same thing every year.

Cheerier.

“You’re just saying that,” she murmured, the words slipping out more quickly than she intended.

“No, I mean it,” Freddie’s voice was insistent, a little softer now, “I just wish they’d give you more of a chance. You’ve got a lot more to say than just… Fluff pieces, you know? You deserve the stories that matter. You deserve to be out there, really making a difference.”

Cassie shifted in her seat, her eyes momentarily caught by the reflection of her car in the store window. The soft glow of the streetlights cast long shadows across her face.

“I know,” she said quietly, though the words felt like a knot in her throat.

She wasn’t sure if she was talking to him, to herself, or to the version of her who had walked into this career full of hope. The one who still believed in making an impact. That person felt like a stranger now.

“You’ve got a future ahead of you, Cass. You’ve always been someone who stands out,” She could lsiten to his smile as he said that, it made her smile a little more too, “Don’t let them box you in. You’ve got the kind of talent that can really change things. Don’t forget that.”

Cassie let out a slow breath, her hands pressing against the wheel a little harder. She could feel the familiar stirrings of something—determination, maybe, or something like it. She wanted to be the person Freddie thought she was.

She wanted to be more than this.

“Thanks,” she finally said, her voice quiet, the words slipping out before she could second-guess them, “I’ll figure it out.”

Another long pause on the other end, and then Freddie’s easy chuckle broke the silence.

“I know you will. You always do, just don't blow anything up.”

Cassie chuckled, “Yeah, I'll try. Talk to you tomorrow, Uncle.”

“Take care of yourself, Cass.”

She hung up the phone, feeling the absence of his words linger in the air for a moment longer than she expected. The road ahead seemed endless, but for a fleeting second, she couldn’t help but wonder if Freddie was right. She had more to say. Maybe she always had.

But that didn’t make the choice any easier.

The radio continued to chatter in the background, her colleague’s voice now a steady hum as Cassie kept her eyes on the road. She wasn’t sure how to get from here to where she wanted to be, but as the glow of Rutshire faded into the distance, she knew one thing for certain.

She wasn’t going to stop trying to figure it out. Not yet.

The bar was quiet for a Thursday morning, the usual hum of conversation replaced by the soft clink of glassware being set down and the low murmur of the few early risers. It wasn’t the busiest time, but it never really was. The regulars were there, still half-closed in the warm haze of sleep, some nursing their first coffee of the day, others leaning over papers or whispering in low tones, trading stories or reflecting on the night before.

The wooden floors creaked softly underfoot as Cassie made her way to the bar, the familiar sound echoing through the empty space. The air smelled faintly of old beer, with a hint of stale cigarettes lingering in the corners, mixed with the sharper scent of freshly brewed coffee. It was a blend that, for her, felt as comfortable as her own breath.

The radio filling the background quietly.

She slid onto a barstool with practiced ease, her body instinctively relaxing into the worn leather of the seat.

The lights above were dimmed just enough to give the room a cozy, intimate feel, casting shadows across the shelves stocked with bottles that had seen more than their fair share of nights like this one. Behind the bar, Bas moved with a rhythm born of years spent here, every motion fluid, like he was a part of the place itself.

She didn’t need to ask for her drink. Bas, like always, seemed to know exactly what she needed.

He set a pint of something dark in front of her, the foam just right, and it took her a second to realize how much she’d been waiting for it. She didn’t say anything, not at first. She just lifted the glass to her lips and took a long sip, the bitterness of the beer almost too fitting, like it was somehow tied to the frustration simmering beneath her skin.

She let it settle in her chest for a moment, her eyes scanning the room, but it was more to avoid looking at Bas than anything else.

He had that way of making her feel seen, even when she wasn’t sure she wanted to be.

“How’s the radio business these days, darling?” Bas’s voice was soft, but it carried a weight she couldn’t ignore. They both knew she’d been struggling with it lately, but it was easier not to talk about it. Not yet, anyway.

Cassie shrugged, swirling the beer in her glass, her fingers brushing the cold surface as she considered how to answer. Her mind was a mess, but she wasn’t about to unload it all here, not when it felt like everyone else in this room had their own things to ignore.

“Same as always,” she said, her voice flat, “Same stories. Same people. No one cares about the real stuff. It's all fluff .”

Bas didn’t respond right away, just watched her, like he could tell there was more beneath that statement. She could feel him studying her, but she refused to meet his eyes.

She wasn’t ready to talk about it—not yet. The last thing she wanted was his pity.

“People like fluff,” he said, finally breaking the silence, “It’s easy. It doesn’t make them uncomfortable.”

Cassie didn’t say anything at first, letting his words sit aside as she took a breath. The frustration inside her bubbled up, but she swallowed it down.

She didn’t need another lecture today. She didn’t need him to tell her how hard it was for everyone, or how nothing ever really changes.

“That’s the problem,” she muttered, finally meeting his gaze, “People don’t want to hear the truth. They want the easy stuff. And I’m tired of giving it to them.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, leaning against the counter as he wiped down a glass, “Yeah? And what are you gonna do about it?”

“I don’t know yet,” she said, her voice tinged with irritation, “But I’m not gonna sit around hoping that one day someone decides I’m good enough for the stories that actually matter.”

Bas tilted his head, studying her again. He wasn’t trying to offer solutions. That wasn’t his style.

He let her say what she needed to say, and gave her space to feel frustrated. That's why he was a damn good bar owner.

“Maybe they’re just not ready for it,” he said, his voice softer now, almost as if he wasn’t talking about her job anymore.

Cassie let out a short, bitter laugh, “And maybe I’m not waiting for them. I’m done with that.”

She tasted her words as they left her mouth, bitter . The truth was, she didn’t know what she was waiting for anymore.

Maybe she just wanted a break. Maybe she was tired of always trying to make people listen. But she couldn’t say that out loud. Not to Bas.

He leaned back, watching her carefully, his face unreadable.

“Alright. So what’s your plan?” His hand moved almost absentmindedly to the radio dial, turning it until a voice crackled through the static.

The sound was unmistakable—a voice she recognized instantly. One of her colleagues, mid-monologue, delivering the day’s take on whatever sensational headline they’d latched onto. It was faint, almost drowned by the static, but the cadence was familiar: deliberate pauses, calculated inflection, designed to hook listeners and keep them invested.

Cassie felt the prickle of discomfort at hearing it, even slightly. The words blurred together, more noise than substance, but the undertone of it all—performance, rather than authenticity—was clear to her. She tried not to let it distract her, but it was there, a quiet reminder of everything she’d been wrestling with.

She looked down at her drink, swirling the liquid in slow, thoughtful circles.

The question hung heavy between them. What was her plan?

Did she even have one? Cassie didn’t know. All she knew was that she couldn’t keep doing this—circling around her own indecision, feeling like she had to apologize for wanting more.

“I don’t have one,” she admitted finally, the words coming out quieter than she’d intended, “But I’m not just gonna keep... Doing this. I can’t.”

Bas didn’t say anything for a moment, just let her have the silence. The low hum of conversation from the other side of the bar, the clink of glasses, all of it felt like a world away. Cassie’s fingers tightened around her glass, her mind racing, but somehow, she felt just a little bit lighter now that it was out in the open. Maybe it didn’t solve anything, but at least she could stop pretending.

She glanced back at her friend, meeting the pity she knew she would face. The way his lips turned up and his brows furrowed.

She hated it.

“I mean—Sometimes, I think it’s all pointless,” her voice was barely above a whisper, almost like she was talking to herself, “We keep doing the same thing over and over, pushing the same stories, and nothing really changes. It's like no one even wants to hear anything different.”

She paused, a fleeting thought crossing her mind. “What if we gave them something that actually mattered? Would they even acknowledge it?”

Bas didn't respond immediately, his focus on wiping down a glass. His hands moved methodically, as though the task required more attention than it really did. Cassie could tell he was listening, though—she could feel it in the way the air in the room seemed to hold still for just a beat longer.

He gave a quiet hum of acknowledgment, his eyes not leaving the glass as he set it down with a faint clink.

“Does it matter?” he asked, thoughtful, “You give them what they want, or you give them what you think they need. But in the end, they’ll either care, or they won’t. Can’t control that.”

“It does matter!” she answered, her voice firming with resolve, her frustration bubbling to the surface, “It’s about giving them something that goes deeper than just the surface. No more chasing headlines. No more easy, shallow stories. I’m talking about something real. Real pain. Real stories. Something they can actually connect with—something that doesn’t sound or look fake.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips as he leaned back slightly, clearly entertained.

“You mean like… Venturer ?” His tone was playful, but the glimmer of curiosity in his eyes wasn’t lost on her.

He had always known that Cassie had a sharp mind, a hunger for real stories—the same hunger that Freddie, Rupert, and Declan had been searching for almost a year. But Cassie had never been one to engage directly with Venturer .

She had always preferred to keep her distance from the spotlight, staying on the outside where things were quieter, less exposed—at least publicly.

A little thing in the shell , as Bas himself used to say, back when she had first come to Rutshire. She’d always been the one who stayed in the background, content to watch rather than dive into the drama.

I don't want my face in the screens , she had told him once when her uncle first brought up the possibility of her joining the team. It was a simple, firm declaration. She’d never wanted that kind of attention.

But Venturer was different. It was a project created by her uncle and his well-known friends. She’d never spoken to them directly about it, except when her uncle and Bas mentioned it.

She had been watching from afar, keeping an eye on their ideas as they slowly began to take shape and go live on TV.

“I watch it sometimes when I get the time,” she said, her tone measured, almost as if she were brushing off the question. But there was something in her voice, a subtle shift, that didn’t go unnoticed.

Bas paused, his smirk softening just a touch. The playful teasing faded slightly, replaced by a flicker of genuine curiosity behind his eyes. He leaned back slightly, considering her words.

“You don’t just ‘watch it,’” Bas said, a knowing glint in his eye. “You’re paying attention. Venturer might not be your thing, but you’re still watching.”

Cassie shifted uncomfortably, feeling the weight of his gaze but refusing to back down.

“It’s hard not to notice something that’s everywhere,” she replied, though her words were lighter now. “But I’m not exactly in the business of playing their game. It’s not my scene.”

Bas raised an eyebrow. He didn’t press her further but lingered on the point, his curiosity deepening. He knew her well enough to see that there was more beneath the surface—more than she was willing to admit, even to herself.

Bas chuckled softly, his lips curling into that familiar smirk, “Now I’m curious, what do you think? You think we’re actually doing something worth watching?”

Cassie paused for a moment, weighing her words carefully.

“Maybe,” she said slowly, her mind wandering back to her uncle’s involvement in the project, the high-profile connections he had cultivated, and the way the whole thing had grown into something she hadn’t expected, “I mean, yeah. I think there’s potential. It’s raw, unfiltered... Something real.”

Bas raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued now.

“And you’re just gonna keep watching from the sidelines? Not gonna get involved yourself?”

The question rang in the air, a challenge, but Cassie wasn’t ready to answer it just yet. Instead, she shifted in her seat, suddenly uncomfortable with how personal the conversation had become.

Yet, she narrowed her eyes at him, getting a glimpse of his smirk... Now it made sense why he had mentioned Venturer for starters

“I already have a job, Bas.”

“A shit one,” he pointed out, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the bar. His voice was calm, but the words hit with precision, “Your colleagues don’t appreciate your talent. I’ve seen the way they sideline your ideas, and I’ve heard the segments they let you do. It’s filler, Cass. They don’t take you seriously, and they never will.”

Bas leaned forward, his elbows resting on the polished wood of the bar. The faint overhead light caught the edges of his smirk, giving him an almost mischievous air. He let his words linger between them, studying her reaction.

Cassie tilted her head, her brow arching slightly. She wasn’t about to let him needle her without a fight.

“And would you?” she asked sharply, leaning forward just enough to close the space between them, “TV is more misogynistic than radio, and we both know that.”

Bas didn’t flinch. He always enjoyed a challenge , Cassie remembered.

“Sure, it is,” he admitted, “But at least there’s a chance to be heard. Right now, you’re stuck spinning your wheels while everyone around you is taking credit for your work.”

The voice of her colleague on the radio grew clearer, the words breaking through the haze of static. Cassie’s brow furrowed slightly, but she didn’t fully register it yet.

“And you think TV’s the answer? Let’s not pretend it’s any different. Bigger platforms, bigger egos—it’s the same game, Bas… A worse game.”

“Maybe,” he said simply, shrugging, “But if you’re gonna fight the fight, why not fight it somewhere familiar?”

The radio crackled again, the voice cutting through more clearly now.

“... An in-depth investigation into the council’s misallocation of funds...”

Cassie’s fingers froze on the glass, her breath catching in her throat. The words were faint, still mingled with static, but they pierced through her thoughts like a sharp knife.

Her eyes snapped to the radio, her pulse quickening. Bas followed her gaze, his brow furrowing slightly.

It couldn't be, could it? Cassie’s mind drifted back to days ago, what she had written in her notes as she listened to her colleague—Dan’s words. Each one of them felt like a stone sinking into her chest, heavy and unavoidable.

The bar suddenly felt too small. The low hum of chatter, the clinking of glasses, and the faint music from the jukebox seemed muffled, distant, as if the world outside the static of the radio had faded to nothing.

Cassie’s breathing hitched, shallow and uneven, and for a moment, she thought she might choke on the frustration swelling in her chest.

The air around her, once familiar and warm, now felt stifling. She looked down at her glass, still in her hand, the amber liquid trembling slightly as her grip tightened. The sharp scent of beer mixed with the faint aroma of fried food coming from the kitchen, but it was all background noise to her racing thoughts.

Bas’s voice came through the haze, low and careful.

“Cass? What’s wrong?”

Her eyes snapped to him, wide and searching. The concern etched on his face barely registered. Instead, she pointed toward the radio, her voice tight.

“Turn. That. Up .”

Bas hesitated for a fraction of a second, then obliged, twisting the knob until the words filled the air.

“... Our findings reveal years of systemic negligence, with ties between high-ranking officials and private contractors raising serious questions...”

It was all there. Her angles, her research, her work . Her chest tightened painfully, and she forced herself to take a deep breath, though it felt like dragging air through a straw.

Her grip on the glass loosened, and she set it down carefully on the bar, the slight clunk louder than it should have been. She straightened, her mind a storm of disbelief and simmering rage.

Her surroundings came back into focus, but only just—the stained wood of the bar beneath her hands, the creak of an old stool shifting as someone moved nearby, the flicker of a neon beer sign casting a faint red glow over the wall.

“That’s my story,” she said, the words escaping her lips before she even realized she had spoken.

Bas frowned, his eyes narrowing as he tried to make sense of her reaction, “What are you talking about?”

“That’s my bloody story,” she repeated, her voice firmer this time, but trembling slightly at the edges, “The council, the mismanagement, the contractors—it’s all mine. I pitched it yesterday. Crawford told me it wasn’t ‘cheerier” to air.”

The weight of it hit her fully now. She leaned on the bar for support, her hands pressing into the smooth surface as her mind raced.

How did this happen? How had her work ended up on the air, delivered by someone else?

Bas leaned forward, his expression darkening, “You’re sure? I mean... Maybe it’s just a coincidence?”

“No,” she snapped, “It’s not a coincidence, Bas. I know my work. I know every word of it.”

The room seemed to tilt slightly, and Cassie shook her head, trying to clear the haze. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as though the betrayal wasn’t just professional but personal.

Cassie straightened, her jaw tightening as fury replaced the shock. She grabbed her bag in one swift motion, the strap digging into her shoulder as she turned toward the door.

Bas stood up straighter, his hands resting on the bar.

“Cass, hold on. What are you going to do?”

She paused, her hand gripping the edge of the chair she’d just abandoned.

“I’m going to the station. He doesn’t get to do this.”

“Cass, think about this—”

“No.” She cut him off, her voice steely, “I’m done thinking, Bas. It’s my story, my work, and I’m not letting it slide.”

The bar’s warm light felt glaring as she strode toward the exit, each step sharp and purposeful. The cool night air hit her face like a slap, grounding her just enough to keep moving.

Bas watched her go, her sharp movements cutting through the warm haze of the bar like a blade. For a second, he considered following her, but the determination in her stride stopped him.

Instead, Bas turned toward the phone mounted on the wall behind the bar. The old rotary clattered as he picked it up, his fingers moving with practiced ease to dial the number.

He waited, glancing toward the door she had just stormed through, her words still ringing in his ears.

The line clicked after a few rings.

“Freddie,” Bas said quickly, his voice lower than usual, tinged with urgency, “It’s me.”

“Bas?” Freddie’s voice came through, “What’s going on?”

Bas leaned against the counter, one hand running through his hair as he glanced toward the door again.

“It’s Cass,” he said, the words coming out in a rush, “I think you better head to Crawford's radio station right now.”

A longer pause this time, Bas guessed he had probably awoken the man, “What do you mean?”

Bas exhaled sharply, gripping the phone tighter.

“She will probably throw a bomb and explode the place, Freddie. They had stolen her story.”

The pale morning light filtered through the windows of the station's parking lot, casting long shadows against the asphalt. Cassie pulled her car to a sharp stop, the tires crunching on loose gravel. Her pulse raced as she stepped out, the crisp morning air biting at her skin. Everything about the scene felt surreal, the stillness outside a stark contrast to the storm building within her.

The station was already buzzing with its usual morning energy. The faint hum of muffled voices and clattering keyboards carried through the slightly ajar front door. Cassie pushed it open, her steps firm and unrelenting as she entered. The fluorescent lights overhead cast a sterile glow over the cluttered interior—a mess of half-empty coffee cups, stray papers, and tangled wires.

Her boots clicked sharply against the tiled floor as she passed the break room. A few of her colleagues turned to glance at her, their expressions ranging from vague curiosity to mild discomfort. They must have sensed her fury, the way her jaw was set and her eyes burned with a fire they hadn’t seen before.

Dan’s voice drifted faintly from the studio down the hall, calm and self-assured as always. But to Cassie, it sounded smug, taunting, every syllable dripping with betrayal.

She reached the studio door just as the ON AIR sign flickered off, signaling a break. Her heart pounded as she pushed the door open, stepping inside to find Dan, Crawford, and a sound technician huddled together.

Crawford leaned lazily against the control panel, his disinterest palpable, while Dan adjusted his tie, a faint smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, if it isn’t our rising star,” Dan drawled, his voice dripping with condescension, “Come to bask in the glory of our latest hit segment?”

Cassie’s hands curled into fists at her sides.

“That segment,” she said evenly, though her voice trembled with barely-contained anger, “Was my pitch. My research. My story.”

Crawford sighed, rubbing his temple as though this confrontation was an inconvenience rather than a betrayal.

“Look, Cassie,” he began, his tone patronizing, “it’s not about ownership here. It’s about the station putting out the best possible content. Dan’s delivery works for the audience. He knows how to connect—”

“He knows how to steal, you both do!” Cassie snapped, cutting him off, “You told me my story wasn’t good enough to air, and now suddenly it’s headline material because he’s the one presenting it?”

Dan chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh, come on, Cassie. It’s not like you were going to do anything with it. Consider it a team effort.”

Her vision blurred with rage. Every patronizing word felt like a slap, each excuse twisting the knife deeper.

“You don’t get to take credit for my work,” she said, her voice rising.

Crawford straightened, his expression hardening.

“Lower your voice,” he barked, glancing toward the technician, “We’re going back on air in two minutes.”

That was all the time Cassie needed.

Before he could finish, Cassie moved. Her body acted before her mind could second-guess. She shoved Dan’s chair aside, ignoring his startled yelp as he stumbled. Sliding into his place, she locked the door with a sharp twist and adjusted the microphone in front of her.

“Cassie!” Crawford bellowed, pounding on the glass partition, “What the hell are you doing?”

She ignored him, her fingers flying over the console to flip the switch. The red ON AIR light blinked on.

Behind the glass, Crawford was screaming at the technicians.

“Get her off the air! Now!”

One of them shook his head, panicked, “We can’t. She’s got full control of the board.”

There were two or three good things on being Freddie Jones’ niece.

Her voice filled the airwaves, clear and commanding.

“Good morning, Rutshire. This is Cassandra Jones, and I’ve got a story to tell you. But it’s not the one you just heard. No, this one is about the station you’re listening to right now—the lies it tells, the stories it hides, and the people it silences.”

Crawford was livid, his fists pounding against the door as he barked orders at the technicians.

“Cut the feed!”

The lead technician hesitated, sweat beading on his brow.

“Sir, we’d have to shut down the whole station.”

“And lose every listener we’ve just gained?” another technician added, pointing to the monitors that displayed the surging audience numbers.

Crawford froze, his fury replaced by a flicker of fear.

The air in the O’Hara kitchen carried the sweet warmth of butter and vanilla, the scent clinging to every corner like a comforting memory. Sunlight filtered through the tall windows, casting golden streaks over the marble countertops and glinting off Taggie’s delicate array of mixing bowls and utensils. She worked with precision, her hands deftly folding batter as she tested a new recipe.

The rhythmic scrape of her spatula against the bowl mingled with the faint hum of the radio in the background.

Rupert sat at the breakfast table, a picture of calculated ease, the newspaper spread before him like a shield. His brow furrowed slightly as his eyes darted across the columns, though his attention seemed to wander.

Declan leaned against the counter, coffee in hand, his stance casual but his gaze sharp, fixed on nothing in particular. The radio had been little more than background noise—a familiar companion to their morning routine.

But now, the sharp edge in the voice crackling through the speakers commanded Taggie's attention.

She paused, her hand hovering over the mixing bowl, her brow furrowing as she caught a particularly biting phrase.

“Turn that up,” she said abruptly, setting down her spatula.

Rupert raised an eyebrow but complied, folding his newspaper neatly and nodding toward Declan. With an easy motion, Declan leaned over and turned the dial, the static fading to bring Cassie’s voice into sharper focus.

“...And then, they gave it to someone else,” she was saying, her tone laced with indignation and barely restrained anger, “They handed my work, my research, my hours of effort to someone who didn’t earn it. All because they thought it would sell better with his name on it, it would be more profitable if it was told by a a man.”

The room fell still, the normally comforting buzz of kitchen activity replaced by the biting truth in her words. Taggie wiped her hands on her apron, her lips pressing into a thin line as she listened intently. Rupert leaned back in his chair, his fingers steepled under his chin, his expression shifting to one of genuine interest. Declan remained by the counter, his focus sharp on it, his notes forgotten as his journalist instincts stirred to life.

The words coming from the radio didn’t just cut through the air; they lingered, deliberate, each one a carefully aimed arrow.

“Last year, we buried a story about toxic waste being dumped into local waterways—because the company responsible was a top-tier advertiser. Families got sick, kids missed school, and what did this station do? Nothing . Because money speaks louder than people’s lives here.”

Taggie paused mid-motion, her hands hanging limp as Cassie’s voice seeped into the room. She exchanged a glance with Rupert, who had set his paper down entirely now, his features tight with unspoken thoughts.

“This station silences voices,” Cassie continued, the edge in her tone palpable, “It buries stories that challenge you, stories that could make a difference. It’s not about the truth here. It’s about control—about keeping power in the hands of those who already have it.”

Rupert sighed heavily, rubbing a hand across his jaw, his posture tense as though her words had struck a personal chord.

“She’s playing with fire,” he muttered, his tone cautious but far from dismissive, “Crawford’s the type to hold a grudge, and he won’t forgive this. He’s too protective of his image.”

“She’s brave,” Taggie countered, her voice steady and soft, though there was no mistaking the steel underneath. She held Rupert’s gaze, her expression calm but resolute, as though daring him to dismiss her opinion, “It’s reckless, yes, but sometimes that’s what people need to hear.”

Rupert raised an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t agree—not entirely, anyway—but he didn’t interrupt. Instead, he let her words linger in the air, the kitchen momentarily quieter as though everyone was considering them.

If not everyone, him . His gaze lingered on her for a second too long, his smirk fading into something softer.

Declan, leaning against the counter, remained silent, his brow furrowed slightly as his focus stayed fixed on the radio. The steam from his untouched coffee curled lazily upward, but he didn’t notice. His mind was elsewhere, still tethered to the sharpness of Cassie’s voice.

“Who is she?” he asked after a beat, his tone clipped but carrying a subtle curiosity that he didn’t bother to hide.

“Cassandra Jones,” Taggie replied, her voice quiet but sure, “Freddie’s niece. She’s been here for a few months now—moved from Chicago.”

“Oh, Bas told me about her,” Rupert chimed in, the smirk returning as he leaned back slightly in his chair, “Thought she’d be too meek for a place like this, but... Seems I underestimated her. She’s got a sharp tongue, I’ll give her that.”

Taggie’s expression didn’t shift, but there was a subtle light in her eyes as she straightened slightly.

“I listen to her show at night,” Taggie said simply, her voice steady, her eyes lingering on the now-silent radio, “It was time for everyone to listen to her. I’ve always liked her opinions. She has a way with words.”

Rupert chuckled lightly, shaking his head as he turned his gaze between Taggie and Declan.

“Well, you’ve got a knack for spotting wildflowers with potential, I’ll give you that,” he said, his tone teasing but not dismissive. There was a trace of warmth in the way he looked at her, an acknowledgment of her insight even if he wasn’t quite ready to say he agreed.

He liked it when she spoke with certainty, even if it rubbed against his own instincts. And he didn’t miss the way she looked back at him, a smile creeping out of her teeth.

Declan didn’t join in the exchange, his brow furrowed as he stared at the coffee cup in his hands. His grip tightened slightly, a subconscious response as Cassie’s voice echoed in his thoughts. She’d been bold—too bold, perhaps—but her precision, the deliberate weight behind every word, lingered like a static charge.

Declan’s lips twitched faintly, but he didn’t take the bait. His attention stayed fixed on the now-fading voice, the static swallowing the last of Cassie’s words.

As the room settled into silence, Rupert glanced at him, one brow raised, “You’re awfully quiet, O’Hara. Something on your mind?”

Declan set his mug down, his fingers tapping lightly against the counter.

“She knows how to get attention,” he said simply, “That’s half the battle.”

Rupert’s smirk widened, “And the other half?”

Declan didn’t answer immediately, his gaze flicking to the window as though searching for something just out of reach.

“Making sure it’s not wasted,” he said finally, his voice quiet but resolute.

Taggie sighed, resuming her whisking, though the motion was slower, her thoughts clearly divided between the batter in her bowl and what her father had just said.

“—Let me tell you about the sponsors,” Cassie pressed on, her tone dropping into something colder, “The ones who dictate what you hear, who decide what stories matter and what gets erased. We’re not reporting the news—we’re selling it. And the price? Your trust.”

The kitchen was silent save for the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock and the faint crackle of the broadcast. Taggie moved mechanically now, her hands resuming their work with a distracted air. She caught Rupert’s eye briefly, the unspoken question hanging between them: Is Freddie’s niece insane?

Declan, still silent, felt the faintest flicker of something sharper stir in his chest. It wasn’t anger, exactly, though it wasn’t far off. It was recognition—of a battle he had seen too many times in his own career. She wasn’t just fighting a corrupt system; she was taking a wrecking ball to it, piece by piece.

“She’s naming names,” Declan muttered, almost to himself.

“And burning bridges while she’s at it,” Rupert countered, though his usual air of superiority was absent. He tapped his fingers against the table, the sound rhythmic and deliberate.

Declan’s gaze stayed fixed on the radio, his smirk fading as the weight of Cassie’s words settled over him. The easy posture he had held moments before shifted, his arms crossing over his chest as though bracing against the storm her voice carried. The kitchen, once bustling with the hum of morning tasks, had gone eerily quiet. Even the faint scrape of Taggie’s utensils ceased, the air heavy with the raw intensity spilling from the radio.

The cadence of Cassie’s voice had changed—deliberate now, each word like a match striking against flint. It wasn’t just anger fueling her, Declan realized. It was something deeper, sharper. Conviction.

“She is burning, for sure,” he murmured, his tone low but deliberate, “if you want people to see the light…”

Rupert raised an eyebrow, his amusement faint but present. “I didn’t peg you for being an optimist.”

“I’m not,” Declan replied, his voice clipped, his gaze unwavering. His fingers tapped absently against the counter as if keeping time with the rhythm of Cassie’s words. “But I know what it takes to shake people awake. And she’s doing it.”

On the radio, Cassie’s voice dropped, slower now, as though the weight of her decision was settling over her in real-time. The ticking clock above the stove seemed to grow louder, filling the gaps between her sentences, each tick amplifying the tension.

“I can’t stay here,” Cassie’s voice rang out, steady but carrying the weight of exhaustion, each syllable laced with unyielding defiance, “Not in a place that values profit over principle, that rewards complacency and punishes integrity. This is my last broadcast. Consider this my resignation, live on air.”

There was a brief pause, the kind of silence that felt alive, as if the entire town had stopped to hold its breath. The rustle of papers and panicked murmurs on the other side of the broadcast began to rise, chaotic and desperate.

“Get her off the air!”

“That’s enough!”

“Someone call the police!”

The background noise crackled through the radio, growing louder as the urgency escalated. Rupert leaned back in his chair, his sharp eyes narrowing as he absorbed the cacophony.

“And one last thing,” Cassie’s voice cut through the static again, this time tinged with a grim sort of triumph, “Fuck you, Charles Crawford!”

Declan’s brows shot up, amusement breaking through his otherwise unreadable expression. Rupert, on the other hand, let out a low whistle, shaking his head as though he couldn’t decide whether to be impressed or exasperated.

“Crawford’s probably tearing his hair out by now,” Rupert remarked dryly, his tone carrying a trace of grudging admiration, “Can’t say I envy him.”

The tension in the room was palpable, lingering in the air like smoke after a fire. Taggie, who had been meticulously smoothing the edges of her apron, paused mid-motion. Her fingers fidgeted slightly, betraying the concern that clouded her otherwise calm expression.

“Do you think they’ll arrest her?” she asked, her voice quieter than usual, hesitant.

Rupert didn’t answer, his attention briefly caught by the steady drip of a coffee pot on the counter. His silence wasn’t unusual, but the shift in his expression—an uncharacteristic tightness around his mouth—hinted at unease.

Declan’s silence, however, felt heavier. He remained still, his brow slightly furrowed, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He wasn’t ignoring the question; he was somewhere else entirely, his mind dissecting every word Cassie had spoken, the deliberate rhythm of her sentences still echoing in his ears.

She hadn’t just revealed truths. She’d weaponized them, sharpened them into blades that now hung in the air, slicing through the fragile facade of the station. He imagined the chaos unfolding on the other side of her microphone—Crawford’s voice, raw and furious, barking orders; the panicked scurrying of technicians trying and failing to regain control. It was the kind of pandemonium Declan had seen countless times in his own career, though rarely so publicly.

Publicly, people called him the 'Irish Wolfhound'. The moniker stuck for good reason—he was relentless, tenacious, and unyielding in the chase. But Cassandra? She wasn’t hunting like he did.

She was circling, sharp-eyed and calculating, waiting for the exact moment to strike.

He exhaled sharply, breaking his stillness as though the weight of realization had settled more deeply over him.

Her voice wasn’t just a broadcast. Cassandra was declaring war.

Declan inhaled sharply, breaking his stillness.

Rupert considered the question for a moment, his eyes narrowing slightly as though pondering a move on a chessboard.

“Oh, they’ll arrest her,” he said, his voice laced with certainty, “Crawford won’t let something like this slide. He can’t afford to.”

Declan, leaning against the counter, let his arms fold loosely across his chest. His posture was relaxed, but there was a sharpness in his gaze, a flicker of something darker beneath the surface.

“She’s forced their hand,” Declan said, his tone calm but deliberate, “He’ll want to make an example of her—show everyone what happens when you push too hard.”

Rupert hummed thoughtfully, folding his paper with deliberate care and resting his hands on it, as if weighing something unseen. There was an unspoken suspicion behind his narrowed gaze as he studied Declan—a sharpness that cut into the quiet space between them.

Rupert’s gaze flicked to Declan, a subtle spark of curiosity glinting in his eyes.

“And yet,” Rupert began, his words slow and deliberate, “you don’t sound like someone who thinks she’s in over her head.”

Declan’s lips twitched, the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of his mouth.

“She’s not,” he said simply.

Declan’s gaze set over the radio, his expression unreadable but far from indifferent. The static-filled silence that followed Cassie’s broadcast had settled over the room, heavy and charged, like the air before a storm. He rolled his shoulders slightly, as if shaking off the weight of it, but his thoughts stayed fixed on her words.

It wasn’t just what she’d said—though that had been sharp enough to leave a mark—it was how she’d said it. There was precision in her delivery, the kind of unyielding conviction that struck a nerve. Declan knew that tone. It was the sound of someone who’d spent too long being told to sit down and shut up, finally deciding they’d had enough.

He sipped his now-lukewarm coffee, his eyes narrowing slightly as Taggie’s voice broke into his thoughts.

“You sound like you admire her,” she teased, her smile faint but knowing as she turned back to her bowl.

Declan gave her a sidelong glance, his smirk half-formed.

“I don’t know her,” he replied, his tone light but carefully neutral, “Hard to admire someone you’ve never met.”

Taggie’s laugh was soft, her focus returning to her batter, “Doesn’t mean you can’t be impressed.”

Rupert chuckled quietly, folding his newspaper and leaning back in his chair with an air of satisfaction.

“Oh, he’s impressed, all right,” he said smoothly, casting Declan a sly look, “Rarely seen the Wolfhound so quiet after hearing someone on the air.”

Declan shot him a look, more amused than irritated.

“She’s reckless,” he said, his voice steady, as if stating an undeniable fact, “That kind of move doesn’t just burn bridges; it torches the whole damn village.”

“And you respect that,” Rupert countered, leaning forward slightly, his sharp eyes glinting.

Declan didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he set his coffee down with a deliberate slowness, the soft clink of the mug against the counter punctuating the silence. His thoughts churned, though he wouldn’t have admitted it outright. There was a spark to her, something raw and untamed that he hadn’t expected.

He’d seen plenty of people with ambition—had worked alongside them, had watched them rise and fall, often under the weight of their own egos. But Cassie’s drive didn’t seem rooted in vanity or ambition for its own sake. It was sharper than that. Purposed.

She reminded him of someone—maybe himself, years ago, when he still believed in tearing down the walls instead of navigating them.

“Reckless doesn’t mean wrong,” he said finally, his voice quieter now, almost thoughtful.

Rupert tilted his head, watching him with an expression that bordered on amusement.

“Interesting,” Rupert murmured.

Declan ignored him, his thoughts still circling. Cassie Jones. Freddie’s niece, apparently. That explained part of it—Freddie was nothing if not sharp-tongued and stubborn. But there was more to her, something he couldn’t quite piece together yet. She wasn’t just loud or brash; she was precise, deliberate, and unafraid to be messy if it meant getting to the truth.

He could still hear her voice, cutting through the static with an unshakable conviction. It wasn’t easy to pull that off—to sound angry and controlled at the same time. It took skill.

Talent , he corrected himself silently.

“Think she’ll stay in Rutshire after this?” Taggie asked, her tone light, though her curiosity was evident.

Declan tilted his head slightly, considering.

“If she’s smart, she won’t,” he said, his tone matter-of-fact, “Crawford will make sure she’s blacklisted. She’ll have to find somewhere else to land.”

And yet, as he said it, he found himself hoping she wouldn’t. There was something compelling about her fight, her refusal to accept the constraints of her situation. He didn’t know what she’d do next, but he had the sense it would be something worth watching.

Declan’s smirk returned, faint but unmistakable. She’s not going to fade quietly, that’s for sure.

The air in the kitchen had grown heavier, the faint crackle of static from the radio fading into the background as Cassie’s voice disappeared. Declan stood by the counter, his coffee forgotten as his gaze lingered on the now-silent speakers. The energy of the room shifted, a quiet tension filling the space like the lull before a storm.

Rupert stretched his legs under the table, his smirk widening as he tilted his head to watch Declan.

“You’re planning something,” Rupert said, his tone light but knowing, “You always get that look when you’ve found a new target.”

Declan’s lips quirked into a faint smile, though he didn’t take the bait.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he replied smoothly, lifting his coffee mug again, though he didn’t drink, “I’m just thinking.”

“About a voice you just heard on the radio,” Rupert added, teasing. Taggie glanced at him from her bowl, her hands resuming the rhythm of her whisk.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them but didn’t respond, letting the words hang in the air.

Taggie tilted her head slightly, her whisk pausing for just a moment.

“Did you like her?” she asked, her tone gentle but curious, as though she already had her own answer but wanted to hear Declan’s.

Declan shot a sideways glance at both of them, his expression guarded.

“I don’t even know her,” he countered, his voice calm but with a faint edge of irritation, “She’s Freddie’s niece, not a bloody headline.”

His daughter raised an eyebrow, her lips twitching into a small, knowing smile, but she said nothing. Taggie had learned long ago that her father’s defenses ran deep when it came to matters of people getting under his skin.

“Maybe not yet,” Rupert interjected, leaning forward in his chair, his sharp eyes glinting with amusement, “But she’s got the spark for it. We all heard it. She knows how to make herself heard.”

Declan didn’t respond immediately, though Rupert’s words hit him right away. He could feel them, like a distant echo, her voice still hummed in his head.

His gaze shifted briefly to the radio, now silent, as though it might still hold some faint trace of her words. He could see it—hear it again in his mind. Cassie Jones wasn’t just speaking; she was carving something from thin air, her words deliberate and measured, each one leaving an impression, like fingerprints on glass.

It had been a long time since Declan had felt this… Intrigued . Intrigued by a woman’s voice on a radio, of all things. Not just any voice either, but one that demanded attention without raising it too high.

She was clear, unwavering, the kind of person who knew what they were saying and made sure you heard it. The kind of person who didn’t need to scream to be heard.

Just shove a door and hit her feet into the ground.

He exhaled through his nose, his jaw tightening slightly. His hands were still, but the irritation now felt more like a defense against something else, something unfamiliar that he wasn’t quite ready to acknowledge.

“Well, she must have locked herself in the station room to make that happen,” Declan said, his tone dry and dismissive.

He didn’t mean it; not exactly. It was just a reflex, the kind of armor he put on when people were asking too many questions that he didn’t know how to answer. But even as the words left his mouth, there was something deeper beneath them—a grudging acknowledgment of the effort, the willpower it must have taken to command that kind of attention.

To make those words land the way she did. Well, if they pressed him, he would admit he admired her indeed for being brave enough to be reckless.

Rupert smirked, leaning back in his chair with the ease of someone who had already sized up the situation.

“And you respect that,” he said, his tone lighter now, though his gaze didn’t waver from Declan’s face.

Declan didn’t look at him immediately. His gaze was fixed on something distant, the fleeting memory of her voice still running through his mind. He could feel the tension in his chest, a strange knot that wasn’t there before.

It wasn’t anger, exactly—it was something else. Something unspoken. Something he was still trying to conceive.

“She’s got something,” Declan muttered, his tone quieter now, almost reflective. The words tasted different in his mouth than they did when he first said them, no longer a dismissal but something closer to recognition. There was a shift in him, something subtle but undeniable.

“ And you respect that ,” Rupert repeated, his smirk softening into something more genuine. There was no mocking tone now, just the faintest trace of admiration—something Declan could sense without needing it spelled out for him.

Declan finally met Rupert’s gaze, his expression unreadable, but the flicker of something new in his eyes betrayed him. He didn’t answer right away, but the silence between them spoke volumes.

Cassie Jones wasn’t just another voice on the radio. That was a fact.

And for the first time in a long while, Declan wasn’t sure what to do with that.

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