Claire dropped her bag onto the kitchen counter and sank onto a stool. The apartment felt smaller than usual, the walls closing in as if the air itself carried the memory of Leo's office, its polished restraint, its scent of cedar and quiet authority. The conversation replayed in her head, each word heavy and deliberate. His tone had been measured, but there had been something underneath it, an edge that refused to soften. She unzipped her bag and pulled out her recorder. Her thumb hovered over the button, her reflection faint in the dark screen. Part of her wanted to start immediately, to capture every detail before it blurred, the pauses, the tension, the strange pull between threat and fascination. But another part resisted. There were no clean lines in what had just happened. It wasn't an interview anymore; it was something personal, dangerous, and possibly irreversible.The door banged open behind her. "Claire!" Maggie's voice cracked through the stillness. She swept into the room, her curls half-tamed, her coat swinging like a cape. "Tell me you didn't actually go up there."Claire sighed and pressed her palms over her eyes. "Morning to you too."Maggie marched to the counter, planting herself across from her. "Don't play coy. I called his office. They said you were there.""I didn't exactly sneak in," Claire said, looking up. "He invited me.""That's worse!" Maggie threw her hands up. "The man doesn't invite anyone without expecting to own them by the end of the meeting." Claire rubbed the back of her neck. "He knows about Trent. He didn't say it outright, but he knows. And Dominic" She stopped, realizing too late what she'd revealed.Maggie's eyes sharpened. "Dominic? What about him?"Claire cursed inwardly. "It doesn't matter.""It matters if you're stepping into a family war with billionaires," Maggie said. Her voice was rising, but the worry beneath it was real. "You think Leo Westbrook is dangerous? Dominic makes him look like a schoolboy with a trust fund."Claire frowned. "What do you know? "Enough," Maggie said flatly. "Enough to know you can't keep running into that man's office like it's neutral ground. Every conversation, every word, you're handing him leverage." Claire shook her head, pacing the narrow kitchen. "You don't get it. Danny's deeper in this than I thought. If I don't push Leo, if I don't use him somehow, we lose everything. The story dies."
"Or he uses you," Maggie said. "And then you're the story."
The words hit harder than Claire wanted to admit. She turned away, pacing faster, her mind flashing with images of Leo's expression, his stillness, his eyes like dark glass.
"I'm not some naïve intern," she said. "I know what he is."
"Do you?" Maggie's tone softened, but the steel remained. "Because from where I'm standing, it sounds like he's already inside your head. That's what he does, Claire. He makes people feel seen, understood, and inevitable. And by the time you realize it's manipulation, it's too late."
Claire stopped pacing. She looked toward the window. Beyond the glass, Los Angeles stretched out in a haze of light and distance, the city waking slow and indifferent. She saw Leo again in her mind, his calm, his certainty, the way he had stood too close, like the space around him didn't belong to anyone else.
"I'm not in his pocket," she said quietly.
"No," Maggie said, watching her. "But you're standing right on the edge. And one wrong step…" She let the warning hang in the air, unfinished.
The kitchen fell silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator and the muted sounds of traffic below. The tension between them thickened, not anger now but fear, the kind that came from love disguised as frustration.
Finally, Claire turned back. "Then help me keep my balance," she said. "Because Danny doesn't have anyone else. And whether we like it or not, Leo Westbrook is the key."
Maggie's shoulders dropped. She stared at her for a long moment, reading the exhaustion in her face. "Fine," she said finally. "But you keep me in the loop. Every meeting, every word, every glance if you can manage it. If he breathes so much wrong, I want to know."
Claire managed a small, tired smile. "Deal."
Maggie grabbed her bag, still muttering under her breath as she moved toward the door. "And Claire?"
"Yeah?"
"Don't forget what you're there for," Maggie said, her hand on the knob. "A story. Not him."
When the door closed behind her, the apartment fell back into stillness. The air felt heavier somehow, as if Maggie had taken the noise but left the warning behind.
Claire leaned against the counter, staring at the recorder. Maggie was right, she had to remember her purpose. The story was what mattered. Danny's name, the truth buried beneath money and silence. Not Leo. Never Leo.
But the memory of him refused to fade. The way he had spoken her name, not with charm, not with flirtation, but with recognition. Like he saw her motives before she did.
She pressed her hands flat against the counter until the surface bit into her palms. Then she picked up the recorder and finally pressed the red button.
Her voice came out low, almost detached, as if she were listening to herself from a distance. "Leo Westbrook," she said. "Power like gravity. Pulling everyone into orbit, crushing what resists. I told myself I wouldn't be one of them. But gravity doesn't care what you tell yourself."
She paused, the silence humming in her ears.
Outside, a car horn blared faintly. Somewhere down the street, someone laughed. The city was moving on, but she wasn't ready to.
She spoke again, softer now. "He knows about Trent. He knows about the files. If he's protecting Dominic, then the trail leads further than I thought. There's something they're both guarding. Something bigger than the company, maybe bigger than any of us."
Her throat tightened. She wanted to stop, but the words kept forming.
"I told him I wanted the truth," she said. "He smiled like he already knew what I'd do when I found it."
The hum of the refrigerator filled the pause. She swallowed hard and clicked the recorder off.
For a long while she just sat there, the device still in her hand. The sun had climbed high enough to touch the corner of the counter, turning the steel surface pale gold. She stared at it, feeling the faint warmth on her skin, the day moving forward whether she wanted it to or not.
Finally, she whispered, "I can handle this."
It sounded less like conviction and more like hope.
She set the recorder aside and reached for her notebook, opening it to a fresh page. Across the top she wrote, Leo Westbrook Interview: Unpublished Notes. Beneath that, her pen hesitated before continuing: Charm as control. Silence as a weapon. The truth is personal to him, whatever he's hiding, he's guarding it with his own name.
She read the line twice, then closed the notebook gently.
For now, it was all she c
ould admit, even to herself.