StreamWave arrived in staggered waves the next day, like migrating birds in branded down jackets.
The first shuttle pulled up at ten a.m., its headlights slicing through the early-morning mountain mist.
Sophie stood on the front steps with a tablet and a practiced smile, scarf wrapped snugly around her neck, Mia at her side like a cheerful shadow.
“Welcome to Elk Ridge!” she called as the doors opened and people began to spill out, dragging roller bags and checking their phones for service that would not come.
The first group were executives.
You could always tell.
Sharper suits, even in the mountains. Polished boots. The posture of people used to leaning in.
At their head: a woman in her late forties with a short, sleek haircut and a camel coat over black trousers. No visible makeup. No jewelry except a simple steel watch.
Sophie recognized her from the dossier: Isabel Vega, StreamWave’s Chief Content Officer.
She extended a hand.
“Ms. Vega,” she said. “Sophie Turner. Welcome.”
“Call me Isabel,” the woman said, grip firm, dark eyes scanning the estate with quick efficiency. “Thank you for having us on such short notice.”
“Thank you for making the trip,” Sophie replied. “We’ve got coffee inside and a chance to shake the road off before the first session.”
Isabel nodded, seemingly satisfied that she was in capable hands, and moved past with a crisp “Good morning” to Howard, who stationed himself near the entry like a polite bouncer.
Behind her came a younger man Sophie recognized as a VP of Original Series, all stubble and buzzwords, followed by two development execs whose faces she’d seen on industry panels.
“You must be Sophie,” one said, after shaking her hand. “Eleanor made you sound terrifying.”
“Only when I need to be,” Sophie said pleasantly. “Please, watch your step.”
The second shuttle, an hour later, held “creators.”
They were… a different energy.
A woman with lavender hair and a ring light tattoo on her wrist, filming as she stepped out. A guy in an oversized hoodie and beanie, earbuds in, eyes wide as he took in the glass walls. A nonbinary person in a neon beanie and huge earrings, their camera slung cross-body, already narrating into it.
“Remember,” Priya murmured near Sophie’s shoulder, “we have NDA clauses. They can film in the content room and in designated B-roll windows. Nowhere else without sign-off.”
“Right,” Sophie said. “Content garden.”
She slipped into her “host” mode—welcoming but firm.
“Hi,” she said to Lavender Hair, stepping slightly into the shot. “Welcome. I’m Sophie. Before you hit record too hard, I need to orient you to our filming guidelines for the weekend.”
Lavender blinked, lowered her phone a fraction.
“Oh,” she said. “Is this about, like, not showing his face?”
“Partly,” Sophie said. “Also about respecting other guests’ privacy and the estate’s security. We’ve got a room set up for creating content, with great lighting and backgrounds. You’ll have time in the schedule for that. But we’re keeping cameras out of private spaces and certain sessions.”
“I can’t vlog my breakfast?” Hoodie Guy asked, mock-horrified.
“You can vlog your plate,” Sophie said. “Not anyone’s face without consent.”
“Hot,” Hoodie Guy said. “Consent. We stan.”
Neon Beanie grinned. “I’m into boundaries,” they said. “Tell us where the Story Lab is and we’ll play nice.”
Priya lit up. “Come with me,” she said. “We have neon signs.”
Sophie exhaled.
This was going to be fine.
Intense.
But fine.
The last arrivals were writers and showrunners.
Some, flat-voiced and already tired from making television. Others, overeager, eyes bright at the thought of impressing Nathan in person.
She clocked each one, mentally sorting them into risk categories.
Overtalkers. Undersharers. Potential panel hijackers.
Useful allies.
As the final shuttle rumbled down the drive toward the town, the signature hiss of the main door opening behind her made the hair on the back of her neck rise.
He stepped out, flanked by Howard.
He’d put on the version of himself she thought of as “public-facing Nathan”: dark shirt, darker jeans, boots, hair tamed just enough to look intentional, not artfully messy. His expression was neutral, an almost bored half-frown that she knew masked a mind scanning a thousand inputs.
The murmurs from the guests near the foyer rippled.
“Oh my God, that’s—”
“He *is* taller in real life.”
“Don’t stare, Tara, Jesus.”
He moved through the space like a reluctant planet suddenly aware of orbiting bodies.
Sophie stepped inside to meet him halfway.
“Nathan,” she said, voice pitched for his ears only. “Timing’s good. We’re just about to do the welcome coffee.”
“Strangers in my hallways,” he muttered.
“You invited them,” she reminded him.
“I invited their money,” he said. “Their bodies came as a package deal.”
She fought a smile.
“Isabel,” she said, turning to the Chief Content Officer, who’d approached with an expression Sophie could only describe as professional interest. “This is Nathan Cross.”
Nathan offered his hand.
“Ms. Vega,” he said.
“Mr. Cross,” she said, taking it. “Thank you for having us in your… lair.”
He arched a brow.
“You say that like you expect sharks in the floor,” he said.
“I expect sharp objects everywhere I go,” she replied. “My job.”
“Mine too,” he said.
They regarded each other for a beat, two apex predators circling.
Sophie filed that away.
They were going to be… a lot.
“Let’s get everyone settled,” she interjected smoothly. “We’ll do intros in the conference room in twenty.”
The first welcome session felt like controlled weather.
The room hummed with the low-level crackle of anticipation and ego.
Sophie stood at the back, tablet in hand, as people took their seats around the long table.
She’d arranged it carefully: executives near the head, showrunners sprinkled strategically, creators clustered but not clumped, Nathan at one side rather than the end, so he’d feel less like a specimen.
Isabel opened with a tight, practiced speech about StreamWave’s commitment to “storyfronts” and “expanding narrative universes,” hitting all the internal talking points.
Nathan let her.
He sat, fingers steepled, eyes steady.
When she ceded the floor, every head turned.
“Welcome,” he said.
Short.
Simple.
The room leaned in.
“I hate this,” he added.
Laughter.
Different from the gala. Less warm, more charged.
“But I like stories,” he went on. “I like the people who make them. I like when they’re weird and specific and not smoothed into jelly for mass consumption.”
A couple of creators nodded vigorously.
“Somehow,” he continued, “we’ve all agreed to lock ourselves in a glass house together for three days to talk about that. Try not to break anything.”
More laughter.
He flicked a glance at Sophie.
She saw the muscle in his jaw twitch.
He was working.
Hard.
She couldn’t help the small pulse of pride.
As the session unfolded, she did what she always did: read the room.
Isabel asked smart questions, pushing him to articulate things he usually wrote around.
A showrunner for a gritty crime drama brought up violence on screen.
A creator who did true crime commentary on StreamWave’s platform asked about “responsibility to victims.”
He answered with more nuance than she guessed some of them had expected.
“People assume I like violence,” he said at one point. “Because I write about it. I don’t. I’m interested in it. In why people hurt each other. In what it does to the ones left behind. Violence is the bang. Consequences are the echo. You can do a lot with echoes.”
The room went quiet.
Pens scratched.
Phones, momentarily forgotten, lay still.
He was… in it.
Present.
This was why they’d wanted him.
Why she’d agreed to bring them here.
She felt it like a hum in her bones.
Then, of course, someone had to step on a fault line.
It was a man in his early forties, slick hair, expensive casual clothes.
Dan Mercer, VP of Brand Partnerships.
He’d been quiet until now, biding his time.
“Can I ask something a little… provocative?” he said, leaning forward, elbows on the table.
Red flag, Sophie thought.
Nathan’s mouth tightened, but he nodded once.
Dan smiled.
“You talk a lot about fear and trauma,” he said. “In really powerful ways. And I respect that. But don’t you worry that your… reputation for reclusiveness is starting to overshadow your work? That people are more interested in the… myth of Nathan Cross than the books?”
The room shifted.
Some people looked uncomfortable.
Others looked fascinated.
Nathan went very, very still.
Sophie’s stomach dropped.
She’d anticipated a version of this.
She hadn’t expected it so early.
Isabel shot Dan a warning look.
“Dan,” she began.
“No, it’s okay,” Nathan said, surprising her.
His voice was calm.
Too calm.
“Short answer?” he said. “Yes. It worries me. Long answer: I didn’t set out to be a myth. I set out to get the voices in my head on paper before I exploded. The… media machinery built something on top of that. Wikipedia pages and grainy photos and people projecting their shit onto a silhouette.”
A ripple of uneasy humor.
“I’ve been… complicit,” he went on. “I let it happen because it felt safer than… this. Rooms. People. Questions. But it’s a shitty trade.”
He looked straight at Dan.
“I’d rather be read than gossiped about,” he said. “I’d rather you talk about my characters’ traumas than my own. But I don’t get to control what you fixate on.”
His gaze swept the room.
“Same goes for all of you,” he added. “Streamers. Creators. Execs. The more we let ourselves become brand instead of people, the more we feed the machine that chews us up. So if you’re asking if I regret feeding it sometimes? Yes. If you’re asking if I want to burn it all down? Also yes.”
There was a beat of stunned silence.
Then Neon Beanie said, “Honestly? Mood.”
Laughter broke.
Tension eased.
Dan leaned back, chastened but also… oddly pleased, like he’d gotten what he’d wanted: a moment.
Sophie’s shoulders slowly came down from around her ears.
Nathan’s throat worked.
His eyes flicked to her.
She inclined her head, barely.
You did it.
Later, between sessions, as people milled in the hall with coffee cups and small plates of Rafe’s canapés, Dan cornered her near the staircase.
“You wrangled him well,” he said, sipping his espresso.
She stiffened.
“I didn’t wrangle anyone,” she said evenly. “He chose to answer.”
“Semantics,” Dan said. “You built the conditions.”
She met his gaze.
“Is there something you need from me, Mr. Mercer?” she asked. “Besides more caffeine?”
He laughed.
“You’re good,” he said. “No, I just… wanted to thank you. For getting him to do this. It’s… huge for us.”
She relaxed a fraction.
“You’re welcome,” she said.
He hesitated.
Then, with the practiced nonchalance of a man who’d hit on people in boardrooms before, he said, “If you ever get tired of weddings and summits, StreamWave’s always looking for people who can manage chaos. You ever thought about coming in-house?”
She blinked.
“Are you recruiting me at my own event?” she asked.
He grinned. “That’s when you shine. It’s the best pitch deck I’ve ever seen.”
Flattering.
Also… unsettling.
“I’m a partner at my firm,” she said. “I’m not looking to jump ship.”
“People say that right up until someone offers them a bigger boat,” he said. “Think about it. We could do some cool things together.”
He walked away, tossing his empty cup into a bin.
She stared after him, a strange mix of anger and… temptation swirling in her gut.
Bigger boat.
Different ship.
Different life.
Different… distance from the man currently leaning against his own kitchen counter, pretending not to watch her as she moved through his house.
She was not ready for that thought.
She shoved it aside.
Later.
One existential crisis at a time.
***
By late afternoon, the house felt… full.
The main conference room hummed with discussion during the writers’ breakout.
The content room—Story Lab, as Priya had christened it, complete with neon sign—burbled with creators filming intros and reaction videos against an artfully arranged wall of books and plants.
Sophie moved between spaces, headset on, tablet in hand, eyes everywhere.
She caught Lavender Hair filming a quiet corner of the living room.
“Remember,” she said gently. “Faces out of frame unless you’ve asked.”
Lavender sighed. “You’re like the fun police,” she said.
“I’m the ‘no one wants to be secretly in your vlog while they pick their teeth’ police,” Sophie said. “It’s a niche beat.”
Lavender quirked a reluctant smile. “Okay, mom,” she said.
Sophie almost choked.
If one more person used that word.
In the den, she found Nathan sitting in an armchair, engaged in what looked dangerously like a normal conversation with Hoodie Guy.
“…so the platform wants me to keep upping the stakes,” Hoodie was saying. “More gore, more cases, more creep factor. But I’m like… these are real people. Real families. I don’t want to turn them into jump scares.”
Nathan’s expression was focused, not condescending.
“You can say no,” he said. “You won’t. But you can.”
Hoodie snorted. “Easy for you to say. You have, like, ten bestsellers and a house on a mountain.”
“Easy for me to say,” Nathan agreed. “Hard for me to do. Believe me, I’ve written scenes that made my skin crawl because someone said, ‘we need more punch here.’”
Hoodie looked surprised. “Seriously?”
“Seriously,” Nathan said. “They sell. They get optioned. Fans cheer. And I lie awake at three in the morning wondering if I’ve just made it easier for someone to picture a real person’s head as a prop.”
Hoodie stared.
“So what do you do?” he asked quietly.
“I try to tilt it,” Nathan said. “Make the violence point inward. Make the character who does it feel it. Make the reader feel it. If you’re going to put blood on the page—or on camera—you have to own what it does to the air in the room.”
Hoodie blew out a breath. “Fuck,” he said. “That’s… heavy.”
“Yeah,” Nathan said. “So is real life. You don’t have to carry it alone. You also don’t have to feed it for views.”
Hoodie chewed on that.
Sophie watched from the doorway, something like respect swelling.
This was… why she’d said yes.
Not for StreamWave’s money.
Not for Dan Mercer’s bigger boat.
For this.
For him, talking to kids who made content he half-despised and half-understood, trying to wedge nuance into their metrics.
Her chest felt tight.
“Don’t lurk,” Nathan said without turning.
She started. “I wasn’t—”
“You were,” he said, a hint of teasing in his voice.
Hoodie glanced over his shoulder.
“Oh hey,” he said. “Planner goddess.”
Sophie rolled her eyes.
“Time check,” she said. “Fifteen minutes to the fireside talk.”
“Is there actual fire?” Hoodie asked.
“Unfortunately,” she said. “Insurance is already mad.”
When he wandered off, probably to film himself in front of something, she stepped in.
“You did good,” she said quietly.
“That was the third time you’ve said that today,” he replied.
“Get used to it,” she said.
He tilted his head. “You don’t say it to yourself enough,” he said.
“Therapy voice,” she muttered.
He huffed something like a laugh.
As they moved toward the living room, where the “fireside chat” had been staged—two chairs angled near the long, shallow fireplace, cameras discreetly positioned—she felt a hand brush hers.
Not grab.
Not hold.
A light, fleeting touch.
She glanced down.
His fingers grazed hers once more.
Accidental.
Not.
Her breath hitched.
He withdrew his hand.
Rule two, she reminded herself again, silently.
He didn’t say anything.
Neither did she.
It hung between them anyway.
They were walking a line.
And the summit had only just begun.
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