The leak fallout hit fully over breakfast.
Isabel arrived at the dining room looking like a woman who’d slept two hours and murdered three people in her head.
Her hair was still perfect.
Her eyes were sharp.
She pulled Sophie and Howard aside before she even sat down.
“We tracked it,” she said without preamble. “The screenshot came from one of our junior social coordinators in LA. He’s been temporarily reassigned to ‘operations support,’ which is HR-speak for ‘purgatory.’ He will not be on any of your project teams again.”
Sophie’s jaw clenched.
“Temporarily,” she echoed.
Isabel’s lips flattened.
“Officially,” she said. “Unofficially, he’s on my shit list for the foreseeable future. And I’ve made it clear internally that any further breaches of this kind will result in immediate termination. The board is… displeased.”
“As is Mr. Cross,” Howard said mildly.
“Understatement,” Isabel replied.
She turned to Sophie.
“I know this was a violation of the boundaries we agreed on,” she said, voice low. “I take responsibility. We invited him into a partnership and then let our own hype machine treat his work like a leakable asset. It’s unacceptable.”
Sophie met her gaze.
“Thank you for saying that,” she said.
“We’ve also flagged and filed takedown requests on every platform where the image has appeared,” Isabel went on. “It’ll never fully go away, but we can contain the spread.”
“It shouldn’t have happened at all,” Sophie said.
“I know,” Isabel said. “And I’m… sorry.”
She sounded like she meant it.
Sophie exhaled.
“How is he?” Isabel asked.
The question was… oddly careful.
“Pissed,” Sophie said. “Scared. Thinking about canceling the rest of this.”
Isabel’s jaw flexed.
“I wouldn’t blame him,” she said. “If he did. We’d deserve it.”
Sophie studied her.
“What do *you* want?” she asked.
“To fix this,” Isabel said. “Or at least… make amends. Not with spin. With… actual change.”
“You can start,” Sophie said, “by letting him see you own it. Directly.”
Isabel nodded once.
“Where is he?” she asked.
“Study,” Howard supplied. “Brooding.”
“Shocking,” Isabel murmured.
Sophie almost smiled.
They found him, as predicted, in the study.
He stood at the glass wall, hands braced on the frame, staring out at the valley.
Morning light poured in, making his bare feet on the concrete floor look almost translucent.
He didn’t turn when they entered.
“We found the leak,” Isabel said.
His shoulders tensed.
He turned slowly.
“Name,” he said.
“Evan Shaw,” she said. “Twenty-four. Junior social. Thought he was being clever. He wasn’t.”
“Is he fired?” Nathan asked.
“On his way,” Isabel said.
“On his way?” Nathan repeated, tone dangerous.
“I can’t legally discuss all the HR specifics,” Isabel said. “But he will not be working on anything narrative-facing again, and he will not be anywhere near your orbit. Ever.”
“Lucky him,” Nathan muttered.
“There’s no excuse,” Isabel said. “He knew better. We have NDAs, we had directives, we hammered home the rules before this summit. He broke them. That’s on him. The fact that he had access to that image at all? That’s on us. On me.”
Silence.
Sophie watched his face.
He didn’t soften.
But something in his posture shifted.
Less rigid.
More… listening.
“I can’t undo it,” Isabel said. “I can only tell you that we’re treating it as the serious breach it is, and that we’re willing to do whatever you need to feel safe continuing this weekend. Or ending it. Your call.”
The words hung.
This was the edge.
The place where he had to decide whether to bolt.
He glanced at Sophie.
He didn’t say anything.
He didn’t have to.
She saw the question there anyway.
She shook her head.
“I can’t decide this for you,” she said quietly. “Not this.”
He looked back at Isabel.
“You’re serious,” he said. “About letting me cancel.”
“Yes,” she said.
“You’d eat the costs,” he pressed.
“We’d have to,” she said. “And we’d deserve to.”
He considered.
She held his gaze without flinching.
He was used to people backpedaling when he pushed.
He wasn’t used to people saying, *Yes, we fucked up, and you’re allowed to walk away.*
He was also, Sophie knew, deeply averse to being seen as a diva.
“You want this,” he said to her. “The summit.”
“Yes,” she said. “I do. But not at any cost.”
“You want this,” he repeated to Isabel.
“Yes,” she said. “We do. For selfish reasons—brand, content, money. And for… slightly less selfish ones. We think what you have to say matters. We think the conversations you’re sparking are important. We’d like to put some of our machinery behind that. But only if it doesn’t destroy you.”
He snorted softly.
“Bit late for that,” he said.
“We’re trying to… break patterns,” she said. “Not people.”
Howard cleared his throat.
“You don’t have to decide this minute,” he said. “Breakfast awaits. Caffeine can be helpful in moments like these.”
Nathan shot him a look.
Sophie stepped forward.
“Here’s what I think,” she said.
Both their heads turned.
“I think,” she went on, “that if you cancel now, you’ll feel righteous for a day and regretful for a year. I think you’ll watch these shows roll out, watch these creators post their recap videos from other events, and wonder what might have happened if you’d stayed. I think you’ll start avoiding not just StreamWave, but… everything. Again.”
He stiffened.
“And I think,” she said more gently, “that if you stay, you’ll be angry and raw and on edge. But you’ll also… seize some control back. You’ll set the tone. You’ll show them that a leak doesn’t own you. That you do.”
He looked at her.
Really looked.
“What do *you* want, Sophie?” he asked. “Not as a planner. As you.”
Her throat felt tight.
She forced herself to answer.
“I want you to stay,” she said simply. “Not because of StreamWave. Because of… you. Because I’ve watched you grow more in the last year than some people do in ten, and I don’t want this to be the thing that sends you back into the cave.”
His jaw worked.
“I don’t know if I can do another two days of this,” he admitted. “Noise. Eyes. Questions. Knowing that somewhere out there, someone has a piece of me pinned up like a butterfly in a case.”
“You already have,” she said softly. “For eighteen hours. You can do forty-eight more.”
“You’re very sure of me,” he said.
“I’ve seen your worst,” she said. “And your best. This isn’t either. It’s… a hard middle.”
Isabel was watching them like someone witnessing a private play in which she had a high financial stake and zero creative control.
Nathan exhaled.
“Fine,” he said at last. “We continue. But if I see one more phone pointed at my pages, I’m throwing it into the valley.”
“Fair,” Isabel said.
He looked at Sophie again.
“And after this,” he said, “no more summits for a while. No more cameras. No more circus.”
“That’s your boundary to set,” she said. “I’ll back it.”
He nodded once.
“Good,” Howard said briskly. “Now that that’s settled, may I suggest bacon?”
“Always,” Nathan muttered.
They filed out.
As they walked down the hall, Sophie brushed her shoulder against his, just barely.
He didn’t move away.
***
The rest of the day had a slightly different flavor.
Tighter.
More wary.
People had seen the leak.
Even if Isabel and her team had yanked most of it off public platforms, the rumor mill ran faster than any official channel.
During the afternoon “writers’ lab,” where Nathan and two StreamWave showrunners walked a small group through breaking story beats on a whiteboard, someone inevitably asked about it.
“So, like,” a young staff writer said, flipping a pen between their fingers, “was that line real? The one about… not being impressed by money?”
Sophie’s shoulders tensed from her spot near the door.
Nathan’s brow arched.
“Which one?” he asked.
“The… leaked one,” the writer said, flushing. “Sorry, I know we’re not supposed to talk about it, but… it was badass.”
Nathan stared at the whiteboard for a long beat.
Then he said, “It was mine.”
The room buzzed.
He capped the marker.
“Since it’s out there, let’s talk about it,” he said. “What it means to write lines that make people cheer. And whether they’re actually… true. Or just… cathartic.”
Sophie exhaled.
He wasn’t pretending it hadn’t happened.
He was… integrating it.
Making it part of the conversation instead of a ghost.
Watching him do that hurt and thrilled her in equal measure.
She felt… honored.
And terrified.
They were moving into territory where her role as planner blurred with something more.
By the time the last session ended that evening—a smaller, more intimate Q&A in the den with only the showrunners and a couple of execs—the house buzz felt different.
Less gawking.
More… engaged.
Isabel sought Sophie out near the kitchen.
“You were right,” she said without preamble. “About staying. He did more for our people today than a hundred panels at VidCon.”
“I’m glad,” Sophie said. “Doesn’t excuse what happened.”
“No,” Isabel agreed. “It doesn’t. But it… complicates the math.”
Sophie knew what she meant.
Good and bad.
Harm and healing.
They weren’t clean.
“That’s your job to untangle,” Sophie said. “Mine is making sure no one gets food poisoning.”
Isabel’s lips twitched.
“You’re very good at deflecting praise,” she said.
“It’s a specialty,” Sophie replied.
Later, when the guests had peeled off to their rooms or to the bar set up in the library, Sophie retreated to the back patio with a mug of tea.
The air was sharp but not brutal.
The valley below glowed faintly under a thin shroud of cloud.
She wrapped her arms around herself and breathed.
“You’re going to freeze,” Lia said, sliding the glass door shut behind her.
Sophie blinked.
“What are you doing up here?” she asked, startled.
“I told you I’d crash the circus,” Lia said, stepping out in a puffy jacket and jeans, cheeks pink. “Board gave me a ‘professional development’ day. I’m calling this… emotional education.”
Sophie laughed, tension easing.
“Did you just watch a bunch of writers argue about theme?” she asked.
“Yes,” Lia said. “I need you to explain to me why they all think trauma is a narrative device and not a thing that actually happens in bodies.”
“That’s a long conversation,” Sophie said.
“Good thing I’m off work,” Lia replied.
They stood side by side, looking out.
“How’s he?” Lia asked.
“Leaked,” Sophie said. “Shaken. Holding.”
“Shaky holding is still holding,” Lia said.
“Yeah,” Sophie said softly.
“And you?” Lia pressed.
She hesitated.
“Leaked,” she said. “Shaken. Holding.”
Lia bumped their shoulders.
“You two are like a matched set,” she said. “It’s gross.”
“I know,” Sophie said.
Silence stretched.
“He told me he almost canceled today,” Sophie said quietly. “That he wanted to throw everyone out.”
“But he didn’t,” Lia said.
“No,” Sophie said. “He didn’t.”
“That’s on you,” Lia said.
“Don’t put that on me,” Sophie said quickly. “He chose. I… advised.”
“And he trusts your advice,” Lia said. “That’s power. Be careful with it.”
“I know,” Sophie said. “I feel like I’m holding a live wire half the time.”
“You kind of are,” Lia said. “Welcome to loving damaged people.”
Sophie flinched.
“I didn’t say—” she began.
“You didn’t have to,” Lia said.
Her eyes were kind.
“It’s not just him,” Lia went on. “You love your job. Your company. Your people. You hold all of them like live wires too.”
“Is this going to turn into a lecture?” Sophie asked.
“It’s going to turn into me reminding you,” Lia said, “that your worth isn’t measured in how many roofs you keep up, how many generators you monitor, or how many billionaires you stop from bolting.”
Sophie’s throat stung.
“I know,” she said.
“Do you?” Lia pressed.
She looked down at her hands.
Calloused in ways most people didn’t see.
Tired.
Steady.
“I’m learning,” she said.
Lia nodded.
“Good,” she said. “Because you have a definition talk coming.”
Sophie stiffened.
He’d said it.
When this is over, we define this.
She’d agreed.
And now, with one day left of the summit, the reality of that promise loomed.
“What if…” she started, then stopped.
“What if what?” Lia prompted.
“What if what we have is only… intense because of circumstances?” Sophie asked. “Storms. Summits. Leaks. What if without all that, we’re just… two people who text too much?”
Lia considered.
“Then you find out,” she said simply. “And if it fizzles outside the pressure cooker, great. You had a wild, meaningful year, you learned things, you move on.”
“And if it doesn’t fizzle?” Sophie whispered.
“Then you deal with the mess,” Lia said. “And maybe… the joy.”
The word made something in Sophie’s chest expand and ache.
“Joy feels… dangerous,” she said.
“So does anesthesia,” Lia said. “But we still use it. In doses.”
Sophie huffed a laugh.
“You’re mixing metaphors,” she said.
“I’m off-duty,” Lia replied. “My metaphor privileges are revoked.”
They stood for a while longer, letting the cold bite at their cheeks.
Inside, through the glass, they could see shadows moving. Laughs. Someone gesturing too widely with a wineglass and being gently corrected by a staff member.
“Elk Ridge looks… different now,” Lia observed. “Less like a haunted lair. More like… a house with people.”
“Yeah,” Sophie said.
“You did that,” Lia said.
“Stop,” Sophie muttered.
“Accept it,” Lia insisted. “Partly you. Partly him. Partly Howard’s terrifying spreadsheets. But a lot of you.”
Sophie took a breath.
Let it out.
“I’m scared,” she said again.
“I know,” Lia said. “Go back in there anyway.”
She did.
For the rest of the night, she did what she always did: made sure drinks stayed topped up, defused minor tensions—like when Neon Beanie and Dan got into a heated but mostly good-faith argument about whether “functional dark” was a valid TV genre—and gently steered a Very Famous Showrunner away from trying to pitch Nathan on a collaboration in the hallway.
Nathan watched her from various vantage points: the library door, the kitchen island, the foot of the stairs.
Whenever their eyes met, something passed between them.
Acknowledgment.
A shared, secret ledger ticking in the background of the summit.
By the time she crawled into bed that night, she was exhausted.
And wired.
She didn’t sleep much.
Her dreams were a jumble of pages and streams and roofs and faces.
And always, underneath it, the awareness that tomorrow, when the last guest left, the hardest part of the summit would begin.
Not the panels.
Not the weather.
The conversation.
Them.
---