Total pages in book: 173
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 169266 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 846(@200wpm)___ 677(@250wpm)___ 564(@300wpm)
My stomach tightens as it always does when it comes to my cover, even though all the work I’ve done as a journalist truly is legit, at least according to Vantage. But it means she’s done her homework. The Belgian piece was solid—airtight, actually—until pressure from above made the magazine pull it. The fact that she knows about it, that she’s throwing it in my face like a card on the table, tells me she’s not just making conversation.
“You’ve been reading up on me,” I say. “I’m flattered.”
“Don’t be. I read up on everyone who attends any event my assets are at.”
Assets. Not colleagues. Not employees. Assets.
“Is that what Vanguard is to you? An asset?”
“Vanguard is many things.” She clasps her hands in front of her, her posture perfect, her expression placid. “A symbol. A soldier. A scientific achievement decades in the making. But yes, professionally speaking, he is an asset, and one I’ve invested a great deal of time and resources into developing. You can understand why I’m protective of him.”
“Of course.” I match her measured tone, though inside, I’m cataloging every micro-expression, every careful word choice, as I am sure she’s doing to me. “I imagine Global Dynamix has a vested interest in controlling his narrative.”
“We have a vested interest in accuracy,” she corrects smoothly. “The media has a tendency to sensationalize. Vanguard’s story deserves better than clickbait headlines and speculation.”
“That’s exactly why I want to do this piece. Something substantive. In-depth. A chance for him to speak for himself, to show the man behind the figurative mask.”
Van Veen’s pale eyes dance with something I can’t read. Amusement? Interest? Suspicion? All three?
“You want access to us,” she states.
“I want the truth.”
“Those aren’t always the same thing, Ms. Baxter.”
A waiter passes, and Van Veen plucks a glass of champagne from the tray with practiced elegance, though I notice she doesn’t drink from it. She just holds it, a prop in her hand.
“Let me be frank with you,” she says, lowering her voice. The ambient noise of the party seems to fade, like we’ve stepped into our own private bubble. “Vanguard has done dozens of interviews. Hundreds, if you count the fluff pieces. He’s been on morning shows and podcasts and late-night programs where hosts ask him what his favorite food is and whether he’s dating anyone. Sometimes, they even make him do karaoke. None of it has been real. None of it has shown who he actually is.”
I frown. “And you want that to change?”
“I want to know if you’re capable of handling what’s underneath the surface.” Her gaze sharpens. “Because I watched you just now. You pushed him. You saw something in him that made you push harder. What was it?”
The question catches me off guard. I think about the way Vanguard’s jaw ticked when I called him property. The flash of something dark behind his camera-ready smile. The strange tension in his shoulders, like a man carrying a weight no one else could see.
“He seemed tired,” I say finally. “Not physically. Tired of performing. Like he’s been wearing a mask so long, he’s forgotten what’s underneath.”
Van Veen is silent for a moment. Have I said too much? Observed too much?
Then, she takes a slow sip of her champagne—the first she’s had—and I realize I’ve passed some kind of test.
Or failed one. Hard to tell with her.
“Walk with me,” she says, already moving.
I fall into step beside her as she leads me away from the crowds, toward a quieter corner of the courtyard where the shadows are deeper and the music fades to a murmur. The reflecting pool stretches beside us, the water dark and still. I know the autumn night air is progressively getting colder as the evening ticks on, but my skin feels like it’s on fire. I subtly do my breathing exercises, knowing that’s what Bayo would be reminding me right now. He’s gone quiet, though, in case Van Veen has some sort of super hearing like Vanguard. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s also suited up with all sorts of tech, nanobots in her bloodstream and all that weird scientist stuff.
“Global Dynamix has spent years cultivating Vanguard’s image,” she says, her voice low enough that I have to lean in to hear. “The all-American hero. The symbol of hope. It’s effective, needed, but it’s also limiting. There are those within the company who believe we’ve created a cage for him—a gilded one, certainly, but a cage nonetheless.”
“And you’re one of those people?”
She doesn’t answer directly. “I created him, Ms. Baxter. Not in the way the tabloids suggest—I didn’t build him in a lab like Frankenstein’s monster—but I oversaw his enhancement. I shaped what he became. I know him better than anyone.”
There’s something in her voice when she says it. Possession, for sure, but something else too, something that sounds like hunger.