"Please don't be angry, baby," Riley says, quieter this time, inching closer, widening her eyes.
"We're supposed to be a team," Charlie shoots back, but it's distinctly more uncertain now.
"And we are. You're the contestant. I'm the story producer. I'm just doing what I need to do to tell your story."
"And I can't have more of a voice in that?" Charlie asks, but she sounds resigned. Well, resigned and interested. Her cheeks are pink, and her eyes are very determinedly on Riley's face. Which is a shame, because there are better things she could be looking at—there's a reason Riley is standing this close, after all—but Charlie is respectful, first and foremost. Credit to Kate Martin, she supposes, for raising Charlie that well.
"It needs to be genuine, baby," Riley reminds her, moving her hand on Charlie's cheek up to her hair to brush a stray lock of hair back into place. Charlie sways with the movement, but pouts at the words. "You can't script your own reaction. That's just bad television!"
Charlie cracks the smallest of smiles—then freezes, like a deer in headlights. Riley barely processes the sudden change before—
"Actually, bad television is when my second in command disappears to go fuck a contestant," a new voice chimes in. A calm voice. A collected voice. A voice that makes Riley's blood freezes in her veins. Riley jumps backwards like she's a kid caught with her hand in the candy jar, spins around faster then she ever has before. Oh, fuck. Oh, fuck fuck fuck.
Her panic must be visible on her face, because Reese, standing there like the devil herself, laughs.
"Oh, calm down Riley, ratings are rising, so I suppose that fucking the beta strategist can be your reward for a job well done! If you really want to spend your night that way, who am I to judge?" Reese drawls after her laughter fades. Despite the debatably supportive words, her voice is full of clear disdain at the prospect. "Well, it can be your reward once I don't need you anymore, that is. Which isn't yet, and isn't going to be for a few hours. So, uh, Martin? Be a doll and scram. Hunt down another contestant, start some drama, just—do something that reminds me why we pay you, kay?" Reese pauses, smiles. "Because let me make it clear: I'm not paying you to eyefuck my story producer in the hotel hallway."