Chapter 3 — Behind the Curtain

Third Person

The electric buzz of the studio dulled as the red “ON AIR” sign above the set flickered to life. Oliver Reed straightened his tie, the motion practiced and precise, while his sharp hazel eyes skimmed the glowing teleprompter. Around him, the sleek set of *Prime Focus* gleamed under the bright lights, every surface polished to perfection. The low hum of the crew's movements faded, leaving only the still tension of live television. Across from him, Harper Lane sat with an ease that bordered on defiance, her expressive green eyes unwavering as they met his. Her auburn hair, loosely swept into a bun, framed her face in soft tendrils, and her cuff bracelet glinted under the studio lights, its vibrant colors a quiet declaration of individuality. She idly traced the raised enamel patterns with her thumb, a gesture both grounding and resolute.

“Welcome back to *Prime Focus*,” Oliver began, his voice smooth and warm, honed to perfection over years of media mastery. Yet, beneath the surface, a faint edge lingered—sharp, almost imperceptible, but enough to hint at the tightrope act of control he always managed. “Tonight’s conversation continues with Harper Lane, founder of Creative Horizons, whose grassroots nonprofit has become a rising beacon for underrepresented artists.”

Harper’s smile was unpolished, slightly crooked, and wholly authentic. She leaned forward, resting her forearms on the table as she spoke. “Thank you, Oliver. Though I’d say Creative Horizons is less of a beacon and more of a stubborn fire—small and scrappy, but bright enough to persist.”

The audience chuckled, their reaction a ripple of warmth that carried through the studio. Oliver’s smile, by contrast, remained measured, never quite reaching his eyes. “A fitting metaphor. Persistence is key, especially in the face of systemic challenges, which I believe you’ve mentioned as one of the greatest obstacles nonprofits face.”

“Systemic challenges and lack of investment, certainly,” Harper said, her tone steady and direct. “But I’d argue that the greatest obstacle is apathy—the tendency to see art as a luxury rather than a necessity. Communities thrive when creativity is nurtured, yet it’s often the first thing sacrificed when resources are scarce.”

Oliver tilted his head, fingers steepled in his lap. “Interesting. But wouldn’t some argue that focusing on essential needs—housing, healthcare, education—should take precedence? How do you justify allocating resources to art when those other issues remain so pressing?”

A familiar hook in his question—a deliberate challenge, sharpened and poised to provoke. Harper recognized it instantly and met it head-on. “Because art isn’t separate from those needs; it’s intertwined with them. Creativity fosters resilience, builds community, and provides a voice for those who are often silenced. You can’t address systemic inequities without addressing the soul of the community, and that’s what art is. The soul.”

Her voice was unwavering, though she could feel Oliver’s scrutinizing gaze, testing every word. He had the air of someone accustomed to control, to watching others stumble under the weight of his questions. She refused to be one of them, leaning back with a deliberate ease that carried a small, knowing smile. She tapped her cuff bracelet lightly against the desk, emphasizing her next words. “But you already knew that, didn’t you? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have invited me back for this ‘follow-up.’”

A flicker of surprise crossed his face—so brief that most wouldn’t catch it, but Harper did. He recovered almost instantly, leaning forward with a practiced smile. “Let’s say I like to keep the conversation going.”

“I’ll bet you do.” Her response came with a spark of mischievous humor that drew another ripple of laughter from the audience. Harper turned her attention briefly to the camera, the barest hint of a grin tugging at her lips, before swiveling back to Oliver. “But let’s keep it fair. I’ve answered your questions—now let’s talk about the media’s role in amplifying or, sometimes, distorting voices like mine.”

Oliver’s brow lifted, his smile tightening by a fraction. It wasn’t often that a guest flipped the script on him, much less with such confident ease. He cleared his throat lightly, his tone carefully measured. “The media’s role is, ideally, to inform, educate, and provide a platform for important discussions—such as this one.”

“That’s the *ideal* role,” Harper countered, her voice calm but edged with pointed clarity. “But what about the reality? Is it amplification, or just the illusion of it? What happens when voices like mine are filtered through sensational headlines or stripped of nuance?”

The studio seemed to hold its breath. Even the faint hum of the equipment felt distant, muted. Oliver’s hazel eyes narrowed slightly, his practiced defenses faltering under the weight of her directness. For a moment, he considered her words, an unexpected discomfort curling in his chest. He had built his career on control, on framing narratives with precision. But was she right? Did that control sometimes veer too close to distortion?

“I suppose,” he said finally, his tone deliberate, “that it depends on the integrity of the platform. At *Prime Focus*, we aim to present stories with depth and accuracy.”

“Of course you do,” Harper said with a lightness that belied the subtle irony beneath her words. “But even *Prime Focus* isn’t immune to the pressures of ratings and public perception, is it?”

Oliver’s lips pressed together briefly, his smile becoming more an act of will than instinct. From the control room, Nina Clarke watched the exchange, her sharp eyes flicking between monitors. Harper had a way of pushing Oliver just far enough to unsettle him, but not far enough to make him lose control. Nina’s fingers hovered over her earpiece, her sharp gaze darting to a monitor showing audience reactions. A flicker of surprise crossed her face as she noted the warmth in their expressions. Harper wasn’t just holding her own—she was winning them over. Still, she didn’t intervene. Not yet.

“In any case,” Oliver said, steering the conversation back on course with practiced smoothness, “you’ve certainly given us plenty to think about. I’d like to thank you again for joining us tonight.”

Harper’s smile softened, the tension momentarily easing. “Thank you for having me, Oliver. I’ll leave you with this: if we want to build a better world, we have to be willing to embrace its imperfections. That’s where creativity thrives.”

The applause that followed felt genuine, unforced. Harper offered a small wave to the audience before the cameras cut and the red “ON AIR” sign dimmed. As the hum of the studio returned, Oliver rose from his seat, adjusting his jacket with meticulous precision.

“Well,” he said, his voice carrying a faint trace of ambiguity, “that was… something else.”

Harper stood as well, her expression unapologetically amused. “You mean refreshing. Admit it—you enjoyed it.”

Oliver opened his mouth to reply but was interrupted by the sharp click of heels approaching. Nina Clarke appeared, her expression unreadable but her tone brisk. “A word, Oliver?” she said, her voice leaving no room for argument. She turned to Harper then, her demeanor softening just enough. “Ms. Lane, thank you for coming. We’ll be in touch.”

As Nina whisked Oliver toward the green room, Harper watched them go, her amused grin lingering. The adrenaline still coursed through her veins, a heady thrill at having cut through Oliver’s pristine facade, even if just for a moment. He was a puzzle—one she wasn’t sure she wanted to solve, but one that intrigued her nonetheless.

Inside the green room, Nina shut the door firmly behind them. “You’re playing with fire, Oliver.”

Oliver reached into his vest pocket, his fingers brushing the cool surface of his silver pocket watch. He clicked it open, the faint ticking grounding him. The rhythm was steady, but his thoughts were not. Her words echoed in his mind: *Is it amplification, or just the illusion of it?*

“Am I?” he asked, his voice calm, though a flicker of doubt betrayed him.

“You know you are,” Nina said sharply. “Harper Lane isn’t like the usual guests you have on this show. She’s unpredictable, and that makes her a risk—not just to the show, but to you.”

Oliver tilted his head, his expression a careful mask of neutrality. “She’s compelling. The audience loves her.”

“And you?” Nina shot him a pointed look. “What do you think?”

For a moment, Oliver didn’t answer. The soft ticking of the watch filled the silence. Finally, he snapped it shut, slipping it back into place. “I think,” he said quietly, “that she’s… intriguing.”

Nina sighed, exasperation flickering across her face. “Just be careful, Oliver. You’re inviting chaos into a world that thrives on control. Are you sure you’re ready for that?”

Oliver didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze drifted to the closed door, where Harper’s voice seemed to linger in the air. A risk, yes—but one he wasn’t sure he wanted to avoid.