Chapter 1

The soft hum of the studio lights buzzed overhead as Zara Cole adjusted her mic, her slim fingers brushing the stand with a practiced ease. She sat across from Naomi Ruiz in the cramped recording booth of The Zara Cole Show, a space that smelled faintly of coffee and ambition. The episode was live in five—today’s topic: the objectification of women in modern society, a battlefield Zara knew well, both as a warrior and an unwitting casualty. She shifted in her seat, her tailored blouse pulling slightly against her full C-cup breasts, a reminder of the body she couldn’t escape.

Zara was breathtaking, and she hated that she knew it. At 32, she carried a 5’7” frame with a grace that belied her inner turmoil—long, lean legs crossed under the desk, a slim waist that curved into hips she kept modestly covered in high-waisted jeans. Her dark brown hair fell in loose waves to her shoulders, framing a face that could stop traffic: high cheekbones, almond-shaped green eyes that sparkled with intellect, and plush lips she painted with nothing more than a nude gloss, as if daring the world to take her seriously. Her skin glowed a warm ivory, unmarred by the heavy makeup she saw on other influencers. She was sexy—stunningly so—and it was a weapon she wielded with reluctance. Her podcast’s success owed as much to her looks as her sharp mind, a truth that gnawed at her. She wanted to be known for her ideas—her feminism, her dissections of policy—not the way her ass looked in denim or the way her voice made men’s pulses quicken. Yet the comments rolled in: “Hot and smart,” “I’d listen to her all day.” They creeped her out, those horny male perverts lurking in her mentions, but a quiet part of her—a part she buried deep—logged each one, tallying them like coins in a jar. Validation. She craved it, a hunger born from a father who’d walked out when she was five, leaving her to wonder what she’d lacked.

Across the desk, Naomi Ruiz hunched over her notes, a stark contrast in every way. At 34, she was shorter, stockier—5’4” of solid, unpolished presence. Her mousy brown bob was tucked behind her ears, revealing a round, freckled face with warm brown eyes hidden behind chunky glasses. Her olive skin bore no trace of makeup, and her loose cardigan draped over a modest chest and soft hips, paired with sensible slacks that screamed practicality. Naomi wasn’t ugly—just invisible next to Zara’s radiance, a fact she seemed to shrug off with a quiet defiance. She didn’t play the game Zara couldn’t avoid, and that made her the perfect co-host: the grit to Zara’s gloss, the stats to her stories.

“Three, two, one,” Naomi muttered, hitting record. Her voice was sharp, no-nonsense. “Welcome to The Zara Cole Show. I’m Naomi Ruiz, with Zara Cole, and today we’re tackling the cesspool of objectification—how it poisons women’s lives.”

Zara leaned into her mic, her tone smooth but edged. “Right. It’s everywhere—ads, social media, even the workplace. Women reduced to bodies, not brains. It’s degrading, and it’s why we’re still fighting for basic respect.”

Naomi nodded, flipping a page. “Exactly. Studies show 78% of women report unwanted comments on their appearance yearly. It’s not a compliment—it’s control. Keeps us small, focused on pleasing men instead of owning our power.”

Zara’s lips quirked, a flicker of unease beneath her agreement. “Yeah, it’s exhausting. Like, I’ll post about abortion rights, and half the replies are about my face—or worse. It’s creepy, right? Makes you feel like a doll, not a person.” She paused, her green eyes drifting to the mic. A doll. The word stuck, and for a split second, she wondered what it’d be like to be seen that way—desired, adored. She shook it off, but the thought lingered, a whisper from the void of her father’s absence.

“Creepy’s putting it mildly,” Naomi shot back, her tone dry. “It’s predatory. Those guys don’t care about your takes—they’re just jerking off to your profile pic. And it’s not just randos. The system thrives on it—capitalism, patriarchy, the whole mess.”

Zara nodded, forcing a laugh. “Totally. But sometimes I wonder—does it ever stop? Like, can we ever just ... be? Without the leers?” Her voice softened, a crack in her armor. She wanted to be fierce, unassailable, but a sliver of her craved those leers—proof she was enough. She hated that sliver, hated how it tied back to a man who’d never cared enough to stay.

Naomi’s eyes narrowed behind her glasses. “Not ‘til we burn it down, Zara. That’s why we’re here—calling it out, every damn day.” She tapped her notes, resolute.

Zara smiled faintly, leaning back. “Right. Burn it down.” But as the episode rolled on, her mind wandered—to the comments she’d never admit she read, to the men who saw her, even if it was all wrong. Naomi’s fire was pure; Zara’s flickered, hungry for something she couldn’t name.

The red light on the studio console blinked as Zara leaned into her mic, her green eyes flicking to the clock—five minutes left in the episode. She and Naomi had torn apart the objectification beast for nearly an hour, their voices a symphony of outrage and reason. Now, the lines were open, and the callers were piling in. Zara’s long legs shifted under the desk, her tailored blouse clinging to her curves as she exhaled, ready for the next voice. Across from her, Naomi adjusted her glasses, her frumpy cardigan bunching at the elbows as she scribbled a note—Keep it tight. Zara nodded, her dark waves brushing her shoulders, her mind still buzzing from the topic. She hated how it hit close to home—those leering comments, the way her beauty was both her shield and her cage.

The producer’s voice crackled through her headset. “Line one, Zara—college kid, Emily.”

Zara pressed the button, her tone warm but firm. “Hey, Emily, you’re on The Zara Cole Show. What’s up?”

A nervous giggle came through, young and shaky. “Hi, Zara, um, I’m a sophomore at North State, and I love your show. I’m studying poli-sci, like you did, but ... guys in my classes? They don’t care about my ideas. They just stare at me—like, my body’s all they see. How do I deal with that?”

Zara’s heart twinged, a mirror of her own conflict flashing in her mind. She saw herself at that age—stunning, ambitious, and pissed off that her looks outshone her brain. She leaned closer, her plush lips curving into a supportive smile Emily couldn’t see. “Emily, I get it—it’s infuriating. Those guys? They’re lazy, not you. Keep your focus on what matters—your work, your voice. Call them out if you have to, but don’t let their stares shrink you. You’re there to kick ass, not to be their eye candy. Be strong, okay? You’ve got this.”

Emily’s voice brightened. “Thanks, Zara. That means a lot. I’ll try.”

“Anytime,” Zara said, disconnecting the call. She sat back, a flicker of pride warming her chest. That was why she did this—to lift up girls like Emily, to fight the bullshit she knew too well. But the pride was laced with that quiet ache—would Emily’s looks haunt her too? She brushed it aside, catching Naomi’s approving nod across the desk.

Naomi tapped her mic, her blunt edge cutting in. “Next caller—line two. Go.”

The line clicked, and a deep, gravelly drawl filled the booth, dripping with swagger. “Well, well, Zara Cole, Naomi Ruiz—Rex Tanner here, from The Tanner Take. Been listenin’ to your little feminist pow-wow, and I gotta say, it’s cute. Dead wrong, but cute.”

Zara’s stomach flipped, her breath catching. Rex Tanner—alt-right loudmouth, MAGA poster boy. She’d seen his clips: all muscle, buzzcut, and unapologetic bile. Naomi’s eyes widened behind her glasses, but Zara’s pulse quickened for a different reason—his voice hit like a shot of whiskey, rough and intrusive. She straightened, forcing her tone steady. “Rex. Didn’t peg you for our demographic. What’s your beef?”

Rex chuckled, low and taunting. “Oh, I’m a fan, darlin’—especially of you. Gotta admit, you’re too damn gorgeous to be wastin’ your breath on this crap. Objectification? Hell, women like you thrive on it. Men look ‘cause you’re built for it—ain’t no shame in nature. All this ‘respect my mind’ stuff? Just whinin’ from chicks who can’t handle reality.”

Zara’s cheeks burned, a mix of fury and something she refused to name. His words slithered under her skin—crude, misogynistic, and yet that “gorgeous” stuck, pinging that buried hunger she loathed. She gripped the desk, her nails digging in. “That’s garbage, Rex. Women aren’t here for your drooling pleasure—we’re people, not props. You’re proving our point: guys like you see us as meat, not minds.”

“Aw, don’t get mad, sweetheart,” Rex shot back, his grin audible. “I see plenty—smart, sexy, the whole package. But you’re kidding yourself if you think looks don’t matter. You’re a star ‘cause you’re hot—own it. Tell you what: come on my show. Debate me face-to-face. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Zara froze, her mind a tangle. Debate him? On his turf? She hated his guts—his bigotry, his arrogance—but the challenge sparked something reckless in her. And that “sexy” lingered, a barb she couldn’t unhook. She glanced at Naomi, who was gesturing wildly—Do it! Take him down!—her freckled face alight with zeal. Zara’s throat tightened; she didn’t want to look weak, not to Naomi, not to him.

“Fine,” she blurted, her voice sharper than she meant. “I’ll come on your show. And I’ll bury you.”

Rex laughed, a deep rumble. “That’s my girl. Lookin’ forward to it, Zara. Wear somethin’ nice.” The line clicked dead.

Zara exhaled, her hands trembling slightly. Naomi pumped a fist, mouthing, Yes! But Zara’s mind spun—anger, adrenaline, and a flicker of heat she couldn’t place. Rex’s voice echoed: too damn gorgeous. She hated it. She hated that it landed.

“Asshole,” Naomi muttered, scribbling notes. “You’ll crush him, Zara. He’s all bluster.”

“Yeah,” Zara said, forcing a smile. “All bluster.” But as they wrapped the episode, her thoughts drifted—to Rex’s taunt, to the debate, to the way his words had seen her. She pushed it down, but it stayed, a splinter in her resolve.

Zara stood before her bedroom mirror, her floor a graveyard of discarded outfits—blouses, jeans, a skirt she’d yanked off in a huff. The clock mocked her: two hours until the debate on The Tanner Take, and she was still half-dressed, her dark waves tangled from restless fingers. Rex Tanner’s parting shot—Wear somethin’ nice—looped in her head like a taunt, twisting her into knots. She wanted to look good—hell, she always did—but not for him, not like some doll bending to his misogynistic bait. A power suit? Too stiff, too “try-hard feminist.” A dress? Too flirty, too much leg—he’d leer and claim victory.

She settled on a compromise: a fitted black blazer over a white silk camisole, paired with slim jeans that hugged her long legs without screaming for attention. Professional, sharp, but still her—those plush lips pursed as she smoothed the fabric over her full C-cup breasts, her slim waist flaring into hips she couldn’t hide. She hated that she cared, hated that his “gorgeous” had wormed into her mental gymnastics. I’m going there to bury him, she told herself, but the mirror reflected a flicker of doubt—did she want him to notice?

The drive to Rex’s studio was a blur of self-talk—Focus, Zara. He’s a pig. You’ve got this.—but her pulse betrayed her as she pulled into the lot. The building loomed, a squat brick box with a neon sign screaming “Tanner Take Live”. She stepped out, her heels clicking on asphalt, and there he was—Rex Tanner, leaning against the doorframe like he owned the world. Buff didn’t cover it—6’2” of thick muscle strained his tight gray tee, his broad shoulders tapering to a waist that promised power. His buzzcut gleamed under the sun, his square jaw shadowed with stubble that somehow made him ruggedly handsome, not sloppy. Those piercing blue eyes locked on her, his smirk crooked and predatory. Zara’s breath hitched—he was cruder in person, less polished than she’d imagined, but the raw masculinity hit like a punch.

“Well, damn, Zara Cole,” Rex drawled, pushing off the wall. “You clean up real nice.” His voice rolled over her, gravel and whiskey, and she bristled, her green eyes narrowing.

“It’s not for you,” she snapped, clutching her bag tighter. But his gaze raked her—blazer, camisole, jeans—and she felt it, a heat she shoved down.

“Sure it ain’t,” he said, stepping closer. He smelled of leather and smoke, and before she could dodge, his hand landed on her lower back, guiding her inside. The touch was firm, possessive, and a tingle shot up her spine—electric, unwanted, thrilling. Her skin prickled under the blazer, her resolve wavering as he steered her through the dim hallway, his fingers lingering a beat too long. Get a grip, she scolded herself, but her body didn’t listen, tingling still as they reached the set.