Chapter 2

The familiar hum of the studio lights buzzed over Zara as she sat in the recording booth of The Zara Cole Show, her mic angled just so, her slim fingers tapping the desk. The topic was DEI—diversity, equity, and inclusion—a cornerstone of their platform, and she’d prepped hard to reclaim her edge after the Tanner Take debacle. Her black blazer was swapped for a cream sweater today, soft but fitted, hugging her full C-cup breasts and slim waist, paired with those same jeans that traced her long legs. Her dark waves framed her face, her green eyes sharp with intent, though the red lipstick from Rex’s makeup lady lingered in her mind—a taunt she couldn’t scrub away. She wanted to be fierce, unshakeable, but the memory of his gaze still prickled her skin.

Across the desk, Naomi Ruiz hunched over her notes, her mousy bob tucked behind her ears, her cardigan a dull beige against her stocky frame. Her warm brown eyes flicked up through chunky glasses, her freckled face set in quiet focus as she launched them in. “Rolling in three, two, one—welcome to The Zara Cole Show. I’m Naomi Ruiz with Zara Cole, and today we’re diving into DEI—why it’s not just nice, it’s necessary.”

Zara leaned in, her voice smooth and practiced. “Exactly. DEI levels the playing field—gives women, minorities, everyone a shot at success that systemic bias steals. Without it, we’re stuck with the same old boys’ club running everything.”

Naomi nodded, flipping a page. “Data backs it—companies with diverse leadership see 19% higher revenue. It’s not handouts; it’s smart. But you’ve got clowns out there—looking at you, alt-right—calling it ‘reverse racism.’ Bullshit. It’s about fairness.”

Zara’s lips quirked, her mind steady—until it wasn’t. Rex Tanner’s smirk flashed unbidden: You don’t need handouts, babe. His words from the debate, crude and cutting, sparked a sudden itch she couldn’t ignore. Her pulse jumped, and before she could stop herself, she veered off-script, her voice rising. “Speaking of clowns—Rex Tanner, yeah, I’m talking to you. Last week, I went on your little show, and I’ll own it: I bombed. I let you throw me, and I’m sorry to our listeners for that. You got in my head with your caveman crap—’women thrive on objectification,’ ‘men built the world.’ It’s garbage, and I should’ve buried you.”

Naomi’s head snapped up, her pen freezing mid-note, her eyes wide behind her glasses. Zara didn’t look—couldn’t—her rant pouring out like a flood. “I was off my game, and you loved it, didn’t you? Smirking, leering, acting like I’m some doll for your amusement. Well, I’m not done. I’m calling you out, Rex—right here, right now. I’ll come back on The Tanner Take. Debate me again. Let’s see if you can keep up when I’m ready for you.”

The booth went silent, the mic picking up her sharp breaths. Naomi stared, her freckled face a mask of shock, her mouth half-open. Zara’s heart pounded—where had that come from? She’d meant to stick to DEI, but Rex’s shadow loomed, his “gorgeous” and “you look better than you speak” clawing at her. She needed to prove herself—to Naomi, to her fans, to that buried part that still tingled at his voice.

Naomi’s hand shot to the console, hitting the commercial cue. “Uh—we’ll be right back after this break,” she stammered, the jingle kicking in as the red light dimmed. She whirled on Zara, her voice low and urgent. “What the hell was that? You just challenged him—live!”

Zara exhaled, slumping back, her green eyes darting. “I—I don’t know. It just ... came out. I need to set the record straight, Naomi. He made me look weak, and I’m not. I can take him.”

Naomi’s frown deepened, her fingers drumming the desk. “Set the record straight? Zara, we had a plan—DEI, clean and tight. Now you’ve roped us into his circus again. What came over you?”

Zara’s cheeks flushed, her mind scrambling. She couldn’t say it—how Rex’s broad shoulders, his gravelly taunts, had stuck like burrs, how she’d replayed his gaze more than his words. That tingle, that hunger—she shoved it down, her excuse flimsy. “I just ... I owe it to our listeners. I can’t let him think he won.”

Naomi sighed, rubbing her temple. “You already said it on-air—there’s no backing out now. Fine, I’ll back you. But Zara—he’s a predator. He’s not debating you; he’s playing you. Don’t let him twist you up again.”

Zara nodded, her plush lips pressing tight. “I won’t. This time, I’m ready.” But as Naomi turned back to her notes, Zara’s thoughts drifted—to Rex’s smirk, his hand on her back, the way he’d seen her. She hated him. She did. But the itch to face him again burned, and she couldn’t tell if it was pride—or something darker—driving her.

The studio lights of The Tanner Take blazed down on Zara, hotter than she remembered, as she sat stiffly in the guest chair, her long legs crossed tight under the desk. The makeup Trish had slathered on felt like a mask—thick foundation smoothing her ivory skin, mascara weighing her lashes, and a bold red lipstick that made her plush lips scream sex she didn’t want to sell. It itched, uncomfortable against her natural glow, and she resisted the urge to wipe it off, her green eyes darting to the monitor where her dolled-up reflection stared back. Her cream sweater hugged her full C-cup breasts, the jeans still tracing her slim waist and firm ass, but the makeup turned her into someone else—Rex’s version of her, not hers. Her dark waves framed her face, slightly tousled from nerves, and she gripped the chair, steeling herself for round two.

Rex Tanner sprawled opposite, his tall frame all muscle and menace in a tight black tee that stretched over his broad chest, his buzzcut glinting under the lights. His stubbled jaw cocked as the theme music roared—brassy, obnoxious—and he leaned into his mic, his piercing blue eyes already stripping her bare. “Welcome back, patriots, to The Tanner Take. Rex Tanner here, and tonight we’ve got a repeat offender—Zara Cole, the woke wonder herself. Look at this gal—stacked like a goddess, face that’d make a man sin, all wrapped up in her little feminist bow. Back for more punishment, huh, darlin’? Let’s talk DEI—her cute pet cause.”

Zara’s cheeks burned, her nails digging into her palms, but she weathered it this time, her voice steady as she cut in. “Nice try, Rex. I’m here for ideas, not your drooling. DEI’s about fairness—lifting up talent the old boys’ club ignores. Companies with diverse boards outperform—19% higher revenue. That’s not ‘cute,’ it’s fact.”

Rex smirked, leaning back, his gaze flicking to her sweater. “Facts, huh? Sounds like handouts to me. You’re givin’ jobs to folks who can’t hack it—reverse racism, plain and simple. Real talent don’t need a pity party.”

She fired back, her green eyes flashing. “It’s not pity—it’s dismantling bias. White guys like you get the leg-up default—DEI just evens the score. Study after study shows diversity drives innovation, not quotas.” She was on, her points landing, the old Zara—sharp, unshakeable.

Rex grinned, unfazed, his voice a taunting drawl. “Innovation? More like coddlin’. You’re too pretty to buy this crap, Zara—leave the heavy liftin’ to men who know better.” Her lips parted for a retort, but the producer’s voice barked through her headset—”Break in ten!”—and the theme kicked in, cutting her off.

“Commercial!” the producer yelled, and the lights dimmed. Zara exhaled, her chest heaving slightly, adrenaline pumping from holding her own. She’d hit him—finally—and it felt good. Until Rex stood, sauntering over, his boots thudding, his smirk wicked.

“Goddamn, Zara,” he said, looming above her, his blue eyes glinting. “You’re hot as hell when you get worked up about your cute little feminist issues. Look at you—cheeks all pink, breathin’ hard. Fuckin’ gorgeous.”

Zara froze, her breath catching, shock slamming her like a wave. Hot? Before she could snap, he grabbed her hand—his grip firm, rough—and pressed it to his chest, right over his heart. “Feel that,” he growled, holding her there. “Racin’ just watchin’ you froth at the mouth. You do somethin’ to me, girl.”

Her fingers splayed against his shirt, the hard planes of his pecs flexing under her touch, his heartbeat thudding fast and strong. Heat flooded her—shock, yes, but something else, a jolt that shot straight down her spine. His musk—leather, smoke—hit her nose, and she flushed, her green eyes wide, her mind blanking as she felt him, all muscle and man. She yanked her hand back, stammering, “What—what the hell, Rex?” but her voice trembled, her nipples stiffening against her bra, a traitorous ache blooming between her thighs.

He chuckled, stepping back as the producer counted—”Back in five!”—and sauntered to his seat, leaving her reeling. The lights flared, the music faded, and Rex’s voice boomed again. “We’re back, folks—Zara Cole’s still tryin’ to sell us DEI fairy tales. Let’s get real.”

Zara’s mind scrambled, her pussy warming despite her fury, the damp heat seeping into her panties as she shifted in her seat. Rex pounced, his tone sharp now. “Your ‘diversity’ just screws the little guy—white dudes bustin’ ass get passed over for some quota hire. Merit’s dead, Zara—admit it.”

She opened her mouth, her points fraying. “No—it’s ... it’s about talent, not quotas—” but her nipples throbbed, hard against the sweater, and his gaze dropped there, knowing, smirking. She stumbled. “Studies show—uh—diverse teams—”

“Studies?” Rex cut in, relentless. “You mean excuses. I’d hire a hot chick like you any day—looks like that, you’d sell anything. DEI’s just jealous bitches cryin’ foul.”

Her face burned, her pussy clenching at “hot chick,” and she hated it—hated him, hated herself. “That’s not—it’s systemic—” she floundered, her voice cracking, her arguments dissolving as that ache pulsed, her body betraying her mind. He was winning, and she couldn’t stop it.

The air in the Zara Cole Show booth crackled with an edge sharper than the studio lights as Zara adjusted her mic, her slim fingers brushing the stand with a nervous twitch. She sat across from Naomi, the desk a battlefield between them, tension thick enough to choke on. It’d been two days since Rex Tanner had trounced her again on The Tanner Take—his relentless jabs and that damn hand-on-chest moment leaving her a flustered mess—and the fallout hung heavy.

Zara’s green eyes flicked to her reflection in the console glass, and she swallowed hard. Her usual sweater was gone, replaced by a deep teal top—low-cut, daring, the neckline dipping to reveal a generous swell of her full C-cup breasts. It was a first on-air, and she felt it—every inch of cleavage exposed, her ivory skin glowing under the lights, her dark waves tumbling over her shoulders. She’d told herself it was confidence, a reclaiming, but Rex’s “hot as hell” echoed, and she wondered who she was kidding.

Naomi sat opposite, her mousy bob limp, her beige cardigan sagging over her stocky frame like a shield. Her warm brown eyes burned behind chunky glasses, her freckled face tight with something between confusion and rage. She’d barely spoken since Zara walked in wearing that, her silence louder than any rant. The red light blinked—live in three, two, one—and Naomi’s voice cut through, clipped and cold. “Welcome back to The Zara Cole Show. I’m Naomi Ruiz with Zara Cole, recapping DEI—why it matters, despite what some loudmouths think.”

Zara leaned in, her tone softer than usual, her plush lips parting. “Right. We’ve been hammering this—DEI’s about fairness, giving talent a shot. Diverse teams outperform, 19% higher revenue—it’s proven. But...” She hesitated, Rex’s voice slithering in—handouts, reverse racism—and her fingers brushed her neckline, a nervous tic. “Maybe the detractors have a point. Like, if we push too hard, are we sidelining merit? I don’t know, it’s worth a thought.”

Naomi’s head snapped up, her pen clattering to the desk, her eyes wide with disbelief. Her jaw clenched so hard Zara swore she heard it, but Naomi held it together—barely—her voice tight as she jumped in. “No, Zara, it’s not. Detractors like Rex Tanner? They’re just scared of losing their unearned edge. DEI doesn’t sideline merit—it finds it, buried under bias. You’ve seen the data—don’t wobble now.”

Zara’s cheeks flushed, her green eyes darting. “I’m not wobbling—I’m just saying, there’s a balance. We can’t ignore the other side.” Rex’s heartbeat thudded in her memory, his muscles under her hand, and she shifted, her top tugging lower, her cleavage catching the light.

Naomi’s gaze flicked there—just a second—but it was enough. She stabbed the commercial button, her voice clipped. “We’ll be right back.” The jingle kicked in, the red light dimmed, and she whirled on Zara, her restraint snapping like a wire.

“What the fuck, Zara?” Naomi hissed, leaning across the desk, her freckles stark against her flushed face. “DEI’s our hill—ours—and you’re out here saying ‘maybe they’ve got a point’? After Rex mopped the floor with you? And what’s with that?” She jabbed a finger at Zara’s top, her voice rising. “You’re flashing your boobs like some Fox News bimbo—what’s next, a MAGA hat?”

Zara’s spine stiffened, her plush lips parting in shock. Heat surged—anger, shame, defiance—and she crossed her arms, pushing her cleavage higher, her green eyes flashing. “Back off, Naomi. I’m not some traitor—I’m thinking out loud, okay? And this?” She gestured to her top, her voice sharp. “It’s just a shirt. Don’t get jealous because I’ve got something to show. I’m still me.”

Naomi’s mouth dropped, her glasses fogging with her sharp exhale. “Jealous? Are you kidding me? I don’t give a shit about your looks—this isn’t about me wanting tits, it’s about you losing your damn mind! Rex is twisting you, and you’re letting him—DEI, this top, all of it!”

Zara’s nails dug into her arms, her pussy tingling faintly—Rex’s “hot” pinging again—and she hated it, hated Naomi’s truth. “I’m not letting anyone do anything,” she snapped. “I’m setting it straight—my way.”