The Trouble With Brent Woods
Copyright© 2026 by Art Samms
Chapter 3
The next morning, Brent arrived at the agency before the sun had fully risen—before the building’s lobby grew crowded, before anyone could see the exhaustion etched into his face. The marble floor reflected the cold glow of early morning light, and the security guard gave him a sympathetic nod as if he already knew.
Maybe he did. Everyone seemed to know.
Brent rode the elevator up in silence. When the doors opened, the office was dim, just a handful of early risers scattered at their desks. A couple glanced up; one quickly turned back to her monitor. Another whispered something to someone across the aisle.
The air felt too thin. Too watchful.
He walked straight to Mara’s office. Her door was cracked open. “Brent?” she called quietly. “Come in.”
He did. She shut the door behind him with a gentleness that felt worse than anger.
Mara Chen was usually composed in a way that bordered on serene—perfect posture, careful tone, warm eyes behind black-rimmed glasses. Today, though, she looked frayed. A stack of printouts sat on her desk: screenshots, articles, social media threads. A few bore his blurred-out image circled in red.
“Mara,” Brent began, sinking into the chair across from her. “I can explain what happened.”
Her expression softened, but only slightly. “I know you want to. And I want to hear it. But first”—she exhaled a long, heavy breath—”you need to understand the situation we’re in.”
She slid the stack toward him.
“We’ve received fifteen client emails since last night,” she said. “Several asking whether the rumors are true. A few demanding reassurance about the stability of our creative leadership team.” She paused. “One threatening to suspend their project until we ‘address internal misconduct.’”
Brent’s stomach hollowed. “Misconduct? Mara, I didn’t—”
“I know.” She raised a hand. “I know you didn’t. I’ve watched the footage. I’ve spoken with the partners. Everyone here believes you’re not the type to get involved with anything criminal.”
Her voice wavered slightly—compassion fighting with corporate protocol.
“But belief,” she continued, “is not the same thing as perception. And right now, public perception is spiraling.”
Brent swallowed. “I wasn’t charged. They questioned me and let me go. I wasn’t part of any of it.”
“And eventually,” Mara said, “I hope that’s exactly what the public comes to understand. But the internet has decided you were involved in some capacity. The headlines are feeding it. And if clients think our team is unstable or exposed to scandal...” She gestured helplessly to the pile of printed articles. “We can’t take that hit.”
Brent leaned back, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “So, what are you saying?”
Mara hesitated—the kind of hesitation that comes before a blow.
“The partners met early this morning,” she said quietly. “We’ve had calls with our PR consultant. Everyone agrees that for the sake of the agency’s reputation, and to protect client relationships ... we need to take temporary action.”
He froze. “Temporary action,” he repeated numbly.
She nodded once. “Effective immediately, you’re being placed on mandatory leave. Full pay. Full confidentiality. You are not being fired, Brent. This is not disciplinary. It’s a cooling-off period until the incident settles—legally and in the public eye.”
He felt the words land one by one, like stones sinking into water.
“Mara,” he said quietly, “this is my career.”
“And we’re trying to protect it,” she replied. “If you keep coming into the office while this is unfolding, every client visit, every internal meeting, every project review becomes a liability. The press could frame it as negligence. Or worse—complicity.”
He stared at the floor. “I was trying to help someone. That’s it. That’s all I did.”
“I know,” she whispered. “Believe me, I know. But the story out there isn’t listening.”
Silence stretched between them.
Finally, Mara slid a folder across the desk. “This outlines the leave terms. The partners want you to focus on meeting with your attorney, clearing your name, and staying out of visibility for a bit. You’ll still have access to your work email, but we recommend minimal activity. HR will forward any urgent internal messages.”
Brent nodded slowly, though the motion felt mechanical. “How long?”
“We don’t know yet.” Mara’s voice softened. “We’ll review weekly. As soon as the press cycle moves on or the police formally close out your involvement, we’ll reassess.”
He tried to steady his breath. “And the team? My creatives?”
“They’ll be covered,” she assured him. “But ... they’re worried about you. Luke especially.”
Brent’s chest constricted. He forced a thin smile that didn’t hold. “Of course he is.”
Mara stood, signaling the meeting was ending. “I’m truly sorry, Brent. This is a mess, but it won’t define you if you handle it carefully from here.”
He stood too, folder in hand.
“When can I pack up my things?” he asked.
“Whenever you’re ready,” she said softly. “Just ... maybe not when everyone’s here. For your sake.”
He nodded once.
Then he turned, opened the door, and stepped out into the quiet office—feeling every pair of eyes even where none looked his way.
The office felt different on the way out—colder, quieter, as if the building itself knew he didn’t belong inside it today. Brent packed his things alone, early enough that the creative team hadn’t yet filtered in. He slipped framed concepts, pens, notebooks, and a half-finished storyboard into a cardboard box with slow, deliberate motions.
The familiar space around him suddenly looked foreign.
By the time Brent stepped out into Midtown, the city was fully awake—honking taxis, steam rising through manhole grates, the crisp bite of morning wind threading between skyscrapers. The city felt normal.
He didn’t.
He walked without direction, box under his arm, head swimming. His career—his anchor—had been paused. His name was attached to a viral video he didn’t cause. And suddenly, he had more free time than he’d had in years.
Time he didn’t want.
I need to talk to someone, he thought, the panic rising again.
Luke was the first person who came to mind, but Luke lived inside the same agency ecosystem that now felt toxic, fragile, and full of whispers. Brent couldn’t drag him into this—not more than he already was.
He thought of Sophia next. It would’ve been easy to call her; she always listened, always calmed him. But things between them were still tender, reshaped by the breakup and whatever ambiguous territory they stood on now. Running to her would muddle everything.
He needed someone outside the storm. Someone grounded.
He stopped walking mid-block.
Lily. Of course. Why didn’t he think of her first?
He pulled out his phone.
Brent:
Are you around this morning?
Could use a friend.
She replied in under a minute.
Lily:
Brookside Bagels. 15 minutes.
You sound like you need carbs.
He almost laughed at that.
As always, Brookside Bagels was warm and bustling, with the smell of toasted dough and fresh coffee wafting through the air. Brent slipped inside and spotted Lily instantly—wide-brimmed hat, camera beside her, sipping a latte like she’d been waiting for him her whole life.
She looked up and frowned the second she saw his expression. She frowned even more when Brent told her what had just happened at work.
“Okay,” she said, motioning him over. “We’re getting you a sesame bagel and maybe a whole tub of cream cheese. Sit.”
He did. The warmth of the shop grounded him more than he expected.
“You look like your soul left your body,” she added gently.
“It might have,” Brent admitted, running a hand through his hair. “It’s just—everything’s a mess. The video, the news, random strangers calling me a drug runner—”
“You do not give drug-runner energy,” Lily said matter-of-factly. “You give ‘overworked creative director who desperately needs moisturizer’ energy.”
He blinked. “Thanks? I think?”
She waited until he took a bite of the bagel before saying, more seriously, “Tell me what you need.”
Brent rested his elbows on the table. “I need a good attorney. Someone who knows this stuff. Knows public fallout. And I need...” He hesitated. “A place outside Manhattan where I can lay low for a while. Just during the day. Somewhere people aren’t staring, or whispering, or reading my face like an indictment.”
Lily’s expression softened into something warm and perceptive.
“All right,” she said. “Those I can help with.”
Brent blinked. “Really?”
“Really.” She took a slow sip of her latte. “First, attorney. I know someone. Annette Cameron. Half-Chinese, half-white, scary-good at her job. A force of nature in legal settings. She doesn’t lose cases unless she wants to. Sharp, strategic, excellent bedside manner for panicked creative directors.”
Brent exhaled in relief. “You trust her?”
“With my life,” Lily said. “Or at least with my parking tickets.”
He managed a smile—small but real.
“And second?” he asked. “Somewhere to disappear for a bit?”
“For that,” Lily said, leaning back, “I have the perfect place. Jackson Heights.”
“Queens?” Brent asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Trust me,” she said. “It’s diverse, loud in a comforting way, and absolutely no one there cares what’s trending online. They’re too busy living actual lives. You can grab some food, hide behind sunglasses, vibe with the locals.”
He nodded slowly. “Okay ... yeah. That sounds good.”
“There’s an eatery there,” she added casually. “Mr. Pollard’s Café. Good soup. Good people. Zero influencers. You’d blend right in.”
It was an offhand mention that seemed completely innocuous at the time. He just leaned back in the booth, letting the idea settle.
“Thanks, Lily,” he said quietly. “Really.”
She reached over and squeezed his hand. “Brent Woods, you are not ruined. You’re just temporarily scrambled. And scrambled things can be reorganized. Like eggs.”
He laughed—actually laughed.
“Eat,” she commanded, sliding his bagel closer. “Then call Annette. Then go hide in Queens. Trust the process.”
Annette Cameron’s office was sleek in the minimalist, quietly expensive way that suggested competence without needing to announce it. Floor-to-ceiling windows washed the room in early morning light, illuminating framed degrees and a few discreet pieces of art—precise strokes, monochrome palettes, disciplined as the woman herself.
Brent arrived ten minutes early. He sat in the reception area trying not to wring his hands, rehearsing explanations in his head, none of which sounded convincing even to him.
At exactly nine on the dot, the frosted glass door opened.
“Mr. Woods?”
Annette stood in the doorway—tall, poised, wearing a fitted charcoal suit and an expression that conveyed she’d already researched him more thoroughly than he researched himself. Her faintly exotic features gave her a composed elegance, but her eyes were alert, assessing.
“Come in,” she said, already turning toward her office.
Brent followed.
The moment he sat across from her desk, she opened a folder—his folder—and skimmed the pages with a practiced efficiency that made his pulse spike.
“All right,” she said at last, looking up. “Tell me everything. Start with why you were at District Eleven that night, and do not leave out the parts that make you look bad. Those are usually the important ones.”
Brent swallowed. “I wasn’t—look, I wasn’t out doing anything illegal. I just ... met a friend. It was a normal night out. And then this fight started, and I—”
“Clarify ‘normal night out,’” she interrupted calmly. “Frequency, context, and whether alcohol or drugs were involved on your part.”
“Alcohol, yes. Some. No drugs. And I don’t go out as often as I used to. Maybe a few times a month on average ... although, to be honest, it was the third time I’d gone out that week.”
She tapped her pen once against her notepad. “And why did you physically engage with the man involved in the fight?”
“Because he was swinging at people. I thought I could pull him away, calm things down.”
Annette’s pen paused mid-stroke. She lifted her gaze.
“And you didn’t consider stepping back and letting security handle it?”
Her tone wasn’t accusatory. It was testing.
“No,” Brent admitted. “It was instinct. Stupid instinct, maybe, but ... I honestly thought I was helping.”
Annette studied him, silence stretching for several seconds. He held her gaze, refusing to flinch or backpedal.
Finally, she exhaled through her nose—slow, thoughtful.
“All right,” she said. “Now tell me about the police interaction.”
Brent repeated every detail—the commands, the confusion, the questioning, his release. She wrote quickly but precisely, head tilted in concentration.
When he finished, she closed the folder.
“Here’s my professional impression,” she said. “You acted recklessly, but not maliciously. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. The public narrative is currently unfavorable, but the legal narrative is not.”
Brent let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
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