Chapter Text
“And finally, tonight, in a heartwarming turn of events, Rocky, the golden retriever we first reported being missing last week, has been safely found and returned to his family. Thanks for joining us here on BRGT, Channel 8 News. I’m Anthony Bridgerton, goodnight.”
Anthony kept the fake smile on his face. At the same time, the camera panned away for the final closing shot while he agonized over the banal young associate producer yapping in his ear about the completely trite ideas he already had for tomorrow evening’s newscast.
“And we’re clear,” yelled the floor director, moving to come unmic Anthony, who couldn’t get out of the studio fast enough.
As soon as he was free from his microphone and earpiece shackle, Anthony practically ran to his office; as the lead evening anchor, he was one of the only staff members to get his own office. Perhaps it was also because of his lineage, being the son of the legendary Edmund Bridgerton, who had held the anchor seat for years, before his sudden death. To say Anthony felt the ghost of his father every night he sat behind that desk would be an understatement. The halls were adorned with Edmund’s pictures and awards, and the whispers that his son just wouldn’t quite ever be as good as he was.
Just as Anthony reached his office and began to shrug out of his suit jacket and tie and before he could reach his hidden stache of whiskey, there was a knock at his door.
“I, might I say, am quite happy Rocky has made a valiant return home,” said Simon Basset, Anthony’s best friend and the station’s top executive producer. “However would I have been able to sleep tonight without that knowledge?”
“I swear journalism has turned into nothing but puppies and wannabe influencers,” Anthony chided. “It’s a wonder anyone even tunes in anymore.”
When he was a child, Anthony long-admired his father’s career. Edmund had been a wunderkind, poised for greatness from the moment he was born. His illustrious penchant for finding the stories no one else was telling made him one of the most sought-after young reporters, and it wasn’t long before he’d climbed the ranks and was named primetime anchor at BRGT, New York City’s #1 rated local news station, and the youngest one ever, at that. Anthony was just five-years-old when his father took the seat, and it was that day, that he too decided, he would be a journalist just like his dad.
With the Bridgerton last name, getting into the top journalism school was no issue, and as nepotism gets one quite far, it wasn’t long before his father was able to help him secure a job as a reporter at BRGT. For a couple of years, they were the broadcasting pinnacle: a handsome father and son duo, both whip-smart and eager. If a Bridgerton reported it, there was no doubt it was true and accurate.
Then, tragically, Edmund suddenly passed away, a life-long unknown allergy to bees the culprit of his demise. He knew, as it was quite unspoken that it would happen eventually, station management wanted him to take his father’s place. One brilliant Bridgerton for another. It was a dream Anthony had long had but envisioned it would only happen after his father retired following a decades-long, meaningful career. Not, after his death, far, far too soon.
Yet, the mounting pressure from not only the station, but the viewers who trusted him so, and his family, who yearned to feel their father’s presence anyway they could, forced him into the seat, which he had now held for nearly five years.
But in that time, Anthony’s passion and drive had faded, as what had once been a career meant to serve others now was riddled with ego-maniacs and young hotshots looking for their 15 minutes of fame, with viewership dwindling and station management desperate for their pockets to be lined once again.
“Do you remember the first major break I had?” Anthony asks his friend. “Where we found out the mayor had been embezzling from that low-income housing startup?”
“You single-handedly cost him the next election,” Simon remembered. “Now you couldn’t so much as report the mayor didn’t tip a waiter, or the top brass would be on your neck.”
In recent years, station management had found it mutually beneficial with the current city administration not to dig too deep into anything that was going on at city hall, meaning for Anthony, his 11:00 p.m. newscast was filled with fluff and fodder, not important information.
Journalism, a thriving industry.
“My father would be so proud,” Anthony grimaced, finally finding the whiskey he’d been looking for, pouring both himself and Simon a dram.
The two men clinked their glasses. They’d met back in school, top of their class, with dreams of uncovering the rot of the world together. And while together they were, it was of course, under extreme bureaucracy, where the truth mattered much less than the needs of the station advertisers.
“The rest of my siblings are smart for not going into the family business,” Anthony said sarcastically. “I of course had to be the one to follow my father’s legacy, and now here we are.”
“My friend, with the way you idolized your father, I don’t think there was ever any other career path for you,” Simon laughed.
“You know me too well, better than my own brothers.”
“Ah, and yet, how glad I am I am not one,” Simon said, happy to have gotten a smile out of Anthony at last.
“Well, you’ll surely be seeing a lot of them soon,” Anthony reminded. “My brothers and sisters, and mother, of course, will all be in town for Father’s memorial special.”
The fifth anniversary of Edmund’s death was coming up in just a few weeks, and the station wanted to do a whole special on him. It was rather macabre and unnecessary, Anthony felt, and surely was being done less for sentiment and more for the advertisement dollars it would drum up. Nevertheless, he was excited to have all his siblings in town for a bit.
“All nine of you in New York City at the same time?”
“Yes, I know, it is rather ambitious.”
His mother still lived in the Connecticut home they’d grown up in, along with his youngest sister Hyacinth. A few of his siblings did live in the city; Benedict ran his own art gallery and Eloise was finishing up her graduate degree at Columbia, interning at a publishing firm this summer. Colin was currently galavanting across the globe, working as a travel reporter. Francesca had decided to go to college in Scotland, where she remained as of yet, and Gregory was finishing up at Princeton this year. Then of course, there was Daphne, who, hating the dreary cold and gray skies of the East Coast, left for Los Angeles the day she turned 18.
Only their father could get them all back in the same place at once.
“I heard Daphne landed a pilot recently,” Simon said suddenly, and if Anthony didn’t know any better, with a tint of blush coming to his cheeks.
“She did,” Anthony said, leaving it at that, not wanting to make something out of nothing.
Apparently, Simon agreed.
He raised his glass in a toast and said, “Well then, to the Bridgertons.”
“To the Bridgertons,” Anthony toasted.
The two men were just about to finish up their drinks and head out for the evening when another knock came at Anthony’s door.
“Ah, Mr. Bridgerton, I am glad I caught you before you left,” said Nigel Berbrooke, the aggravating general manager, for whom Anthony had little respect. “I know it is a Friday and you are eager for the weekend, but might I have a word.”
Anthony and Simon shared a look, the unspoken agreement that the former would catch up with the latter at their bar of choice as soon as this little meeting was over.
“Of course, Mr. Berbrooke,” Anthony said, shuffling one of his many bosses into the seat Simon just vacated.
“Mr. Bridgerton–Anthony, may I call you, we have known each other far too long for the formalities,” Berbrooke started. “As you know, viewership has been angling downwards for now, well, quite some time.”
“I am aware,” Anthony said, leaning back in his chair, his forehead creasing in frustration, annoyed that this conversation was happening yet again.
“Well, some time ago we enlisted an outside research group to gather some general data about what the viewers want. We thought it could perhaps give us some ideas about how to improve.”
“And,” Anthony urged, wishing the other man would quite get to the point.
“It turns out, what the viewers want, or more, what they don’t want…is you,” Berbrooke said plainly. “Well, at least, not just you.”
Anthony kept a neutral expression, waiting for Berbrooke to reveal more information. Chess, not checkers.
“Our surveys show many people find you cold and aloof, and yet, the majority also still trust you. Quite frankly, if it weren’t for your last name, I doubt anyone would care if we let you go.”
“And are you, letting me go?” Anthony asked, knowing the answer was likely “no,” as his contract was iron-clad. But still, he liked to make Berbrooke shake.
“We discussed it. But, as you know, breaking your contract would likely cost us more than the alternative we came up with,” Berbrooke smirked.
An alternative, Anthony hadn’t been expecting that. Again he waited in silence, furrowing his brows at Berbrooke, pushing him to continue.
“Based on our research, we think bringing in a co-anchor might solve some of our problems.”
“A co-anchor?” Anthony asked, urging himself to maintain composure. The BRGT Channel 8 11 p.m. news was not a co-anchor show. The rest of the newscasts, sure, but 11 p.m., that was a solo anchor show, led by one stoic person. His father had done it solo for almost 20 years. He did not need help, so why would Anthony?
“Yes. We think if we bring in someone to offset your cool aloofness, someone, engaging and charismatic, well, that might draw people back in,” Berbrooke stated. “It’s really an ideal situation. You get to stay, and we get our viewers back.”
“This show has never needed two anchors. It’s straightforward, the final newscast of the day. Bringing in a second anchor would just make it like any other nim-witted, meme-able, shit.”
No longer could he hide his disdain; the idea of him being unpalatable enough to require someone sitting next to him, next to his father’s chair, he wouldn’t stand for it.
“Mr. Bridgerton,” Berbrooke said, back to the formalities. “You don’t have a choice. In fact, we’ve already offered her the position. This has been months in the making; we are simply letting you know now that the contracts have been signed.”
“Her?” Of course, Anthony knew in all likelihood it would be a woman they’d want next to him; viewers love that tension, they love to wonder if the two powdered people on screen are fucking each other off of it.
And of course, given how when one works in the news, one's whole life is news, most of his romantic encounters did happen to be the countless young women who rotated through the station. The bright-eyed young reporters, associate producers, writers, and assistants, all who knew sleeping with him was a guarantee not of career success, but of judgment and misogyny, and yet still did.
He was not proud of it.
“Yes, her,” Berbrooke said. “Don’t worry, it’s not any of the women at this station who you’ve not so secretly managed to bed. HR was sure to screen someone who wouldn’t fall prey to your devilish looks. We do, of course, hope this is a long-term solution.”
Anthony knew then what Berbrooke wasn’t saying: they were to bring in this new co-anchor, and set her up as the next bright thing, all while waiting for his contract to expire, before canning him with no repercussion or financial woes. It was a tale as old as time.
“I see I have no say in the manner,” Anthony relented, letting out a sigh. “Do I at least get the courtesy of knowing who it is you are bringing in as my punishment?”
Berbrooke stood up and straightened his poorly-tailored jacket, as a smirk spread across his face. Anthony fully expected him to withhold the name, as there was nothing the older man enjoyed more than having an edge over Anthony. But, just as he was walking out of the door, he turned around slightly and looked Anthony directly in the eyes.
“Her name is Kate Sharma.”