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Christine Everhart wasn’t bad at her job by any means, but she also wasn’t the groundbreaking journalist people liked to pretend she was. You weren’t going to catch her admitting that, though. She liked the access her position with WHiH World News provided. Liked the paycheck even more. She’s traveled internationally on their dime, sat in rooms a girl from Albany, New York had no business sitting in, and cultivated a reputation as modern journalism’s golden girl.
Not much to complain about, really.
It all started with the Vanity Fair position — a dream job fresh out of Brown. Back then, landing that byline had felt like winning the lottery. But her real break didn’t come until the night she secured an exclusive with Tony Stark. Of course, she’d also slept with him, which certainly didn’t hurt. That part hadn’t exactly been a sacrifice. He’d been America’s hottest bachelor for two consecutive years for a reason, and he’d delivered on the hype.
She’s grateful to him in a way she’d never say out loud. But — gratitude has never stopped her from pursuing a story.
Especially not one like this.
The tip came over a carefully casual coffee date, delivered with just enough specificity to make her pulse quicken: Tony Stark had recently become a father. Not to a newborn. To a teenager.
A Midtown School of Science and Technology student named Peter Parker. The kind of story that doesn’t just trend — it detonates the media field wide open. It’s the kind of story that would nudge her even further up the food chain, solidify her relevance in an industry that tends to eat women like her alive once they stop being novel.
She isn’t stupid, though. She needs corroboration. A disgruntled source spinning a narrative out of jealousy or desperation isn’t exactly rare. She’s built her career off other people’s grievances — she knows how easily those can distort.
Which is why she strides into Stark Industries this afternoon like she owns the place. Polished red-bottom heels strike the marble with intention, each click a reminder that she belongs in spaces like this. Her blonde hair falls perfectly from a fresh blowout. Heads turn — or at least she tells herself they do. She’s trained herself to move through the world as though it bends for her. So far, it has.
“I’m here to speak with Tony Stark,” she says smoothly to the front desk, flashing her press badge like it would explain everything. In her experience, it usually does.
“Do you have an appointment?” the receptionist asks.
What a quaint question.
Reporters don’t make appointments. Not when there’s leverage like this involved. She has a question, and she’s not going to wait for Stark to emerge from his tower or shed the suit long enough for her to ambush him elsewhere. If there’s a story to be confirmed, she confirms it on her terms.
“No,” she says lightly, unfazed. “But I assure you, he’ll want to speak with me. Let him know it’s Miss Everhart and that I have a story I’m preparing to run — one he’ll want to hear first. I’ll wait over there. Thanks.”
She doesn’t give the man an opportunity to refuse before turning toward the sleek leather couches, lowering herself onto one with practiced elegance and crossing one leg over the other.
It takes effort not to glance back at the desk to ensure he’s actually making the call. But that would violate her rule. Confidence cannot look checked. It cannot look uncertain. From the moment she passed through the tower’s sliding glass doors, she committed to projecting nothing but inevitability.
And really, she could run the story as-is. The details from her informant are enough to ignite a media storm. She can already see the headline in her mind, plastered across every major news outlet. But she’d prefer to avoid an unpleasant exchange with Stark Industries’ legal team over defamation or libel. This is due diligence.
It’s also, if she’s being honest with herself, a small courtesy.
Tony Stark may not remember it that way, but he was the launching point of her true career. And she has no interest in burning a bridge that still gleams this brightly.
She doesn’t look up from her phone until she hears the sharp rhythm of heels against tile. The sound is measured. Controlled. Familiar. It mirrors her own entrance from only minutes earlier.
She doesn’t need to lift her gaze to know exactly who it is.
Pepper Potts.
It takes a deliberate effort not to roll her eyes when she finally does look up. Or grimace. Or allow any of the history between them to flicker across her face. She smooths it out instead. Because as much as she hates to acknowledge it, she knows precisely who holds the upper hand in this building.
And it is not her.
There’s an unpleasant irony in that. Years ago, she’d reduced Pepper to nothing more than a glorified assistant in a moment of petty sharpness. Now the same woman stands as CEO of Stark Industries and fiancée to the man who once had Christine in his bed.
If Christine wants to talk about leveraging beauty and charm to climb, Pepper Potts is the ultimate goal. From personal assistant to executive authority, she outmaneuvered every assumption. And she did it without needing to broadcast the effort. No one can call it undeserved. The company thrives under her. The public adores her. Tony seems to defer to her.
If circumstances had been different — if ego and timing hadn’t collided the way they did — Christine suspects they might have respected each other.
Maybe even liked each other.
“Miss Everhart,” Pepper says, the smile on her face polite in a way that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “To what do we owe the pleasure?”
“I need to speak with Mr. Stark,” Christine replies smoothly, rising to meet Pepper at eye level. She refuses to look smaller in any room.
“Yes, Winston mentioned that.” Pepper folds her hands lightly in front of her. “I’m afraid Tony is unavailable at the moment. Any questions you have can be directed to me.”
To anyone watching, they look cordial. Civil. Two powerful women conducting business in a gleaming lobby.
No one would hear the tension braided through every syllable.
“I believe this may be a… personal matter,” Christine says, allowing the word to sit between them. She lets Tony’s name roll easily off her tongue. “I’m not sure he would appreciate a proxy.”
She knows Pepper knows. If Tony Stark has taken guardianship of a teenager, there is no universe in which Pepper Potts is uninformed. But hierarchy matters. And Pepper sits lightyears above her in that particular chain.
This leverage? She is not surrendering it cheaply.
Pepper’s smile tightens almost imperceptibly. “If you’re unwilling to speak with me, then I’m afraid we’ll have to ask you to vacate the premises.”
There it is.
Christine inhales slowly. She had intended to do this cleanly. Professionally. But Pepper’s refusal to yield even an inch is beginning to irritate her.
“Alright,” she says lightly, adjusting the strap of her bag. “Then just one question.”
Pepper waits.
“Is Peter Parker spelled exactly how I think it is?”
The shift is immediate.
Pepper’s smile dissolves. Not into shock — Pepper does not shock easily and if she does, she certainly doesn’t show it — but into something colder. Something protective. The air between them tightens, charged with animosity.
Christine doesn’t even feel smug. The look on Pepper’s face isn’t exactly triumph worthy.
It’s dangerous.
Pepper says nothing. She simply turns on her heel and strides toward the elevators, casting one clipped glance over her shoulder.
Christine rises without hesitation and follows.
It’s only once the elevator doors slide shut, sealing them away from the lobby’s polished civility, that Pepper speaks again — and not to Christine at first.
“FRIDAY, let Tony know I’d like him to meet Miss Everhart and me in my office as soon as possible.”
“Of course, Miss Potts,” the AI responds smoothly.
Then Pepper turns to her.
Christine straightens instinctively. It’s subtle, but it’s there — the body recognizing a power dynamic before the mind can spin it.
“Because I am amicable and kind,” Pepper begins, as though reminding herself of the fact, “I’m going to warn you that the smug little maneuver you pulled in the lobby won’t fly again. Not with me. And especially not with Tony.”
The words are measured. Not raised. Not emotional.
Christine, at the very least, feels the confirmation settle in her chest. There is absolutely a story here. Pepper wouldn’t react like this otherwise. But the warning complicates things. Up until now, her relationship with Tony Stark has been… comfortable. Complicated, yes. But workable. The sleeping-with-him-and-being-tossed-out-like-trash incident gave her a strange kind of leverage. She’d seen him at his most arrogant, at his most careless, and most undressed. That kind of access unfortunately matters in journalism.
She doesn’t want to lose that footing.
But this? This is potentially career defining.
The elevator opens with a soft chime. Pepper steps out first. Christine follows half a step behind, heels echoing down the corridor toward what she can only assume is Pepper’s office.
She’s right.
The double wooden doors open to a vast space framed by glass and skyline. The New York City skyscrapers stretch beyond the windows, tall and glittering in the late-afternoon light. The desk is expansive. Imposing without trying too hard.
Pepper gestures toward the chair opposite it. Christine sits, crossing one leg over the other just like she had in the lobby.
The door opens again. Tony Stark strides in, confidence and ego just the same as when she’d met him.
Time has been kind to him. Or perhaps wealth has. Either way, he’s aged into something sharper. More refined. Still infuriatingly attractive. A thought she keeps firmly to herself, given the woman sitting behind the desk.
“Miss Everhart,” he says lightly, tone easy. “What is so important you had to disrupt my Tuesday afternoon?”
He circles the desk and perches casually on its edge beside Pepper, arms folding across his chest. It takes him a second — maybe two — to register the temperature in the room.
“Jesus, It’s colder than Antarctica in here,” he remarks, glancing between them. “What’s the issue?”
Pepper tilts her chin slightly toward Christine, granting her the floor.
“I’m working on a story,” she says evenly, testing the waters with restraint. “One I believe you’ll want the opportunity to comment on before it goes to publication.”
Tony’s expression shifts, confusion knitting his brow. His gaze flickers to Pepper. Something unspoken passes between them — subtle, leaving her clean out of the loop. In an instant, the casual ease drains from him. He straightens, posture sharpening into something more executive than charming playboy.
“Pertaining to?” he asks.
Christine meets his eyes.
“Peter Parker.”
The room ices over at that. Tony’s expression hardens immediately, something shuttering behind his eyes, and Pepper closes hers briefly before shaking her head once — small, resigned.
Against her better judgment, Christine pushes.
“So it’s true? He’s your child?”
“No —” Tony’s voice snaps like a wire pulled too tight. “You don’t ask questions here. I do.”
She’s used to snark from him. Used to deflection wrapped in charm and a grin. Used to Tony Stark turning uncomfortable territory into a performance.
This isn’t that. This isn’t a joke meant to soften the edges. This is stepping into a den and realizing the lion is not amused.
Pepper’s warning in the elevator makes far more sense now.
“Where did you get his name?” Tony asks, eyes narrowing in on her.
She shifts slightly in her seat, careful not to let the movement betray her discomfort. Swallows once. Keeps her posture intact.
“Oliver Harden. A former teacher at Midtown who—”
“I know who he is,” Tony cuts in, the words low and dangerous.
Pepper’s confusion surfaces. “Who—”
“Peter’s old physics teacher,” Tony answers tightly.
“The one who g—” Pepper adjusts herself mid-sentence. “The one who was fired after multiple parent complaints?”
Christine notes the correction. Files it away. Even as the air grows heavier.
Tony folds his arms across his chest, petulance layered over anger. “The one who was singling out students. Whose students were suffering under his instruction. The one using class hours to play games on his computer? Yes. That one.”
Christine feels the story slipping through her fingers. Harden suddenly looks less like a whistleblower and more like a man with an axe to grind with those new details. Publishing this now would mean aligning herself against Stark Industries on a foundation that now feels more unstable than Oliver had made it seem.
The office door swings open without ceremony.
Peter Parker barrels in mid-sentence, backpack hanging half off one shoulder, curls slightly unruly, energy spilling ahead of him.
“Miss Pepper! Miss Pepper! I’m so glad you and d— Mr. Stark are in here because I had to tell you we started talking about you in AP Psych today and turns out my teacher’s a huuuuu—”
He stops short.
“Oh. Uhhhh. I’m so, so sorry,” he stammers, already backing toward the door.
Tony sighs into his hands, dragging them down his face before holding one out.
“Wait, kiddo. Too late now.”
“No, really, I can go. FRIDAY said you guys were here but you never take meet—”
“Peter.” Tony cuts through the ramble. “Come sit.”
Christine watches this unfold with something dangerously close to fascination. She hadn’t been sure what she expected when she walked in here armed with a rumor. Denial. Deflection. Annoyance. Maybe a carefully crafted PR statement.
She did not expect… this.
Peter glances at her, hesitation flickering across his face, before circling the desk and dropping into the chair opposite hers. His backpack falls in a messy heap at his feet.
Pepper reaches into a drawer without looking and pulls out a pack of Oreos and a sleeve of saltines, sliding them across the desk.
Peter beams. “Thank you, Miss Pepper,” he says warmly, already tearing into the Oreos.
“So when you give him junk food it’s fine,” Tony mutters, shaking his head, fond exasperation bleeding through the tension. “But when I do it, it’s a federal offense?”
Pepper opens her mouth to respond, then seems to remember they are not alone. She straightens, composure returning in an instant, and turns her attention back to Christine.
Which is almost disappointing.
Because for a moment there, Christine had been watching something that didn’t feel staged. Didn’t feel strategic. Just a teenager, a billionaire, and a woman who clearly ran the whole operation — orbiting one another with ease.
It’s inconvenient, she realizes, how real it looks. Especially when she’s got this inkling that she won’t be publishing this story.
“Peter, this is Christine Everhart. A journalist with WHiH World News,” Pepper says, pointedly emphasizing journalist.
Christine offers a measured smile. Peter makes a small oh with his mouth, eyes flicking immediately to Tony. There it is again — that silent exchange she’s not privy to. A look. A micro-expression. Something passed without language.
“Ni—” Peter pauses, finishes chewing, swallows. “Nice to meet you, Miss Everhart.”
He wipes his hand on his jeans — endearingly, unfortunately — and extends it toward her with an earnest smile.
The only reason she takes his slightly cookie-dusted hand is because she is fairly certain both Tony and Pepper would make a spectacle of her refusal.
“Nice to put a face to the name,” she replies evenly. Not too warm. Not too saccharine. She already knows his face. She looked him up the night Oliver Harden said it aloud.
“Are you—” Peter blurts suddenly. “Are you going to write a story about me and Mr. Stark?”
The question feels like a dropped glass.
“No,” Pepper and Tony say simultaneously.
“I was planning on it,” Christine answers, because candor is sometimes more effective than dancing around the truth.
All three of their voices collide in the air. Peter looks briefly overwhelmed, gaze darting before settling on Tony — instinctively.
Tony pushes off the desk and moves around it in one smooth motion, perching on the arm of Peter’s chair. The shift is subtle but unmistakable: proximity. Protection.
“If she knows what’s good for her, she’s not going to write it, Peter,” Tony says, voice calm but edged. “Because trust me, Pepper and I will not take it lightly.”
The words are aimed at the boy.
The warning is aimed at her.
She does not appreciate being spoken to like a child about to be grounded.
“If you wanted him out of the press,” she counters coolly, folding her arms across her chest, “you’d do a better job of keeping your connection to him under wraps. Showing up at his school. Berating teachers because you don’t like the grade they gave him. Getting them fired. That’s not exactly low-profile behavior.”
Tony’s jaw tightens.
“The definition of low-profile,” he says evenly, “suggests a small and select group of people are aware. So if you of all people know the details of my personal life, then something has already gone wrong, wouldn’t you say?”
“Well, I—”
“No,” Tony cuts her off. “You nothing.”
His tone sharpens further.
“You thought you could walk into our company, demand my time over a story you’re only getting because a man was a pathetic excuse for a teacher who couldn’t handle being wrong, and then casually try to inform me you planned to publish something about a minor attached to my name because it would hand you your next big break. That’s what this is.”
Each word lands deliberately, ballpoint pens in her back.
“Dressing it up in journalism doesn’t change it.”
Pepper’s gaze mirrors his anger, though hers is steadier. Less explosive. There’s a flicker of I warned you in her expression. And, annoyingly, she had.
“Mr. Harden did this…?” Peter asks quietly. The question trails off, the earlier brightness drained from his voice.
Tony’s hand slides to the back of Peter’s neck, firm and grounding, pulling him gently into his side. The teenager deflates, very much looking like the small fifteen years of life he’s lived.
“I’m sorry, kiddo,” Tony murmurs, the edge gone from his voice entirely.
The tonal shift is jarring. The man who just verbally eviscerated her now speaks with a softness so instinctive it feels unfiltered. The billionaire. The inventor. The public spectacle. Reduced, in this moment, to a father comforting his disappointed kid.
Nothing about him resembles the man she met outside the Grand Royale in Vegas years ago — except the face.
And even that feels different now.
Peter looks back at her, chewing on his bottom lip. “Miss Everhart?”
Her brows lift slightly in response.
“I know this article would probably be really good for your career… my friend Betty is a journalist for the school news paper and she’s always looking for her next story too… but,” he pauses, glancing between Tony and Pepper, “this is my real life. And Mr. Stark and Miss Potts are… aside from my aunt, the only people I really have left.”
The words aren’t overly dramatic. They aren’t rehearsed. They just sit there. Christine watches him swallow — emotion tightening his throat in a way that she can’t place. Sadness? Fear? Frustration? Maybe all of it. Maybe none she can neatly label.
“And — and I’m not saying that for pity or anything,” he rushes to add. “It’s just… I’ve had too many things taken away from me without my choice or say. And I really don’t want this to be one of them.”
He looks at her with an earnestness so disarming it makes her glance away.
Her mind splits cleanly down the middle.
On one side: headlines, clicks, industry relevance, another defining moment. The article is already half-written in her head. The framing sharp. The timing perfect.
On the other: this room.
She looks at Pepper. The woman’s composure is still intact, but something softer edges her expression as she watches Peter — pride and pain braided together.
Then she risks looking at Tony.
She does not expect the mist in his eyes. He isn’t crying. He never would in front of her. But the restraint is visible. The effort not to.
It hits her, sudden and uncomfortable. This isn’t leverage to use against — not if she wants to continue having a respectable career after this. This is a family, and if she outs them after they’ve asked her not to — it won’t be a good look.
How does she sit here and say she’ll publish anyway?
How does she walk out and reduce that moment to copy?
Yes, Stark Industries has an ironclad legal team. Yes, crossing them is professionally reckless. But that’s not the only thing twisting in her chest.
It’s something less strategic.
She exhales slowly and rises from the chair, smoothing a hand down her skirt to steady herself. Swallowing pride is not something she does often.
“I won’t write it,” she says carefully. “For now.”
All three of them look poised to respond, but she lifts a hand.
“But,” she adds, because she cannot leave herself entirely vulnerable here, “if I hear even a whisper that someone else has caught wind of this and plans to run with it, I won’t hesitate to publish.”
It’s a promise to them. And a reminder to herself.
“If you do,” Peter asks quietly, “will you at least give us a heads up?”
She studies him for a beat. It’s a reasonable request. Fair. Respectful.
She nods once. “I will.”
There’s suddenly nothing left to say.
“I’ll show myself out,” she adds, inhaling as she turns toward the door.
Behind her, Tony’s hand remains on at the back of Peter’s neck. Pepper’s hand still rests on the desk just close enough to them.
Christine walks out of the office, leaving Tony Stark and his carefully guarded family intact — at least for now.