Page 9 of The Prime-Time Experiment

“Riley,” Dee said, shifting so she was facing her fully now, “you argued with a very attractive man on live television for ten minutes straight while he looked at you like that.”

Riley’s focus narrowed. “Like what.”

Dee stared at her. Then, without a word, she took the phone back and replayed the clip, this time not watching Riley. Watching him.

“Watch his face,” she said.

Riley did. She observed the same things she had noted before. Attention, engagement, smug cockiness. No visible signs of anything she would define as unusual.

“He is engaged in the discussion,” she said.

Dee dropped her head back slightly, laughing again. “Engaged. That’s what you think is happening.”

“That is what is observable.”

“Okay,” Dee said, still smiling, though her tone shifted slightly, less amused now, more certain. “Then let me explain the part you’re missing.”

She tapped again, pulling up a profile.

Declan Montgomery. The name almost gave her hives after the events of that idiotic morning show. But she knew that if Dee was showing this to her, there had to be more information worth looking at beyond what she knew. She processed the rest of the screen.

Metrics surfaced first. Followers, 5.6 million. Irrelevant.

Engagement ratios. Potentially relevant.

Dee, however, was already continuing.

“He’s not just some random fitness guy,” she said. “He’s—” she gestured vaguely at the screen, “—this. Declan has millions of followers. His brother is the Tyler Montgomery.”

Riley looked at her, furrowing her brows. “Who?”

Dee looked at her incredulously, then sighed. “Why am I not surprised? Tyler Montgomery is the Centre-halfback for the Redbacks, Ri. He’s literally the name for AFL in Australia. It’s like being the Lewis Hamilton for Formula One.”

“Am I meant to know who that is?”

“Oh good lord, you need help. Anyway, my point is,” Dee took a breath, “that Declan has reach. The Montgomery’s are a household name. He has brand deals, programs, fame. People don’t just watch him, Riley. They follow everything he does.”

Riley’s gaze flicked back to the screen.

“He doesn’t argue with people,” Dee added. “Not like that, especially not publicly. And definitely not for ten minutes straight.” She released a breath before muttering, “and not with someone he’s looking at like that.”

Riley’s attention shifted again. Back to the clip, to the comments, then to Dee.

“This is why it has spread,” she said, the conclusion forming cleanly. “His existing platform, combined with sustained viewer interest, has amplified the segment beyond its intended reach.”

Dee pointed at her. “Yes. Exactly.”

“And the continued engagement,” Riley added, glancing briefly back at the comments, “suggests that the appeal is not informational.”

Dee hesitated. “… Yes,” she said, slower this time.

Riley nodded once, the logic settling. “Which means the misrepresentation will have a significantly wider impact than anticipated.”

Dee’s expression shifted something between disbelief and reluctant acceptance. “… Yeah,” she said. “I mean, yes. That too. Wouldn’t call it the core message of my speech, but I respect the commitment.”

Riley set her phone down again, more deliberately this time. “I was asked to go on there to translate research on cognitive psychology,” she said. “To present it in a way that was accessible without compromising its integrity.” Her tone remained even, but there was something tighter beneath it now. “I did not do that.”

Dee tilted her head slightly. “No, you didn’t.”