Twenty-two missed calls. Fourteen texts. All from Spencer.
Elena, please pick up.
It's not what you think.
My mom is crazy.
I love you.
She blocked the number. Her thumb hovered over the delete button for their photo album, but she couldn't do it yet. She just turned the screen off.
"Coffee," Harper said, walking into the living room. She was already dressed for her job at the gallery, looking fierce in black leather. She set a steaming mug down. "Drink up. You have that press conference at City Hall today."
Elena groaned. "I can't go. Everyone will know."
"Nobody knows anything except that Spencer Kensington is a cheating rat," Harper said. "You are Elena Vance. You are the best reporter on the metro desk. Get up."
Harper was right. Elena dragged herself to the shower. She scrubbed her skin until it was pink, trying to wash off the feeling of the alley. She put on her armor: a black blazer, a crisp white shirt, and the highest heels she owned.
She took the subway to the City Chronicle building. The newsroom was buzzing, phones ringing, keyboards clacking. It was usually a sound she loved, the heartbeat of the city. Today, it sounded like static.
As she walked toward her desk, the noise level dropped. Heads turned. People whispered behind their hands.
They know.
Elena kept her eyes forward. She reached her cubicle, but before she could sit down, the managing editor's assistant, a nervous girl named Sarah, appeared.
"Elena," Sarah whispered. "Mr. Friedman wants to see you. Now."
Elena's stomach dropped. "Okay."
She walked to the glass-walled office at the end of the row. The blinds were drawn, which was never a good sign. She knocked and opened the door.
Mr. Friedman, a gruff man who usually had a cigar chewed to a pulp in his mouth, was sitting behind his desk. He looked pale, sweating slightly despite the cool office air. He wouldn't meet her eyes.
The guest chair was empty. There was no Victoria Kensington here. Just the heavy, suffocating silence of corporate dread.
"Sit down, Elena," Friedman mumbled, shuffling papers on his desk.
"Is this about the gala?" Elena asked, remaining standing. "Because my personal life has no bearing on my-"
"It's about the budget," Friedman interrupted, finally looking up. His eyes were fearful. "Corporate called this morning. They're restructuring the metro desk. Effective immediately."
Elena felt the floor drop out from under her. "Restructuring? I'm your lead reporter. I broke the corruption scandal last month."
"I know, I know," Friedman said, wiping his forehead with a handkerchief. "But the directive came from the top. The board... they're concerned about 'conflicts of interest' and 'brand alignment.' They want a fresh start."
"Conflicts of interest?" Elena laughed, a harsh, incredulous sound. "You mean the Kensington advertising account? Did they threaten to pull the ads if you didn't fire me?"
Friedman flinched. He didn't deny it. "Elena, please. Don't make this harder. The severance package is generous. Two weeks' pay."
"Two weeks?" Elena slammed her hands on the desk. "I've been here four years! This is retaliation, plain and simple."
"It's business," Friedman whispered, echoing Spencer's words from the night before. "And... frankly, Elena, you can't win this. They have lawyers who cost more per hour than this building is worth. Just... go. Before security escorts you out."
He slid a manila envelope across the desk. "Your final check. And a letter of recommendation. It's the best I could do."
Elena looked at the envelope. It felt light. Insignificant.
"You're a coward, Friedman," she said softly.
Friedman looked down at his hands. "I have a mortgage, Elena. I have kids in college. We don't all get to be heroes."
Elena grabbed the envelope. She didn't say another word. She turned and walked out of the office, feeling the eyes of the newsroom boring into her back.
She didn't pack her desk. She didn't say goodbye to anyone. She just walked to the elevators, her heart pounding with a mixture of rage and terror.
She was unemployed. In New York City. With rent due in three days and her father's nursing home bill due in five.
She stepped out into the lobby, the noise of the street rushing in to meet her. Her phone rang. A landline number.
"Miss Vance? This is the billing department at St. Mary's." The woman's voice was apologetic but firm. "I'm calling to inform you that the recurring payment for your father's room was declined this morning."
"Declined?" Elena gripped the phone. "That's impossible. It's on auto-pay."
"The bank flagged the account," the woman said. "And... we received a notification that the supplementary charity grant your father was receiving has been revoked. The donor pulled the funding."
Elena leaned against the cold glass of the building. The donor. She hadn't even known there was a specific donor. Spencer. It had to be. Or his mother, scrubbing every trace of their "charity" from the books.
"I'll fix it," Elena said, her voice shaking. "I just need a few days."
"I'm afraid we require payment by Friday, Miss Vance. Or we'll have to initiate the transfer to a state facility."
The line went dead.
Elena stared at the phone. She opened her banking app. Checking Balance: $3,214.50. The nursing home bill was $4,500. Rent was $2,800.
She was drowning.
---
