My alarm went off before the sky even remembered how to be blue.
I groaned, smacking it into silence with more force than necessary, and sat up slowly, the weight of exhaustion already hugging my shoulders.
My eyes burned from yet another night of barely any sleep.
The past few weeks had been dreadful, we hit a pivotal point in the office so everyone was putting in extra hours.
Mario was out of the country and I was left in charge against my will.
Yes, a chief editor was left in charge.
Lord knows how much I'd pleaded for him to hire someone to stand in for him while he was away.
This was his reply: "Yareli, no one knows this company better than you and I. Matter of fact, I could just use this as opportunity to step down for you."
I gritted my teeth at the mere thought.
Barefoot and bleary-eyed, I padded into the kitchen and flipped on the coffee machine like it was a lifeline—because it was. Caffeine had long since replaced rest in my hierarchy of needs.
Bless my coworkers for the thoughtful gift.
While the espresso hissed to life, I opened the fridge, stared blankly at its empty insides, then grabbed a lone apple from the shelf. That would have to be breakfast.
I showered quickly, threw on whatever clothes I could get my hands on, and twisted my hair into a low bun.
I hurried out of my apartment and made a beeline for my car. The engine roared to life, and I drove off.
At the office, the chaos hit before I even reached my desk.
A crisis with one of our reporters overseas. An urgent press release that needed approval. A dozen missed calls. And, of course, a rival company had just dropped a controversial exposé.
The group chat was already flaming.
I didn't have time to think, much less breathe.
And just when I thought the fire couldn't burn any hotter, Clarissa, my coworker-turned- assistant, popped her head into my office.
"You're going to want to see this," she said, tone somewhere between cautious and caffeinated.
"Tell me it's not another scandalous article."
"Not ours," she said. "But it's all over the net. And, uh, the Nathan Reed's name is stamped on it."
I froze mid-type.
Nathan Reed. The golden boy of The Arch. The smug, infuriating, insufferably brilliant editor-in-chief slash stand-in CEO of our biggest rival publication.
He didn't just stir pots, he launched them like missiles. He'd been something of a thorn in my side since his arrival into the media world three years ago, and the rivalry between our companies had only intensified since.
I swiveled my chair around. "Show me."
She handed me her tablet. The headline practically screamed in bold red font, and there it was, right at the top: "By Nathan Reed."
Of course it was.
I handed the tablet back. "Draft a statement. Something sharp, and stamp my name on it this time."
As Clarissa scurried off, I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling as I willed myself not to scream.
Nathan Reed.
Great. Just great.
I didn't know what irritated me more, his smug pen name popping up on every trending article, or the fact that he knew exactly how to poke holes in our work without ever sounding crass.
He had this polished, bulletproof way of writing—like every word had been ironed before being served.
Worse? People ate it up. His followers adored him. The board respected him. And the public? They lapped up every line he wrote like gospel.
I shoved away from my desk and stood, pacing to the window. The city blinked back at me, alive and humming, but I couldn't shake the growing knot in my chest.
My phone buzzed and Clarissa's name flashed on screen.
'Heads up. There's talk he might be attending the media summit tonight. Guest speaker.'
I groaned.
Of course he'd be there. In a perfectly tailored suit. Talking about ethics like he invented journalism.
I texted back.
'Drop whatever you're doing. I'll be needing an outfit.'
'Roger.'
It wasn't even up to a minute before Clarissa barged back in.
"There's an issue with the Copenhagen piece. Translation errors. Major ones."
So much for her dropping everything.
"From our side or theirs?"
"Ours."
Fantastic.
"Get Julio on it," I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Tell him I want a clean version by noon. And no more half-baked submissions from freelancers we haven't vetted."
She nodded and left again, but the door barely clicked shut before another knock came.
It was Anika from legal.
"Yareli, sorry to bother you—"
"You're not. Come in. What's wrong?"
She stepped inside with a file pressed tight against her chest like it might explode.
"There's potential copyright infringement on the Sagan interview clips we ran last week."
"You're kidding."
"Nope."
I took the file, scanned the highlighted paragraphs, and my heart sank. One more lawsuit and we might start a punch card.
"I'll take care of it," Danika said quickly, seeing my expression. "Just thought you should be in the loop."
"Loop's getting mighty crowded these days," I muttered.
She offered a sympathetic smile and slipped out.
The second the door shut, I finally let it out.
"For God's sake!"
My voice ricocheted off the walls, sharp and loud enough to freeze the bullpen. For one surreal second, the entire office went still.
Then, slowly, the usual noise resumed—keyboards clicking, phones ringing, murmurs buzzing back to life.
They were used to my crash outs by now.
I sank back into my chair, yanked my bun loose, and exhaled like it might pull the pressure out of my chest.
It didn't.
I'd just buried my face in my hands for a full fifteen seconds of self-pity, when Clarissa stormed in again.
"They just confirmed it."
I looked up. "Confirmed what?"
"Nathan Reed. Keynote speaker at the summit tonight. Panel on journalistic integrity."
My laugh was dry and humorless. "Of course it's that panel."
She threw her hands up. "What are the odds?"
"Higher than my blood pressure at this point."
I stood, rolled my shoulders back.
"Send my RSVP and get that outfit," I said. "He wants a spotlight, I'll give him one."
•••