What could possible go wrong, huh? I'll tell you.
Everything.
The newsroom was chaos. Actual, living, breathing chaos.
Clarissa trailed behind me, juggling two phones in one hand and a tablet in the other, rattling off stats, reminders, and questions as if I were some AI that didn't need to sleep, eat, or feel the skin peeling off my heels.
"No, you can't push the exposé again," I muttered, sidestepping a junior editor who was on the floor trying to reconnect a printer cable like it held the fate of the nation. "We're three days behind Teegan's deadline. If we delay one more day, we might as well hand him the finance sector gift-wrapped with a goddamn bow."
"Got it. So... restructure? Add a new lead?"
"Fine. Pull the line about the offshore account, push the quote from the whistleblower to the top, and flag legal for the language around bribery. We're skating close."
I said all this while crossing the bullpen in flip flops. Flip. Flops.
Thank God for suit pants. No one had to see the war zone that was my ankles.
My blazer had vanished somewhere along the way, probably buried under a pile of newsprint or perhaps consumed by the building itself.
My hair, usually near and precise, was shoved into a makeshift ponytail that sat awkwardly high on my head, held together with a rubber band.
I cursed Mario at least a million times in my head for leading me on. Made it seem like his trip would only last a few more days.
Nonsense. It's been three weeks and two days since then. He wasn't replying texts or taking my calls.
Normally, I'd be worried that something had happened but Julia confirmed that he was ignoring me on purpose.
I stopped abruptly and spun on Clarissa. "If one more person asks me if Mario's flight got delayed, they'll hear it from me. And I mean it."
She blinked at me, confused. "Noted."
She handed me a protein bar from her pocket and I chewed on it while walking, not even pausing to check the flavor. Cardboard, probably.
I washed it down with lukewarm coffee that had been sitting on my desk since... whenever. At this point, caffeine was less a luxury and more intravenous.
"Yareli," someone called. "Budget review in ten."
I waved a hand without turning. "Push it."
"You said that two days ago."
"I meant it then, I still do."
The problem with running a company in someone else's shadow was that eventually, the spotlight found you anyway. And when it did, it was hot, blinding, and entirely too cruel.
I hadn't sat down properly in about three days. I'd perched. Leaned. Balanced precariously on the edge of tables. At one point, I sat on a windowsill for an entire phone call just to feel something that wasn't desk chair upholstery or existential dread.
The office looked like a hurricane had swept through and gotten bored halfway. Papers everywhere. Coffee rings on desks. Someone even found a stapler in the break room sink.
Clarissa returned with a stack of folders and a haunted look in her eyes. "Okay, so the 4 p.m. is moved to 2:45, but the layout meeting needs to happen now because they've redone the mock-up and want to pitch something bolder—"
"Bolder?" I stopped walking. "They spelled the governor's name wrong last week. Let's master the basics first."
"I said that! I said exactly that."
I rubbed a hand over my face and exhaled hard. "Fine. Let's go."
I found my way to the 18th floor. The elevator slid open, and the sight of Mario's office—a pristine, untouched space—made my insides twist.
If my eyes had been knives, they would've sliced through the polished glass and cleaved right into his impeccably organized desk.
I went straight to the issue that had dragged me up here. An anchor was on the line, and I found myself not just explaining, but defending why our cover story deserved the front page—even without a single quote from the administration.
Clarissa shoved a tablet into my hand, pointing out that someone had triple-booked the press room for Thursday.
Three different voices talked at me at once, and I could feel my concentration slipping away.
The presidential floor was no different from other floors. Chaotic.
Editors hovered near the main table, secretaries passed files back and forth, and someone—somehow—spilled coffee all over me, soaking the right half of my blouse in brown stain.
I squinted and he froze—eyes wide with panic, probably thinking he was about to get fired. I waved him off but he was already on the verge of tears.
I had to put the call on hold and reach out to reassure him, giving him a quick, "It's okay, you're not in trouble."
"Yareli?" Clarissa called.
I turned. "What now?"
The elevator pinged before she could answer.
Nobody looked up. We were all used to the constant arrival and departure of people with one issue or the other to address.
Then I heard someone yell: "Welcome back, sir!"
My head snapped toward the elevator.
And there he stood.
In the flesh. In a perfectly ironed suit, flanked by two people I didn't recognize and looking like he'd just returned from vacation.
He stared at me and I stared back.
The coffee stain. The flip-flops. The dark rings under my eyes. The band that had been barely holding my hair up gave up and slid down the side of my face.
He opened his mouth to say something but I didn't want to hear it.
I handed the tablet back to Clarissa then turned and made a beeline for his office.
I could feel everyone's eyes on me as I opened and closed the door, before shutting the blinds and blocking them out.
I sunk into the couch at the corner and in less than ten seconds, I'd dozed off.
•••