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“Sydney Sun,” he says, his tone sharp and efficient. It takes me a good ten seconds to realize he’s talking to me. “Right on time. Unlike some people.”
From across the room, someone shouts, “We heard that!” Laughter ripples through the space, and a smirk plays on Wyld Richards’s lips as he hands over a ball cap and a badge, both emblazoned withManhattan Herald.
I’m not even kidding, I will worship these like backstage passes to a Taylor Swift concert.
“Good job on most of your homework. And his coffee?”
I stand taller. “Dark roast with a shot of espresso, two pumps of vanilla, and a pinch of cinnamon.”
He nods, and I catch the faintest trace of approval in his eyes. But before I can let that sink in, he hits me with something that knocks the wind out of me. “So, what else have you learned about that high school crush of yours?”
I freeze, my mind scrambling for something—anything—that won’t make me sound like an idiot. “Uh...not much,” I stammer.Play it cool. “He was in the military. The Army, actually.”
“Tell me something I don’t know.”
I’m not even sure what that means, but I trudge through. “And he’s...different now. Though I can’t exactly put my finger on why.” Yeah, dying here.
Richards gives me a look—part amusement, part calculation—that makes my stomach twist. “Barely scratched the surface, huh?”
“Digging too deep could be seen as invasive,” I counter, trying to regain some composure.
He tsks, shaking his head slightly. “You sure you’re cut out for investigative journalism?” Hands on his hips, he assesses me. “Aren’t you even a little curious?”
I hesitate, then pinch my fingers together, letting out a breath. “Maybe...a little.”
His smirk widens, a knowing glint in his eyes that makes me suddenly nervous. “Don’t worry, kid. We’re about to satisfy that curiosity in ways you haven’t even imagined.”
What the hell does that mean?
A young man grabs his attention. “Shit, I need to deal with this.” He points across the room to a corner that’s about as far away from sunlight as possible. “Your seat is over there. Get settled, introduce yourself, snoop around, and find the kitchen and bathroom, then check your email.”
He heads off as I weave through the maze of desks, my eyes darting from one cluttered workspace to the next. Some are neat and organized, others look like the aftermath of a tornado, but all of them scream one thing: This is where the magic happens.
Or the mayhem, depending on your perspective.
I spot the empty desk near the back, nestled in a quad with a decent view of the room. Just as I’m about to make it mine, a voice calls out from behind me, laced with playful warning. “Take that seat at your own risk.”
I turn to see a guy with thick glasses and a grin that looks permanently etched on his face. He’s lounging in his chair like he’s got all the time in the world, hands casually behind his head, an amused glint in his eyes.
Suddenly wary, I give the chair a once-over, scanning for anything that screams trouble—coffee stains, ink splatters, or something worse that would make me cringe just thinking about it.
“That was Roxie’s seat,” a woman with platinum blondehair and fuchsia streaks chimes in, a teasing edge to her voice. “We’re pretty sure it’s cursed.”
“Roxie?” I echo, pausing as I take in the desk. It’s not as empty as I hoped—a half-drunk coffee mug with blood-red lipstick smeared on the rim, a few pens scattered like afterthoughts, and a notepad with the first few pages aggressively torn out. It still feels… lived in.
“As in Roxana Voss,” an older man with wire-rimmed glasses adds, his grin a mix of warmth and something a little more twisted. “The one and only—famous forSpilling Tea with Roxie V.”
“Roxana Voss,” I repeat, the name turning bitter on my tongue.
Her last story? A brutal hit piece on a teen pop star—unflattering photos and all. Word is, she staged the whole thing up, paid off some lowlifes to spike the girl’s drink, then had her photographer capture the meltdown.
“She’s—”
“Legendary,” a cute guy with dark, wavy hair corrects, leaning in like he’s about to share a dirty secret. “And an absolute nightmare to work with.”
“I’d call her infamous,” the woman interjects. “And lethal. Cross her, and she will eat you alive in the press,” the woman with rose-tinted hair says, her smile sweet as she shakes my hand. “Anabelle. I handle fashion, style, and the occasional restaurant review if they’re really desperate.”
Glasses Man extends a hand. “Alfred Walsh, but everyone here calls me Scoop. I live for research and digging into all the hard-hitting investigative pieces.”
