Page 115 of The Golden Scoop

Suddenly, Martha’s last email doesn’t seem like another random order. The teaser is a threat. A deliberate push to back me into a corner, to make me deliver exactly what she wants. Nothing less.

She’s put it out into the world, public for everyone to see—including Matt—the opening shot of a story I’m being forced to finish. There’s no saving it. She’ll do it herself if I don’t deliver. With or without the truth.

The problem is… if I’ve seen this, it’s only a matter of time before it lands on Matt’s inbox as well. He needs to know I wouldn’t write something like that. Even if it costs me my job.

My head’s a mess. I’m heartbroken. Frustrated. Furious. Somewhere past those things it’s just noise.

This is ridiculous. We’re talking about people’s lives.

Fuck the confidentiality and anonymity clause. I should’ve known lying never ends well. I told myself hiding the truth wasn’t the same. That it didn’t count. But it does. Maybe I’m not as genuine as I thought I was.

Integrity isn’t flexible. I know that. I might have kept things together professionally, but I still abused it every time I looked at someone and told them I was an editor. I just didn’t think it would hurt this much to lose him because I finally stood my ground.

I reach for my phone. Thankfully, it still works.

The list of outgoing calls to Matt already covers the entire screen. It doesn’t matter. I can’t give up. I dial again. No ringing this time.

I text him.

Give me five minutes.

I can explain everything.

My fingers type ‘I love you.’ I delete it. Type it again. Delete it once more.

That’s the truth. It’s how I feel.

But saying it now would feel like an emotional weapon. I don’t want to be the girl who drops the ‘L’ bomb when things get hard.

I feel it too.

The typing bubbles pop up.

They stay there long enough that I start breathing again.

Then they vanish. Nothing comes through. That’s when we start to look less like something I can fix, and more like something I’ve already lost.

My foot slams on the brake as a light turns red right in front of me. Tires skid, the seatbelt across my chest locking tight to keep me from lurching forward.

I don’t even remember deciding to go look for him. The Jeep was staring at me, taunting me, asking why the hell I wasn’t doing something about it.

Autopilot immediately kicked in. I put on the first pair of jeans I found in my closet and tied a knot at the hem of Matt’s T-shirt, making it look like a style choice instead of evidence that I’m indeed head over heels for this man.

The drive to his house is a blur. I know, realistically, he’s not going anywhere, but this pressure in my chest won’t ease until I see him. If he lets me explain, maybe he’ll understand.

For all I know, he could choose not to forgive me. At least I’ll know I didn’t sit there and watch everything collapse.

One of his two cars is usually outside, whichever one he drove last. Today, there’s nothing. I ring the doorbell and wait. And wait. The gate never opens.

Either he’s fully ignoring me, or he’s not home.

The feeling of someone else I care for ghosting me snaps something loose in my chest, dragging up every other version of this I thought I’d buried.

I grip the steering wheel so hard it squeaks.

“It’s fine. You’re fine,” I whisper to myself.

It’s not fine.