Rivan’s desk was a war zone of coffee cups and half-crumpled notes when Elladyn entered, her lips set, eyes rimmed in sleepless shadow. The newsroom thrummed with tension—phones ringing with panic, editors barking orders with a sharpness that sliced through the Monday haze. She caught Rivan studying her, something desperate flickering behind his smile.

“You’re up early,” he said, voice low, teasing. The warmth of his gaze threatened to unravel her resolve. But today, there was distance—her trust a brittle, trembling thing after the clues she’d found last night.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she answered, brushing sweaty hair from her cheek. Her gaze didn’t quite meet his. In her palm, hidden, was the piece of evidence: a copied file connecting Rivan to the source who’d died years ago, the source whose family had been ruined by a Tribune story gone wrong. She wanted to bury it, burn it, unsee it—but the guilt was etched too deep now.

She dropped the file on his keyboard. “Explain this to me, Rivan. Now.”

His blood ran cold. The newsroom seemed to fall silent, fluorescent lights flickering overhead. He glanced at the file—recognizing the name, the timeline. The cover-up. “Ella, I—” His voice cracked. Panic threaded through his chest: not just fear of exposure, but the terror of her turning away. “I was trying to protect everyone. I never thought—"

“Don’t lie to me,” she whispered, hugging herself. A tremor in her words betrayed the ache of betrayal. “How could you do it? After everything you said to me. After—us.”

He reached for her, but she backed away, eyes filling with tears. “I wanted to believe you, Rivan. I did. But you let someone’s life burn for your story.” Her voice cut sharp and soft at once. “I can’t pretend I don’t know who you are.”

Across the newsroom, Onai watched, jaw set, her eyes raking over the drama. She tucked a blonde strand behind her ear, the flash drive in her pocket a silent weight. She’d been playing both sides for weeks, trading information for leverage, careful to keep her ambitions hidden. But now, watching Elladyn break, something uncertain flickered across her usually guarded face.

At the edge of the bullpen, Hadris brooded, arms crossed, shadows etched deep beneath his ice-blue gaze. The usual flawless restraint had shattered after a sleepless night—the debt collector’s threats still pulsed in his mind like a migraine. All morning, Onai’s betrayal gnawed at him; she had slipped him a lead she’d already sent to their political rival. He was risking everything to shield her, even as she played him for her career. But damn it, he still wanted her.

Tension charged the air as Ella stalked past Rivan, voice tight. “Don’t follow me.” He watched her go, every beat of her retreat smashing against his battered conscience.

Later, in a storage closet thick with the scent of ink and old fear, Hadris cornered Onai. The room vibrated with wounded pride and desire. “Did you leak it?” He demanded, voice hoarse.

Her chin tilted defiantly. “If you can’t trust me, you’re a fool.” He stepped in, invading her space, lust and fury tangled. “Maybe I am.” His hand caught her wrist, pinning her gently to the shelf. They crashed together—a kiss bruising, desperate, her fingers fisting in his shirt, tearing at buttons, his mouth rough and hungry on hers. The world narrowed to heat and friction: Onai’s hips grinding against him, the metallic clang of binders falling, his lips trailing down her throat as she gasped his name, nails biting into his back through fabric, words lost to a hush of pleasure and pain. In that moment, betrayal was obliterated by need.

Rivan drifted to the Tribune’s roof, the city sprawling below him, headlights smeared by drizzle. He remembered Ella’s touch in the aftermath of their first night together, the healing warmth of her body. Now, she wouldn’t even look at him.

Phone in hand, he almost deleted the blackmail email again. But another one had arrived. The subject line read: LAST CHANCE—or everyone burns. His chest tightened. Shadows bled into the city, and he wondered if any confession could bring her back.

Downstairs, Ella sat alone in the copy room, her head in her hands. Tears streaked her cheeks, melting her mascara. She forced herself to look in the mirror, swallowing sobs. In her trembling fist: the evidence that proved Rivan’s betrayal.

Suddenly, her phone vibrated—an unknown number, the screen lighting up: “I know what you’re hiding, Elladyn. You’re next.”

She choked on a breath. This danger was bigger than heartbreak. The newsroom, the Tribune, everything she loved—about to go up in flames.

To be continued...