The Tribune newsroom was a pressure cooker—phones ringing, printers shrieking, everyone braced for the next implosion. By noon, news of Rivan’s exposed cover-up had detonated. His name was everywhere: in the scathing staff group chat, in the tense hush that fell when he passed by, in the firestorm lighting up management’s office. Rivan, usually the magnetic center of every newsroom joke, looked different now—his swagger cut through with something jagged, eyes vacant as if every glance was a blow.

Elladyn watched him from her desk, torn between the ache in her chest and the cold, sick betrayal tightening her guts. She wanted to touch him, slap him, run. She still tasted his lips in her dreams, still heard the broken apology he'd tried to stammer just days ago, desperation raw beneath the bravado. She wanted to hate him, and she couldn’t. Behind her, someone murmured, “He’s done,” and she flinched, anger building for the way grief clung to longing, refusing to let go.

Down the corridor, Onai moved like a panther in heels, trying to keep her own dark secret folded tight in her coat pocket. She’d risked everything for the story—leaked tips, stolen memos, played both sides—now it all threatened to unravel. Hadris tracked her in the glass’s reflection, the crease between his brows deepening. Hadris: the investigative editor, cold, brilliant, untouchable, except when the world fell away and he was kissing Onai as if she was the only thing tethering him to earth.

Late in the day, Hadris found Onai waiting in his office, eyes storm-dark. “They know everything. About my debts. About us.” He was all rigid lines and clipped words, voice flattening emotion, but she could see the tremble beneath. Onai stepped close, her hand grazing his sleeve. “Let me help,” she whispered. He shook free, jaw clenched, but she leaned in—soft, persistent—until his mouth sank to hers, slow and searching.

He tasted of coffee and defeat, of ache held too long. The kiss grew urgent, hands fumbling, breaths ragged. Hadris pulled back, forehead pressed to hers. “You’ll ruin yourself.” Her lips curled in a rare, rueful smile. “Maybe I already have.” They undressed slowly, reverently—each button and zipper a surrender. When they finally came together, it was nothing like before: there was no armor, no distance, only skin and truth, bodies moving gentle and unguarded under the thin hush of city twilight. Hadris let her see all the way through—for the first time, he wasn’t hiding.

Later, when the room was quiet, Onai’s phone buzzed. She read the message, color draining from her face. “It’s the blackmailer. They want the exposé. If I don’t send it—” Her voice cracked. Hadris reached for her, tangled fingers tight. “Don’t choose me over the truth,” he said, but she shook her head, tears glimmering. “I already have.”

Back at the empty newsroom, Rivan slumped in his chair, heart thudding as Elladyn approached. Her eyes, rimmed in red, held the question she couldn't quite say aloud. “I never meant for you to get hurt,” he managed, voice breaking. She swallowed hard, fists curling. “It’s not enough, Rivan. I need to believe you.” He hesitated, words thick. “I’ll do anything. Tell them, tell you—everything. Just don’t—don’t give up on me.” Her face wavered, torn open and raw.

Someone screamed from the street—a protest, police sirens, chaos swelling. An intern burst in, waving a phone. “They just published the story. Everything. The Tribune’s on fire.” Rivan and Elladyn froze, the future tilting beneath their feet. Outside, the city lit up—screens glowing, headlines blaring—while inside, every secret was raw and runny in the light. Trust, shattered. Hearts, laid bare.

To be continued...