Chapter Three
1307 Words
Sophie’s POV.
“I got it!” I screamed as I burst into the living room, practically jumping with excitement. My voice echoed through the whole apartment, as I waited for Emily to run out but there was only silence. No Emily.
“Em?” I called out, moving from room to room. Empty.
My chest tightened. She never left without telling me where she was going. Panic crept in, especially when her number didn’t go through after the first try. “Oh, come on, don’t do this to me now.”
The worst part? I didn’t even have any of her friends’ numbers.
Gosh.
I shoved on my slippers and headed toward the backyard—it was the only place I hadn’t checked yet.
“SURPRISE!”
I screamed so loud I practically scared myself, clutching my chest as my heart practically dropped to my stomach. When I regained control of my breath, I turned toward the voice. And there she was—Emily—beaming like she’d just won the f*****g lottery.
“You?! What the f**k are you doing in the backyard?” I snapped, trying to get my pulse under control.
“Come look,” she said, tugging my arm like a mischievous child as I followed her.
We walked toward a small cloth spread neatly on the ground, covered with snacks, two mugs of hot cocoa, and my favourite chocolate croissants from the bakery down the street.
I blinked. "What do you want?”
“Nothing silly, this is a celebration.” She plopped down cross-legged on the cloth and grinned up at me. “Because my big sister finally got the job she deserves.”
My throat tightened. I sat down beside her, suddenly holding back my tears. “You’re unbelievable, you know that?”
“I know.” She smirked, sipping her cocoa. “Now, tell me everything. Don’t leave out the details—what did she say, what did you say, did you nail it?”
I laughed, the nervous energy still bubbling inside me. “Well, let’s just say Margaret Donnelly is a terrifying and somewhat intimidating woman. But…she gave me the job.”
Emily squealed, throwing her arms around me. “Oh my God, Sophie!”
For a few blissful moments, it was just us—celebrating on a blanket in the backyard like kids. No pressure, no bosses, no deadlines. Just sisters.
But even as I smiled, I couldn’t ignore the words Margaret had left me with: Don’t make me regret this sooner than I expect.
Her voice lingered in my mind like a shadow.
❦
The next morning, I was dressed an hour earlier than necessary, pacing the living room like an anxious cat. My blouse didn’t feel right, my hair refused to stay in place, and every time I looked at the clock, time seemed to move really slowly.
Emily leaned against the doorway, munching on toast. “You’re going to put a hole in the carpet at this rate.”
“I just… I don’t want to screw this one up.”
“You won’t.” She gave me a small, confident smile. “You always land on your feet.”
I grabbed my bag and headed out before I could overthink it any further.
❦
By the time I reached the towering glass building of The Toronto Chronicle, my heart was racing. Inside the building, the lobby buzzed with reporters, assistants, and interns zipping back and forth like bees in a hive. I gave my name at the reception, and a young man with messy curls and a clipboard appeared.
“You must be Sophie. Markus Patel is waiting for you. Follow me.”
I followed him through the maze of hallways until we stopped at a corner office. The door was half-open, and a deep voice drifted out.
“…No, I don’t care if Kane threatens to pull funding, publish the darn thing anyway.”
The young man knocked. “Markus? Sophie Tremblay is here.”
“Send her in.”
I stepped inside. Behind a desk stacked with papers sat Markus Patel—mid-forties I think, sharp suit, sharper gaze, a pen spinning idly in his hand. He looked up and offered me a small smile.
“Sophie Tremblay.” His voice was steady, calm, but there was an edge to it. “Sit.”
I did, perched on the edge of the chair.
He studied me for a long moment before speaking. “Margaret says you’ve got bite. I hope she’s right. Because the assignment you’re walking into? It’s not just journalism. Hope you know that.”
A shiver ran through me, but I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Yes sir, I do and I’m ready.”
“We’ll see.” Markus slid a folder across the desk. I opened it to find pages of articles, photographs, and financial records. “Your test assignment, prove to me you have what it takes. I want this submitted to me first thing on Thursday morning.”
Wait–That's tomorrow.
My stomach twisted. Tomorrow? My fingers brushed over the folder as though it might burn me, each page looking thicker than it should. “First thing tomorrow morning?” I repeated, trying to keep my voice steady.
Markus leaned back in his chair, arms folded, watching me like a hawk sizing up its prey. “If you can’t handle the pressure, Tremblay, better to back out now. The Chronicle doesn’t have space for weak knees and I have no time to waste as well.”
I clutched the folder tighter. Weak knees? Not me. Never.
“Yes, sir,” I said firmly. “I’ll have it ready.”
He gave me a thin smile. “Good. This is a smaller fish, but don’t underestimate it. They’ve buried stories before. If you can bring me something solid, maybe I might trust you with the real work.”
The way he said real work sent a shiver down my spine.
❦
By the time I left the office, the folder felt like it weighed twenty pounds. I ducked into my favourite café, ordered my regular, and cracked it open.
The first page was a company logo: NorthStream Energy Solutions.
A mid-level oil supplier. Small enough to stay off the national radar, big enough to play dirty.
The file was crammed with red flags—whispers of safety violations, missing workers, cooked financial records. Nothing fully proven yet. No reporter had managed to stick the landing.
Until now, I told myself.
Flipping through the documents, I felt a slow spark light up in my chest. This wasn’t just about a test or a paycheck. It was about proving—to Markus, to Margaret, to myself—that I wasn’t just another reporter chasing easy headlines.
I was here to dig where no one else wanted to.
❦
That night, back in my apartment, Emily leaned against the doorframe as I spread papers across the table.
“Looks intense,” she whispered, arms crossed.
“Intense is an understatement,” I muttered, scribbling notes in the margins.
She eyed the papers. “So what exactly are you looking for ?”
“Patterns, I guess,” I answered. “The money trail. People think corruption hides in shadows, but it hardly does. It leaves a trail—it always does.”
Emily sighed. “You do realise this is basically homework from hell, right?”
I smiled faintly. “Yes. Homework that could change everything.”
She frowned. “Or homework that gets you in trouble.”
I didn’t answer, just pushed another stack of papers away. Because deep down, I knew she wasn’t wrong.
But trouble or not—by tomorrow morning—I was definitely going to have a story.
- Writer
