Chapter 4
1083 Words
The following morning began with rain.
Not a gentle drizzle.
Not the kind of rain that looked pretty through a window.
This was the aggressive sort of rain that seemed personally offended by humanity.
The kind that soaked shoes, ignored umbrellas, and turned perfectly normal commutes into endurance tests.
I stared out the apartment window and sighed.
"Maybe I should call in sick."
Aunt Clara didn't even look up from her coffee.
"No."
"What if I catch pneumonia?"
"You won't."
"What if I get struck by lightning?"
"You won't."
"What if—"
"Go to work, Isabella."
I smiled.
It was worth trying.
At least a little.
By the time I reached the office, my umbrella had surrendered to the weather.
My shoes were damp.
My hair had lost an argument with the wind.
And my mood was rapidly following.
Sophia took one look at me and burst out laughing.
"You look tragic."
"Thank you."
"I mean it affectionately."
"That doesn't help."
She handed me a cup of coffee.
That helped.
A little.
I settled into my chair and opened my inbox.
Thirty-two unread emails.
My optimism immediately died.
"Never mind," I muttered.
"What?"
"I hate journalism."
Sophia glanced at my screen.
"Fair."
The morning passed in a blur of deadlines and distractions.
One reporter was arguing with an editor.
Someone else was desperately searching for a missing source.
A printer malfunctioned.
Twice.
Normal newsroom chaos.
By lunchtime, the rain still hadn't stopped.
Neither had my workload.
I was halfway through editing an article when David appeared beside my desk again.
At this point, I was beginning to suspect he enjoyed startling people.
"Hart."
I looked up.
"Please tell me I'm not being fired."
"You ask that surprisingly often."
"That's not a no."
A faint look of exasperation crossed his face.
Close enough to amusement that I considered it a victory.
"Conference room."
My stomach tightened.
Again.
I followed him through the newsroom.
Several curious glances followed us.
Wonderful.
Everyone loved office gossip.
And nothing generated gossip faster than being summoned by an editor multiple times in a week.
Inside the conference room sat three other reporters.
Senior reporters.
My stomach tightened further.
I recognized every one of them.
People whose bylines regularly appeared on major stories.
People with more experience than me.
People who definitely belonged in this room.
Unlike me.
I took an empty chair.
David closed the door.
The room fell silent.
For a moment, nobody spoke.
Then David placed several folders on the table.
"Listen carefully."
Instant attention.
The room seemed to lean forward collectively.
"The political scandal we've been tracking is growing."
One reporter straightened immediately.
Another reached for a pen.
David continued.
"We're dividing the investigation."
Excitement sparked around the table.
My own pulse quickened.
An investigation.
A real one.
The kind I'd always wanted.
But surely I wasn't here for that.
Not yet.
I still had the gala assignment.
David began distributing folders.
One by one.
The reporters received theirs.
Then he placed the final folder in front of me.
I stared at it.
Confused.
Slowly, I looked up.
David met my gaze.
"You're part of the team."
For a second, I genuinely thought I'd misheard him.
"What?"
"You heard me."
The room suddenly felt smaller.
Warmer.
Louder.
My heartbeat hammered against my ribs.
Part of the team.
Not observing.
Not assisting.
Part of it.
One of the senior reporters glanced at me.
I couldn't tell whether he was surprised or annoyed.
Possibly both.
David ignored everyone's reactions.
"This doesn't change your gala assignment."
My excitement dimmed slightly.
Of course it didn't.
"You're helping with both."
And there it was.
The catch.
I almost laughed.
Naturally.
Nothing came easy.
Still...
I didn't care.
Because even with the extra work, this was exactly what I'd wanted.
Responsibility.
Trust.
Opportunity.
The chance to prove myself.
David began outlining assignments.
Names.
Connections.
Financial records.
Political donors.
Potential leads.
As he spoke, I filled pages with notes.
By the end of the meeting, my hand hurt.
My brain hurt.
And somehow, I felt happier than I had in months.
The meeting ended forty minutes later.
The reporters filed out.
I remained seated for a moment.
Trying to process everything.
David paused near the door.
"Hart."
I looked up.
"You wanted bigger opportunities."
My pulse jumped.
"Yes."
His expression remained unreadable.
"Here they are."
Then he left.
Just like that.
No speech.
No encouragement.
No dramatic moment.
Yet somehow those four words stayed with me.
Here they are.
The opportunities I'd spent years wanting.
The opportunities I'd dreamed about.
The opportunities I had complained about not receiving.
Now they were finally in front of me.
Which meant there were no excuses left.
No blaming bad luck.
No blaming timing.
No blaming anyone else.
Now it was up to me.
And that realization was both exciting and terrifying.
Because success suddenly felt possible.
But so did failure.
---
Back at my desk, I opened the investigation folder.
Inside were documents, notes, and preliminary reports.
Nothing explosive yet.
But enough to suggest something significant was hiding beneath the surface.
The familiar thrill of curiosity stirred inside me.
This.
This was why I became a journalist.
Questions.
Mysteries.
Truth waiting to be uncovered.
For the next several hours, I lost myself in the work.
Names blurred together.
Connections emerged.
Possibilities multiplied.
The world around me faded.
Until eventually, Sophia dropped a chocolate bar onto my desk.
I looked up.
"What is this?"
"Emergency supplies."
I checked the time.
Nearly seven o'clock.
The newsroom was mostly empty.
I hadn't even noticed.
Sophia shook her head.
"You've been working nonstop."
I blinked.
"Oh."
"Exactly."
She pointed at the chocolate.
"Eat."
I laughed.
Apparently everyone in my life enjoyed giving orders.
Still, I unwrapped it.
And for the first time all day, I allowed myself to take a breath.
Because despite the stress.
Despite the pressure.
Despite the impossible workload.
Something had changed.
For the first time since joining the newspaper, I felt like I was finally becoming the journalist I'd always wanted to be.
I had no idea that this feeling wouldn't last.
Because somewhere beyond my small world of deadlines and investigations, events were already unfolding.
Events connected to power.
Secrets.
Danger.
And a man named Alessandro Moretti.
A man I still knew only through photographs and headlines.
A man whose world was moving steadily closer to mine.
And when those two worlds finally collided...
Nothing would ever be the same again.
To be continued..........
- Writer
