Velvet Masks

Flirting with Trouble

The next few days pass in a caffeinated blur of deadlines, interviews, and the relentless buzz of the newsroom. I throw myself into work, letting it fill every spare second. John’s voicemails pile up—each one deleted without a flicker of hesitation. I’m done playing the patient, perfect fiancée. I’ve got bigger things to chase.

Vivienne’s tip came out of nowhere—a comment whispered as i left the club. She’d heard whispers about something off at the riverside park, a rumor that city officials were burying environmental test results. It was the kind of lead that could easily get lost in newsroom noise, but Vivienne handed it to me as a token of good faith, a subtle signal that she was willing to trust me and maybe, just maybe, start a real partnership.

Chasing that tip was like striking gold. The more I dug, the more I uncovered: leaked reports, worried families, a tangled web of cover-ups and hush money. The story exploded, putting my name on the front page and forcing the council to answer for their secrets. My editor was thrilled, my colleagues impressed—and I knew, deep down, that this was just the beginning. Vivienne and I had started something. We both understood the value of a good secret.

When my story finally lands, it’s like striking a match in a room full of gasoline. The headline is everywhere—front page, homepage, even getting picked up by the local radio. My byline sits right at the top, bold and impossible to miss. For the first time in ages, I feel like I’m not just chasing the news—I am the news.

The response is immediate and electric. Angry parents and worried residents flood the council’s phone lines, demanding answers about the poisoned park. The council, caught flat-footed, scrambles to hold an emergency press conference, promising a full investigation and immediate cleanup. Environmental groups rally around the story, organizing community meetings and circulating petitions.

My editor calls me into his glass-walled office, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. “This is the kind of reporting that changes things, Lottie. You’ve got city officials on the ropes and the public eating out of your hand. Keep this up, and you’ll have your pick of assignments.”

The newsroom is buzzing; even the usually jaded senior reporters are impressed.

I’m rooting around in the office kitchen for a halfway decent tea bag when Lucas slips in behind me, close enough that I can feel the heat of him at my back. I turn and nearly bump into his chest, my hand brushing his as we both reach for the same mug. He grins, not moving away.

“Careful, Evans,” he says, voice low and teasing. “You keep making headlines like that, you’ll have to start signing autographs. Or maybe you’re just trying to distract the rest of us from actually working?”

I smirk, surprised by how easy it is to hold his gaze. “Maybe I just like keeping you on your toes, Lucas. You’re much more fun when you’re scrambling.”

As I reach for the kettle, Lucas moves in at the same moment, his body brushing up behind me—close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through my blouse. His hand lands over mine on the kettle’s handle, his fingers curling just a little too long before he lets go. I turn, and we’re suddenly chest to chest in the cramped kitchen, barely a breath between us.

He leans in, his arm brushing mine as he reaches for the sugar. “Dangerous game. John could get all territorial. Should I be worried he’s going to come storming in here and challenge me to a duel?”

I laugh, a little louder than I mean to. “John’s not really in the picture anymore. Turns out, I’m single—and loving it.”

That catches him off guard. His cocky grin slips, just for a second. “Oh. Well, in that case, maybe I should be the one watching my back.”

He tries to sidestep, but my hip bumps his, and for a second, neither of us moves. The air is thick with the scent of coffee and something sharper—anticipation, maybe. I can feel his breath on my cheek, the heat of his gaze skimming over my bare shoulder, lingering just a moment too long.

I look up at him, letting my lips part in a sly smile, my voice dropping to a sultry whisper.

“If you’re scared, you can always keep your distance… but I promise, it’s a lot more fun when you don’t.”

His hand lingers at my waist, fingers brushing the edge of my skirt as if he’s not sure whether to pull away or pull me closer. For a heartbeat, it feels like the whole world narrows to this tiny kitchen and the electricity sparking between us.

He blinks, stunned, and for the first time since I’ve known him, Lucas is actually speechless. The mug nearly slips from his hand. I bite back a grin, watching the color rise in his cheeks.

We’re still tangled up in the kitchen, the air thick with heat and the kind of tension that could set off the fire alarm, when the door swings open and Tony strides in like he owns the place. He clocks our proximity instantly, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Well, well, look at you two—if I’d known the office kitchen was this steamy, I’d have brought popcorn and a fan,” Tony purrs, tossing his keys in the fruit bowl and leaning against the counter with a practiced hip-pop. “Lucas, darling, if you get any closer, you’ll owe Lottie dinner and at least three orgasms.”

Lucas rolls his eyes but grins, playing along. “Only three? Tony, you’re selling me short.”

Tony winks, licking his lips. “Oh, honey, I never sell a man short—especially not one with arms like that. But if you need tips, you know where to find me. I do private tutorials.”

I snort, nearly choking on my tea. “You two want a room, or should I just leave you to it?”

Tony gasps, clutching his imaginary pearls. “Lottie, please! I’m a professional. I’d never seduce a coworker in the kitchen. The supply closet, maybe, but only if Lucas promises not to mess up my hair.”

Lucas fires back, “No promises, Tony. I hear you like it rough.”

Tony fans himself dramatically. “Be still my heart! If you two keep this up, HR’s going to have to install a cold shower next to the coffee machine.”

He winks at me, grabs a banana from the counter, and sashays out, leaving a trail of laughter and innuendo in his wake. Lucas and I are left grinning, the kitchen suddenly feeling a whole lot smaller—and a hell of a lot more fun.

Thursday sneaks up on me like a deadline I forgot to dread. I’m so deep in edits and emails, I barely notice the familiar black box with the red ribbon waiting on my desk until Tony swoops in, eyes wide and already plotting.

Thursday sneaks up on me, disguised as just another blur of deadlines and lukewarm coffee—until I spot the familiar black box with the red ribbon perched on my desk. Before I can even reach for it, Tony materializes at my side, eyes wide with nosy delight. “Well, well, well, Evans, that’s box number two. Are we collecting secret admirers now, or is this just your way of keeping the office gossip mill fully funded with you and John's sexcapades?”

I snort, wiggling my now empty ring finger, “Sorry to disappoint, Tony. John’s out of the picture. The engagement is officially dead—may it rest in pieces.”

Tony’s gasp is so dramatic I half-expect him to clutch his pearls. “Stop it. You’re free? Like, actually single? Oh, honey, this is the best news I’ve heard all week. Maybe now you’ll finally let loose and make a move on Lucas. If he’s not going to give me a shot—and trust me, I’ve tried—then you have my full blessing. Just promise to tell me all the dirty details. I want play-by-plays, slow-mo replays, and at least one scandalous voice memo.”

I burst out laughing, nearly dropping the lid of the box. “Tony, please. Lucas flirts with everyone. He’d probably flirt with the coffee machine if it made eye contact. He’s not serious—he just likes the game.”

Tony waggles his brows, unbothered. “Game or not, I say you play to win. Besides, you’re overdue for a little fun—and I expect front row seats.”

Tony’s eyes light up with mischief as he makes a grab for the box. “Oh, come on, let me at least peek! I promise not to judge unless it’s edible underwear—or worse, another scented candle.”

I’m faster, sliding the box under my desk before he can even brush the ribbon. “Nice try, Tony. You’ll have to get your gossip fix the old-fashioned way—by eavesdropping.”

He clutches his chest, feigning heartbreak. “Cruel, Evans. Denying a man his morning mystery? I’ll have to drown my sorrows in subpar office coffee and the hope Lucas finally wears those tight trousers again.”

I laugh, shaking my head. “You’re incorrigible.”

Tony grins, wagging a finger at me. “And you, my dear, are officially on my watchlist. If you so much as blush around Lucas, I want a full report.”

He blows me a kiss, sashays back to his desk, and I’m left with a grin and a black box burning a hole in my curiosity.

I roll my eyes. With Tony in my corner, anything feels possible.

Tonight is my last night in the hotel, and I can’t say I’ll miss the sterile sheets or the endless parade of tiny shampoo bottles. The week’s been a blur—work, deadlines, and a steady stream of texts from Alex that somehow manage to be both hilarious and weirdly comforting. She’s checked in every day, sending me memes, club gossip, and the occasional “Have you eaten anything besides coffee and stress today?” message.

I’ve scrolled through every rental listing in the city, but nothing feels right. The decent places are snapped up before I can even book a viewing, and the rest look like crime scenes from a true crime podcast. I have friends, sure, but most of them were John’s friends first—and I can’t face the questions, the pitying looks, or the awkward invitations to couples’ game night. My dad was the last of my family, and since he passed, there’s been no one to call for a spare room or a shoulder to cry on. I’m not about to impose on anyone, not when I’ve spent my whole life trying not to be a burden.

So when Alex’s offer comes up again—her spare room, no strings, just a place to land—I finally say yes. Maybe it’s the exhaustion, maybe it’s the way she makes everything feel a little less lonely, or maybe I’m just tired of pretending I don’t need anyone.

I text her, fingers hovering for a second before I hit send:

Alright, Monroe. You win. I’ll take the room—temporarily. But you’re not allowed to judge my suitcase organization or my tragic instant noodle collection.

Her reply comes back in seconds:

Deal. But only if you promise to help me judge the next round of reality TV disasters. And bring wine. Lots of wine.

For the first time in weeks, I actually smile at my phone. Maybe moving in with a friend isn’t the disaster I always imagined. Maybe it’s exactly the fresh start I need.