THE TRUTH BETWEEN US

LINES WE PRETEND DON'T EXIST

I didn’t read the document right away.....

I carried it out of Julian Cross’s building like it might explode in my hands, my fingers gripping the folder so tightly they ached. The city outside felt louder than usual, car horns blaring, people laughing, life continuing as if nothing immense had just shifted inside me.

Because something had.

I slipped into a café two blocks away, the kind of place people went to disappear. I chose a corner table, my back to the wall, instincts screaming at me to stay alert. Journalists learned early that information made you visible, even when you tried not to be.

The folder sat between my coffee cup and my notebook.

I stared at it.

Ten years of questions. Ten years of grief. And the man who held the answers had just handed me the key… with a warning.

“Some truths are heavier than lies”.

I opened the folder.

Names leapt out at me first. Familiar ones. A former colleague. A shell company I recognized from court transcripts I had memorized years ago. Dates followed, too precise to be a coincidence. Payments. Transfers. Silence bought and sold like a commodity.

My breath caught.

This wasn’t just a leak. It was a strategy.

And Julian Cross had been at the centre of it.

My phone vibrated. An unknown number.

I hesitated before answering. “Mara Voss.”

“You left without saying goodbye,” Julian voice said calmly, as if he were commenting on the weather.

I stiffened. “How did you get this number?”

You put it on your press credentials, he replied. I told you, I don’t miss details.

I closed the folder slowly. You gave me information that could destroy people.

“Yes,” he said. Including me.

That wasn’t the answer I expected. Why? I asked.

A pause. Long enough to make my pulse spike.

“Because you were going to find it anyway” he said. “And because I wanted you to hear it from me first.”

I swallowed. You don’t get to control how this story is told.

“No!,” he agreed. But I can control how much damage it does.

I sneered. That sounds like guilt.

It is, he said simply.

The word landed harder than any denial could have.

I closed my eyes briefly. I should have ended the call. Should have drawn a line and stayed on my side of it. But curiosity, dangerous, familiar, kept me rooted.

You ruined my family I said.

“Yes.”

The honesty stole my breath.

And you expect me to what? I demanded. Be grateful you handed me proof?

“No,” Julian said quietly. I expect you to do your job.

I laughed bitterly. And what about you?

What about me? he asked.

You’re not just a source, I said. You’re the story.

Another pause. When he spoke again, his voice was lower. That’s why this is forbidden.

The word echoed in my mind.

“Forbidden”.

I hung up before he could say anything else.

That night, sleep refused to come. I replayed the interview, the document, the sound of his voice. I hated that part most, not the lies, not even the truth, but the way he spoke to me like I was an equal.

Like I mattered.

By morning, my inbox was flooded. Editors wanted updates. Leads, Headlines. Everyone smelled blood in the water.

I drafted three versions of the story. I deleted all of them.

Because none of them answered the one question that kept circling my thoughts:

Why had Julian Cross chosen me?

The answer came two days later.

A formal invitation arrived, handwritten, discreet.

Dinner, His penthouse, No press, No recording.

I should have refused.

Instead, I went.

The elevator ride up felt longer than the first. When the doors opened, the city stretched endlessly beyond glass walls, lights glittering like secrets waiting to be uncovered.

Julian stood near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled up. Less armour. More manly.

“You’re late,” he said.

“You’re persistent,” I replied.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “So are you.”

We stood there, suspended between what was said and what wasn’t. Between hatred and something far more dangerous.

You crossed a line, I said.

So did you, he countered.

I stepped closer, anger flaring. “You don’t get to pull me into your world and pretend this is neutral.”

“And you don’t get to pretend you’re untouched by it,” he said.

Silence.

The truth hung between us, sharp and undeniable, filling the space like a weight I couldn’t lift.

“I should hate you,” I whispered, my voice barely audible over the quiet hum of the city outside.

“You do,” he said simply, his tone calm but edged with something I couldn’t name. “And that’s exactly why this is so complicated.”

The city lights stretched endlessly behind him, glowing like distant stars, a stark reminder that power always came with shadows and consequences that reached farther than we could see.

And as I stood there, my chest tightening and heart pounding with a mix of anger, fear, and something darker I didn’t want to name, I realized a terrifying truth: nothing about us, nothing about this story, would ever be simple again.

The story was no longer just about the past.

It was about what we would choose to do next.