Chapter 1
I had been a sports journalist for five years.
During that time, I wrote 600 articles. Yet 520 of them bore the byline of Sarah Powell, a woman backed by powerful connections.
I went to corporate headquarters to lodge formal complaints. I took my fight online. I penned nearly a thousand letters of protest.
My boyfriend, Michael Ashton, even sold his house and his car just to hire the finest legal counsel for me.
But none of it worked.
The industry blacklisted me completely. Meanwhile, Michael remained stuck in the position of deputy editor and never received another promotion.
He never uttered a word of complaint. He simply held me tightly in his arms, his eyes glistening with tears.
"I do not feel wronged at all," he whispered. "I just feel sorry for you."
Later, I exhausted every connection I had. I flew all the way to Carbathia and spent two weeks downing brandy with an agent just to build a relationship. In the end, I finally secured the exclusive interview rights for the World Cup champions.
I wanted nothing more than to leave this place with Michael, move to a new country, and restart our careers together.
Then I saw Sarah's latest update on Twitter.
So grateful to my boyfriend for gifting me the exclusive World Cup champion interview rights! Life really is effortless for me.
The attached photo showed two hands tightly intertwined.
The plain silver band on the man's ring finger caught the light with a blinding glare.
It was the very ring Michael had bought with the last of his savings on the night he sold his home.
"Once you get your bylines back, you magnificent journalist, you had better not abandon me," he had said.
Back then, wearing bittersweet smiles, we had stood together in the cold wind and slipped rings onto each other's fingers.
Suddenly, my phone vibrated with a message from the agent.
Agent: Lauren, Captain Buckley will only accept you as the interviewer. Otherwise, we are terminating the contract.
I stood at the door of the office. I dimmed my phone screen, took a deep breath, and pushed the door open.
"You can keep that rotten excuse for a man. But you can't take my exclusive interview."
……
Inside the office, the atmosphere turned to ice in an instant.
Michael turned pale the moment he saw me. He instinctively pulled away from Sarah's touch.
"Laura, please let me explain. Things are not what you think!"
His defense was so utterly cliché.
"Not what I think?" I cut him off, my gaze sweeping across the stack of complaint letters on his desk before settling directly on his face.
"Did you not intercept my protest letters for five whole years? Did you not trade my bylines for your own promotion? Did you not put on a grand performance of selling your car and house just to fool me?"
His lips trembled, but he could not squeeze out a single word.
Sarah stepped forward to block my path.
"Lauren, you should be grateful. You are already blacklisted across the entire industry. Who else besides this company would ever want you?
"If Mike had not been intercepting your complaint letters, you would have been fired and left wandering the streets long ago!"
It was baffling that they actually had the nerve to claim Michael was protecting me.
I let out a cold laugh, looking straight into Michael's evasive eyes.
"Trading my World Cup exclusive just so you can snatch the editor-in-chief position—is that how you protect me?"
Sarah was still clutching that formal invitation card.
My name on it had been scraped off and replaced with hers. She made no effort to hide it.
"So what if you can write a few decent articles? Writing ability means nothing if you cannot even hold onto your own name."
"That is enough!" Michael snapped at her sharply. "Sally, go back to your desk for now."
Sarah stomped her foot angrily, then stormed out.
Right before stepping out, she turned back with a provocative smirk.
"Oh, I almost forgot to mention. When international media outlets conduct background checks on you, I will be the one answering their phone calls."
My fingers tightened around my phone.
A moment later, only Michael and I remained in the room.
Michael reached out to embrace me, but I stepped back to avoid his touch.
His arms froze in midair in an awkward gesture, and a flash of anger crossed his eyes.
"Laura," Michael softened his tone, his voice pleading. "I shouldn't have kept this from you. But you know who Sarah is tied to. If I can use this opportunity to become editor-in-chief, won't it be easy for you to get your bylines back and secure your own column?
"I am doing this for your good, for our future!"
Looking at the Michael standing before me, I suddenly felt as though I didn't know him at all.
"How did you turn into this person? Have you forgotten the dreams we used to have?"
"I have not forgotten!"
Michael cut me off fiercely, his eyes bloodshot and his voice shaking with intense emotion.
"You are the one who forgot!
"Laura, think back to when we first entered this industry. When we covered the state athletic games, we had to squeeze onto filthy long-distance buses.
"Everyone else complained about how dirty and broken those buses were, but you did not care at all.
"Back then, you told me you wanted to cover the highest sporting honors across the globe. You wanted to win the Ronald Reagan News Award. You told me you wanted to become the very best reporter in the field."
I froze, a sharp sting burning the corners of my eyes.
Michael's eyes burned with eagerness, his tone returning to that familiar, heartfelt warmth.
"Did you forget how hard things were for us back then?
"Everything I am doing now is just to establish a solid footing. Once I become editor-in-chief, all those resources will be yours. I will help you realize every single one of your dreams."
For a brief second, my mind went blank.
How could I ever forget?
Michael really had stayed with me in the snow at night, keeping watch outside players' dormitories. He had stood beside me in the players' tunnel for four hours, all for the chance to catch a fleeting moment and ask one question.
In foreign airports, he would offer me the very last drop of water we had.
During transit strikes, he had carried dozens of pounds of heavy equipment while running through three subway stations, all so I could make it to a low-tier league interview on time.
Yet in the very next second, the scent of orange perfume on Michael's collar drifted into my nose.
He knew I was allergic to oranges.
I snapped back to reality instantly, meeting his tear-filled eyes with icy clarity.
"My dream," I said, holding back the tremor in my voice, delivering each word with deliberate force, "has never relied on stealing or plundering. And they certainly do not rely on betraying love and marriage!"
I pulled the voice recorder from my breast pocket and placed it gently on the desk.
He had given that to me as a gift.
To buy it, he had spent his entire first month's salary and lived on water and bread for three whole weeks.
And now, he stood before me in immaculate clothes.
Everything about him, from the sharpness of his features to the confidence in his bearing, spoke of polished success.
"The Michael from those days died a long time ago.
"And the man you've become now? You utterly disgust me."
