I make my way to my desk, increasingly aware of the heavy silence that follows me. Conversations stop mid-sentence as I pass. Heads duck behind monitors. It’s like I’ve grown a second head.
This is bad, very bad. Dickhead Donny, what did you do?
My desk looks untouched, exactly as I left it four days ago—organized chaos with sports charts, sports statistics, and my “Keep Calm and Report On” mug that Zoe got me as a gag gift. I drop my bag and begin checking my emails, trying to ignore the prickling sensation between my shoulder blades—the unmistakable feeling of being watched.
That’s when I spot Donny across the newsroom, leaning against the water cooler, sporting a smug smile. He catches my eye and gives me a little finger wave that makes my stomach drop.
I’m toast.
“Sydney.” Marcus’s voice slices through the room, halting the whispers and stares. Our station manager rarely raises his voice—he doesn’t need to. When Marcus speaks, people listen. “My office. Now.”
The finality in his tone sends a chill down my spine. This definitely isn’t “let’s chat about that great segment you did” Marcus. This is “the network lawyers are on line one” Marcus.
I stand on legs that suddenly feel like cardboard, painfully aware of every eye in the room tracking my journey to the metaphorical gallows. Each step across the newsroom floor feels like walking in cement shoes.
Marcus’s office—the place where he first told me I had potential, where we brainstormed my transition from weather to sports, where he defended me when the old-guard viewers complained about “the blond reading scores she doesn’t understand.” Now, the same space feels alien, hostile, as he closes the door behind us with a decisive click.
“Take a seat.” He gestures to the chair across from his desk. His voice is flat, scrubbed of its usual warm charm.
I perch on the edge, not trusting myself to lean back. My fingers find each other in my lap, twisting and untwisting like nervous snakes.
“How was Los Angeles?” Marcus skips the small talk.
“Interesting,” I say cautiously. “Different from Dickens.”
“I imagine so.” He shuffles some papers on his desk, not meeting my eyes. “So they offered you a job.”
My heart rate doubles. “How did you—”
“It’s a small industry, Sydney. Word gets around.” Now he looks up, his expression unreadable. “Especially when a weather girl from Dickens suddenly interviewed at KSLA.”
Weather girl. Not weather reporter. Not sportscaster. The deliberate diminishment stings, but I push past it.
“I was going to tell you,” I say, which is mostly true. I would have told him... eventually. Once I figured out what I wanted. “It was all very last minute.”
“I’m sure it was.” Marcus leans back in his chair, studying me like I’m a disappointing weather system. “We’ve changed our minds about the sportscaster position.”
Here it comes. My fingers freeze mid-twist.
“Oh?” I manage, my throat bone-dry.
“We’re giving it to Donny.”
I knew it was coming, but the words still hit me like a physical blow. Dickhead Donny. The same guy who squealed on me. The guy who once referred to a touchdown as a “home run” during a football highlight reel. The guy who’s been trying to sabotage me since day one.
“But—” I start, then stop, realizing I need to boost myself up, not put Donny down. “I’ve been working toward this for years. My segments have higher ratings. By your own review, I’ve done an outstanding job.”
“You did, that’s true.” Marcus raises an eyebrow. “But much of that was because of your co-sportscaster. Your fiancé.” He nods toward my naked left ring finger.
My stomach twists so hard it physically hurts.
“Speaking of that.” Marcus pushes play on his phone, and it’s a recording of me telling Zoe about Brooks and I fake dating. “Care to explain?”
My blood turns to ice.
“Faking a relationship for career advancement? That’s not the integrity we expect from our team,” Marcus says, his disappointment palpitating.
“It wasn’t like that.” The words tumble out too fast, too desperate. “It didn’t start as... I mean, yes, it began as a favor, but it became—”
