Chapter Nineteen
Emilia “Em” Rivera
The L train rattled beneath my feet, and Chicago welcomed me back with its particular brand of chaos — honking cabs, construction noise, the persistent smell of exhaust mixing with whatever food cart was winning the block. I’d only been gone two days, but the city felt different. Or maybe I was different.
I stepped off at my usual stop, shouldering my bag and dodging a guy aggressively selling knockoff watches. The morning rush swirled around me — suits and scrubs and service workers all moving with that determined Chicago stride that said I have places to be and you’re in my way.
The article connecting Victor Corsetti’s shell companies to half the city’s construction contracts had dropped three days ago. Somewhere between hitting publish and stepping back onto this platform, the story had grown bigger than me — bigger than one development project, bigger than Corsetti alone. The narrative was moving now, spreading through boardrooms, newsrooms, and political offices faster than I could track. I’dbuilt the match. The fire had made its own decisions about where to spread.
And now I was walking back into it.
My phone buzzed. Jenna.
You alive? Howard’s been asking where you are. Also there’s a weird amount of flowers on your desk.
I typed back:Alive. Confused about the flowers. On my way.
They’re from like six different outlets. You’re popular now, babe.
Popular. Right. That was one word for it. “Target” was another.
The newsstand on the corner caught my eye, and I stopped short. My byline. Front page of the Tribune’s business section, above the fold. INVESTIGATIVE REPORTER EXPOSES CORSETTI CORRUPTION NETWORK. The photo they’d chosen was from some press event months ago — me looking vaguely professional in a blazer I’d borrowed from Jenna.
A woman jostling past knocked my elbow. “You gonna buy that or just stare at it?”
“Sorry.” I grabbed a copy, tucked it under my arm, and kept walking.
The skyline rose around me, all glass and steel and ambition. Sebastian’s world. The world I’d spent weeks trying to tear apart, only to find myself tangled up in it in ways I never expected. My chest tightened at the thought of him — the estate, the fireplace, the way he’d said beside you like he’d been practicing the word and finally understood what it meant.
I pushed through the Tribune’s revolving doors, nodding at the security guard who’d stopped checking my badge months ago.
“Ms. Rivera.” He actually smiled. “Nice work on the Corsetti piece.”
“Thanks, Frank.”
The elevator was packed. I squeezed in, tried to ignore the sideways glances. Word traveled fast in newsrooms. Everyone knew I’d cracked the biggest corruption story of the year. What they didn’t know — what they couldn’t know — was how complicated the story had become. How the man at the center of it had turned out to be something other than the villain I’d walked into a charity gala expecting to find.
Third floor. The doors opened, and I stepped into controlled chaos.
Phones ringing. Keyboards clacking. The ever-present hum of caffeine-fueled determination. But something was different. People were looking at me — not the usual quick glances of coworker acknowledgment, but something more sustained. Curious. Something that looked, improbably, like respect.
“Em!” Marcus Chen waved from his desk, grinning like he’d won the lottery. “You’re back! Howard’s been asking for you every five minutes.”
“So I heard.”
“Also, you should see your desk. It’s like a botanical garden exploded.”
He wasn’t exaggerating. My workspace had transformed into a florist’s fever dream — arrangements of varying sizes and levels of tastefulness crowding every available surface. I worked through the cards.
White roses, expensive: Congratulations on the piece. Would love to discuss future opportunities. —CNN Chicago
Daisies, cheerful: Outstanding work. —Your friends at MSNBC
And tucked behind a frankly aggressive display of lilies, a plain white card with no letterhead: You’ve made powerful enemies. Let me know if you need protection. —Anonymous
That one went straight in the trash.
“Rivera!” Howard’s voice cut through the noise. He stood in his office doorway with a coffee mug and the expression of a man who hadn’t slept properly in a week. “My office. Now.”
