“Impressive work.”
I looked up. And stopped.
Olivia Mercer stood before me — razor-sharp cheekbones, designer clothes, the specific self-possession of someone who had arrived exactly where she’d planned to arrive and was entirely comfortable there. She’d been two years ahead of me in journalism school — brilliant, connected, and ruthless in the particular way of people who mistake ambition for integrity. She’d gone on to anchor a prime-time show while I’d been scraping by on freelance gigs and wondering if I’d ever catch a break.
We hadn’t spoken in years. There was history there — competitive history, the kind that left marks.
“Olivia.” I kept my voice neutral. “What brings you to the Tribune?”
“You do, actually.”
“Me?”
“Your piece. The Corsetti exposé.” She pulled out the chair beside my desk and sat without invitation. “It’s exceptionalwork. Thorough, well-sourced, beautifully written. Everything I’d expect from someone with your talent.”
The compliment landed wrong. Too smooth. Too arrived-at.
“Thanks,” I said carefully. “Is there something I can help you with?”
“Actually, yes.” She crossed her legs, settling in like she owned the place. “I’m launching a new investigative unit. Prime-time, cross-platform, unprecedented access and resources. I’ve been putting together a team of the best journalists in the country.” She paused, let that land. “I want you to be part of it.”
The words hung between us.
“You want me,” I repeated slowly, “to work with you.”
“With me. Not for me.” She leaned forward, and for a moment I caught a glimpse of something that looked almost genuine beneath the polish. “Look, I know we haven’t always seen eye to eye. But what you’ve accomplished here — it’s the kind of journalism that matters. The kind that changes things. I want to amplify that. Give you a platform where your work can reach millions instead of thousands.”
It was tempting. The resources she was describing, the reach, the impact — everything I’d been fighting for my entire career, offered cleanly and without apparent strings.
But this was Olivia. And Olivia never offered anything without understanding exactly what she was offering and why.
“What’s the catch?”
Her smile flickered, just slightly. “No catch. Just an opportunity. Partners, Em. Equals. Your vision, my platform. Think about what we could accomplish together.”
I studied her face, looking for the angle. She gave me nothing — smooth and professional and entirely composed. I shifted my gaze to the card she slid across the desk toward me.
Olivia Mercer. Executive Producer, Truth & Power Investigations.
The logo was sleek. The paper was expensive. The firm name was new — I didn’t recognize it from the media landscape I’d been navigating for years.
Which meant it was new. Recently launched, recently funded.
My journalist brain filed that away without being asked to.
“Why now?” I said. “Why me?”
“Because you’re the best.” She said it simply, like it was obvious. “And because the story you’ve broken is just the beginning. Corsetti’s network extends further than anyone realizes. There are threads you haven’t pulled yet — threads that could lead to something even bigger.”
My pulse quickened despite myself. She wasn’t wrong about that.
“I need to think about it,” I said.
“Of course.” She stood, smooth as silk. “Take a few days. Consider your options. Call me when you’re ready to talk.”
She walked away without looking back, heels clicking against the floor.
I sat with the card for a long moment.
