Page 14 of Crystal Wrath
Amelia stares at me in disbelief. “Oh my God! You slept with him?”
I nod once. “It was a mistake.”
“Oh honey...” she exhales, leaning back. “You’re not just playing with fire. You’re rolling around in it naked.”
“I know.” I drop my forehead to the table for a second, groaning softly. “I know.”
“Is he dangerous?” she whispers.
“Yes. But he didn’t hurt me.”
“Not physically, maybe. But emotionally? Professionally?” Her voice softens. “Elena, this could ruin everything you have worked for.”
“I know,” I say again, firmer this time. “That is why it will not happen again.”
Amelia watches me carefully. “You still think he’s connected to the corruption?”
“I’m sure of it. And now more than ever, I need to prove it.”
She nods slowly. “Okay. But you need to be smart. And careful. And for the love of God, do not sleep with him again.”
“I won’t,” I vow.
After breakfast, I head to the newsroom. The building is already buzzing, phones ringing, and keyboards clacking in a chaotic rhythm that feels like home. I push open the glass door, nod at the receptionist, and make my way to my desk in the back corner. It’s cluttered and chaotic, stacked with files, notebooks, and empty coffee cups.
I sink into my chair and boot up my computer, the screen flickering to life with a familiar hum. I try to focus on my notes from last night. I type up everything I remember: the overheard conversations, the whispered rumors, the body language between Renat and the commissioner. I catalog the brands of liquor, the layout of the mansion, and the security details. But every few minutes, my mind drifts back to the feel of Renat's lips against mine. The way his voice dipped when he said my name. The way his hand fit against my lower back.
“Martinez.”
The voice cuts through my daydream like a knife, gruff, authoritative, and familiar. I look up to see Nicholas “Nick” Anderson standing over my desk, his imposing figure creating a shadow across my notes.
At sixty-three, the Editor-in-Chief ofThe Miami Journalstill commands every room he enters despite his modest five-foot-ten frame. His stocky build and slightly rounded belly don't diminish the natural authority he projects. Today, his silver-gray hair is somewhat disheveled, as if he's been running his hands through it while poring over the morning's headlines.
His sharp gray-blue eyes, the same ones that have spotted fabrications in stories and brilliance in rookie reporters for over four decades, study me from behind thick-framed reading glasses. The Florida sun has etched deep lines around those watchful eyes, evidence of years spent chasing stories under the Miami heat. His salt-and-pepper beard, definitely more salt than pepper these days, is neatly trimmed, though I notice a small coffee stain near the corner of his mouth.
Nick's sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing forearms dotted with age spots and old scars from his days as a war correspondent. His tie, navy with subtle gold stripes, hangs loosely around his neck as if conformity to dress codes is an afterthought.
In the four years since he plucked me fresh from journalism school, Nick has been my mentor, my editor, and the closest thing to a father figure I’ve ever had. He's the only one who believed in me when I pitched my first investigative piece. He's also the one who stayed late to help me rewrite it when it fell short of his exacting standards.
I watch as he taps the pen in his hand against my desk, his tell when he's concerned or deep in thought. From the worry lines creasing his forehead, I can tell which one it is today.
“In my office. Now,” he demands, clutching a coffee mug that smells like it's been reheated at least three times since dawn. The mug itself faded and chipped at the rim, bears the barely legible logo of a journalism conference from 2018.
I grab my notebook and follow him, heart thudding. I've seen that look before. It’s not anger, exactly, but the protective concern of someone who has pulled too many young reporters out of dangerous situations over the years.
He closes the door behind us, leans against his desk, and crosses his arms. “You went to the Marcelli gala.”
It’s not a question.
“I did.”
“Under a fake name.”
“Technically, yes.”
“Technically?” His voice rises an octave. He removes his glasses and pinches the bridge of his nose.
I sit across from him, taking in the familiar surroundings of his office. The wall behind his desk is a testament to his career. There are framed front pages of his biggest stories, a slightly yellowed Pulitzer nomination certificate, and a photo of him with a journalist he once mentored who went on to win the actual prize. That photo has always been positioned where he can see it while working, a reminder of his legacy in shaping careers like mine.
