By Monday morning, Freya was beginning to convince herself it had all been a weird, fevered dream.
Sure, she'd woken up in a billionaire's bed. Sure, she'd run out like a lunatic.
But that was two days ago.
Ancient history.
Now she stood outside her chief editor's office, fidgeting with her pen and wondering if she'd finally managed to dig her own grave. Again.
The door creaked open, and a stern voice summoned her inside. She took a deep breath, smoothed out her rumpled blouse, and stepped into the lion's den.
"You call this journalism, Freya?" Thompson slammed his fist on the desk, his eyes blazing with anger. "This article is a disaster! It's sloppy, it's inaccurate, and it's an embarrassment to this newspaper!"
Freya shifted back uncomfortably. "I-I apologize, sir. I'll make sure to—"
"Apologize?" He shoved his glasses up his nose and glared at her like she was personally responsible for every typo in the city.
"An apology isn't going to cut it! You need to take responsibility for your work! You're not some rookie journalist who can just phone it in. You're a professional – or at least, you're supposed to be!"
Ouch. That stung.
Freya's cheek flushed with embarrassment, and her hands clenched into fists as she endured the verbal lashing.
"I understand, sir," she said, trying to keep her tone calm. "I'll do better next time."
Thompson sneered at her. "See that you do. I expect to see a rewritten article on my desk within the hour. And let me make one thing clear: if it's not up to par, you're off the team."
"I'll do my best, sir," She responded instantly.
Then he leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers together as he stared at her with a calculating gaze. "And yes, there's an additional assignment…"
She nodded eagerly, "Yes, sir! What's the assignment?"
He handed her a folder with a few sheets of paper inside.
"You're covering the investment summit downtown this evening," he barked. "Big names. Big money. Try not to embarrass the paper."
Freya grabbed the folder before he could change his mind and throw it at her.
"Yes, sir," she said, already backing toward the door.
"And Freya?" he called after her.
She froze.
"Smile more," he said, in a voice that made her want to commit crimes.
Freya plastered on the fakest smile she could muster and bolted before her mouth got her fired.
As she stepped out of the chief editor's office, the newsroom fell silent, with almost all eyes fixed on her.
Some colleagues shared curious glances while some tried to read her expression to glean some information.
When she got to her cubicle, she was immediately greeted by Alex, who was sitting by her side.
"Hey, Freya, how'd it go?" He whispered with concern. "You were in there for a while. Did Thompson rip you apart again? Or did you manage to escape with your soul intact?"
Freya rolled her eyes good-naturedly and dropped into the chair.
"Yeah, he was his usual charming self," she said dryly. "I'm pretty sure he's secretly a vampire, and he's been sucking the life out of me with his constant criticism."
"Well, that explains a lot. I've been wondering why you've been looking so pale lately." He mumbled jokingly and she laughed.
"Hey, watch it! I'm just a little... anemic. Yeah, that's it." She pouted. "So I need to rewrite an entire article within an hour.. And he's also given me an assignment to cover an investment summit tonight – that boring shit…"
Alex chuckled. "Come on, it's not that bad. Just make sure you go along with your pillow and blanket cuz it's gonna be a loooong night."
"You're not helping, Alex," Freya groaned and turned to her desk.
"Okay, okay, I'll give you a lift when you're going… to make it easier," he winked.
"Yay!" Freya squealed in excitement.
She quickly cleared the messy papers and notes on it and threw them into the mini bin beside her.
Then she began to frantically type away on the keyboard. She poured all her energy into the article, determined to get it right this time.
She read it over carefully, making sure it was perfect, and then hit send, submitting it to Thompson just as the deadline expired.
Now all she could do was wait and see if it met his expectations whenever he reviewed it.
★★★
A few hours later, Freya alighted Alex's vehicle and elbowed her way through the Hamilton conventions center, her press badge hanging around her neck.
The place buzzed with the polite chaos of high-end conferences — murmurs of suits, too-bright lights and faint smell of fresh carpet glues.
Freya's heels clicked awkwardly as she made her way to the main hall.
She weaved through the crowd, squinting at the schedule taped to the wall.
Opening Session: 1 PM, Main Auditorium.
No mention of speakers' names, just generic "industry leaders."
She checked her assignment sheet: grab some quotes from keynote speakers, a few photos, light coverage.
Good.
She could cover it, grab a few boring quotes, and get the hell out.
Freya filed into the main hall with the rest of the reporters and corporate types. She found a seat somewhere in the middle — close enough to hear, far enough to escape if needed.
She cracked open her laptop and started live-tweeting the meeting.
"Investors summit is underway! Stay tuned for thrilling updates! #Investors #journalism"
Then the lights dimmed.
A hush fell over the crowd.
Freya sipped her lukewarm coffee, already mentally drafting her article.
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer boomed,
"Our next guest needs no introduction — a leader in tech, finance, and innovation. Please welcome Mr. Arnold Connor, CEO of Connor International!"
Freya instantly choked on her coffee.
She slapped a hand to her mouth, coughing so hard that the woman next to her patted her back in alarm.
No. Freaking. Way.
And there he was.
Arnold stepped onto the stage, all casual command and effortless power. The room fell silent, with all eyes fixed on him.
He smiled at the audience, that sharp, magnetic grin she remembered way too vividly.
Freya sank lower in her seat, heart pounding like a hammer.
Of all the corporate meetings in all the cities in the world, he had to walk into hers.
——————————
When the panel ended an hour later, Freya stood frozen for a second, torn between fleeing and doing her damn job.
"You're a professional," she told herself. "Act like it."
She forced herself through the crowd toward the press area, recorder ready.
Arnold was speaking with some VIPs, shaking hands and flashing his famous smile.
Freya waited for an opening, heart jackhammering against her ribs.
Finally, she stepped forward.
"Mr. Connor," she said, thrusting the recorder out like a weapon.
"Freya Davis, from Daily News. Could I ask you a few questions for a post-panel exclusive?"
He turned toward her slowly.
And his gaze flicked over her face.
He immediately recognized her, but kept a neutral expression.
Cool. Detached. Perfectly blank.
"I'm sorry," Arnold said smoothly. "Have we met?"
Freya blinked.
Was he serious?
She felt the ground tilt slightly under her feet.
"No," she said, voice dry as sandpaper. "Not formally."
"Ah." He offered the kind of polite nod you gave strangers at airports. "You can schedule something with my team."
She suppressed a snappish retort and pressed on, her professional pride stinging. "I understand, but-"
"I've already answered plenty of questions. I don't have time to entertain every reporter who wants an exclusive," he cut her off.
And before she could say another word, he turned away, already engaging someone else, his hand at the small of a woman's back, casual and dismissive.
She stood there for a moment that seemed like an eternity. Then she swallowed with a tight lump in her throat, heat prickling up her neck uncomfortably.
She felt like she'd been slapped across the face.
He didn't know her.
Or worse — he was pretending not to.
Either way, one thing was crystal clear:
Arnold Connor had declared war.
He would regret pretending she didn't exist.
She made herself a silent promise.