"Long time, no see, Clemonte. Still indulging in that bad habit, I see," Simon remarked, laughing as he pointed at the cigarette clasped between Natalie’s long fingers.

"Bad habits die hard, Thompson. We should know that best," Natalie replied, her voice carrying a hint of bitterness.

She continued smoking, deliberately avoiding Simon’s gaze. Despite the years that had passed, Simon had not changed much. His face was more tired and lined with experience, but the essence of her Simon was still there. His strong cologne mingled with the acrid smoke, evoking memories of carefree youth and lost dreams. The blue of his eyes had darkened over time, reflecting the weight of his decisions and the burden on his soul. Natalie tried to focus on the present, pushing aside the rush of emotions that overwhelmed her.

She was jolted from her thoughts by Simon’s deliberate cough.

"You look amazing," he said, his voice soft but sincere.

"I look like I was hit by a train," Natalie shot back. "Hard times lately, Simon. What do you want? You don’t leave that expensive office of yours without a reason."

"Hey, what’s with the tone? It’ll make me think you don’t like me. Maybe I just missed you."

"You didn’t."

Natalie knew Simon too well. His presence wasn’t just about their strained past—it was part of his calculated approach to getting what he wanted. He wasn’t here out of nostalgia; there was an agenda.

"Alright, you caught me. You always do, Clemonte."

For a moment, Simon’s confident façade faltered. He became pale, and his voice cracked slightly, as though he had been wearing a mask that was now slipping away. Natalie recognized the vulnerability beneath his usual charm. Despite his manipulative tendencies, she cared for him as an old friend.

"What do you need from me?" she asked, her tone softened by concern.

"Not here. Can you stop by my flat tonight?"

"If this is your way of trying to get me into your apartment for the night, no thanks. I’m not doing this anymore, cherie."

"No, definitely not that. Unless, of course, you want to," he said with a laugh. "I need your help gathering some information. You’re the best at this, even if you’re as stubborn as a mule."

"Alright. Eight o’clock. But I’ll stay for half an hour and then I’m out," she whispered, tossing the cigarette butt away and deliberately avoiding getting too close to Simon.

"Deal."

"Good riddance, then," Natalie said, though it pained her to speak so curtly. It was her way of protecting herself from falling back into old patterns and allowing herself to be swayed by his charm.

She knew she was making the right decision. When Simon’s father had fired her from the Chicago Post, Natalie had understood the reasons—she was a distraction for Mr. Thompson’s son. What hurt most was that Simon had said nothing about it afterward; he had just left without a word.

"I’m sorry, Nat. Really," Simon said, his voice softening.

Natalie turned and placed her small hands on the door handle, resting there for a moment. She wanted to turn back and look into his enchanting blue eyes, but she resisted.

"That’s how it was supposed to be. See you tonight, Simon."

As Natalie walked away, she was overwhelmed by thoughts of her job, her dwindling finances, Sonia’s mounting worries, and Simon. All of it swirled around in her mind, making her feel disoriented and unstable. Perhaps Sonia had been right—if she had attended more of the high-society parties in Streeterville, she might have gathered the gossip needed to turn things around.

"Broken marriages, affairs, and illegitimate children sell," Sonia had said.

Maybe going to Simon’s place wasn’t such a bad idea after all.

"Hello, Nat! Picasso left for the bank. I was looking for you!" Ford’s voice broke through her thoughts. He was pacing and sweating, while Natalie remained oddly calm.

"Okay. I’ll call her tonight..."

"I have $1,000 in savings. I can help!"

Natalie looked at her naive but brave intern. She had hired Ford when he was in high school and mentored him through college to become a great journalist. But after her departure from the Chicago Post and the collapse of her connections, she had been forced to bring him on board at the Morning Globe with a meager salary. Now, the newspaper was teetering on the brink of oblivion.

"No, Ethan. We’ll manage."

She grabbed her orange bag, put on her old coat, and left slowly, trying to sort out her mess.

"Bye, Ford. See you tomorrow... if we still have jobs," Natalie said with a forced laugh, though Ford didn’t catch the humor.

She went to the BMO Bank, but Sonia was nowhere to be found. Natalie assumed her friend had gone off to drown her sorrows in bourbon and cheap wine.

All she had left was to sell her apartment and move into her office. No big deal—just one step closer to being homeless. Her father would be so proud of his daughter’s downward spiral. She would face this reality tomorrow, even though it was far from the future she had envisioned.

But first, she needed to meet with the only man who might bring some semblance of comfort to this chaotic day.