"This can’t be happening now!" Picasso’s voice echoed down the hallway, and everyone knew she was in a foul mood. Her anger was probably over something trivial, but today, Natalie could sense a deeper disappointment in her tone.

"Are you going to the Gates of Hell to figure out what’s going on?" Ford asked, his big, shiny teeth flashing as he laughed.

"Someone has to, cherie."

Ford’s reply was cut short as Picasso’s tall figure already began fading toward the luminous office of her formidable boss. Chuckling to himself, Ford opened his laptop and began typing furiously.

Natalie knocked on Picasso’s door—not out of courtesy, but because it was necessary. She was bracing herself for what she knew would be a difficult conversation.

"Natalie, just the person I need! This is a disaster!" Picasso shouted with a hint of sarcasm, pacing the office. She stumbled over a pile of files, nearly crashing at Natalie’s feet.

"It can't be that bad, Sonia. I hope it’s not another of your drunken escapades gone awry?"

Natalie’s smile only seemed to worsen Picasso’s mood. Picasso’s piercing gaze assessed her from head to toe, her expression a mix of frustration and disdain.

"They want to shut us down."

That was serious. Natalie knew their newspaper was barely staying afloat with dwindling readership and mounting debts. They had invested so much, hoping it would eventually pay off, but it seemed the debts had caught up with them faster than they anticipated.

"How much?"

"150,000."

"We’ll find a way to fix this. We always do. You’re Picasso—you turn the bizarre into both art and money."

"I’m out of options. I have a mortgage from our last debt. We’re broke, and so are you! If you haven’t noticed, our best stories are about lost cats and veterans finding love at the zoo. For heaven’s sake, nobody reads serious news anymore! They don’t read, they don’t buy. Get this through your head—we’re in real trouble! And this time, it’s not just talk. I’ll be 35 and homeless if things don’t change, and the same fate awaits you, smartass!"

"We just need one great story. I’ll find it, and Ford will help. We can get back on track! People will read if it’s about uncovering the truth. We can’t keep sugarcoating news because of our debts. We’re fearless, Picasso! This is our dream, and we need to fight for it!"

"Yeah... I really need to be alone now, Nat. My head is splitting, and you’re the only one to blame! This has become a circus—only the freak shows get noticed!"

Natalie left the office slowly, as though she were trying to escape from a wounded, rabid animal. Ford opened his mouth to inquire about the commotion but quickly closed it when he saw the vacant look in her eyes. "Nat..." he started, but she walked past him, lost in her thoughts.

"I need air. I need to think, Ford."

She made her way down the crumbling stairs and emerged into the bright October morning. Even as Picasso’s favorite, she couldn’t shake the gravity of the situation. This time was different—she needed something monumental and quick.

As she pushed open the door, the cool autumn air hit her face. She lit a cigarette and watched the tip glow as it burned. It was like the newspaper now—slowly, inevitably burning to its demise, leaving only smoke and ashes behind. The smoke swirled around her, and she caught sight of those blue eyes that always made her shiver. Simon stood by his red Lamborghini, scrutinizing her with a gaze that seemed almost judgmental of her smoking habit. He bit his lower lip, crossed his arms, and approached her, his shirt riding up around his elbows.

In that moment, everything—the acrid smell of cigarettes, his cologne mixing with the crisp air, his blue shirt matching his piercing eyes, and his tired face—reminded her of their last night together. What a night it had been! But the cruel reality quickly intruded as Simon’s deep voice broke through her reverie.