Adrianna

_____________________

Reed knows my weakness and is using it to his full advantage.

Dangling a story in front of me is like offering a drink to an alcoholic or a scratch card to a gambler. I want to believe I'm too savvy to take the bait, but that nagging, hopeful part of me—the one that still believes justice can prevail—won't let me walk away.

Sighing, I try to refocus on work, sifting through emails from various sources, searching for my next story in case this one of Reed's doesn't pan out. It doesn't take long to find one: Adrian Bentley, an actor accused of sexual harassment on set. A clear-cut win. I spend the morning crafting the perfect pitch. Then, with a deep breath, I hit send to Gwen.

Her response comes within minutes: Come to my office.

I slide my chair from my desk and smooth down my dress before fixing my hair. I keep telling myself that I decided to wear a nice dress today because I'm trying to make more of an effort around the office and not because of my meeting with Reed Redwood, but it's hard to believe it when this dress was a bought a year ago and hasn't seen the light of day until now.

As I cross the lobby, I force my expression into something casual, flashing a lazy wave at Peter, the IT tech loitering by the copier. The moment I reach Gwen's office, I adjust my skirt one last time and knock.

"Come in," her clipped voice calls.

I find her seated behind her sleek glass desk, looking as immaculate as ever. Not a strand of blonde hair is out of place in her perfect bun, her tailored designer suit pristine, glossy red nails tapping rhythmically against the keyboard.

She gestures for me to close the door. I sit across from her, pressing my palms into my knees to keep them still. Gwen and I might pass as friends outside these walls, but in here, it's strictly business. And I know that look on her face.

"Something tells me I'm in trouble," I say.

She exhales sharply, almost a sigh. "I read your pitch on Adrian Bentley." Her voice could almost pass for sympathetic. Almost. "I thought I told you to focus on a fluff piece."

I blink, feigning innocence. "Right. Must've slipped my mind." I lean in, flashing the best wide-eyed, puppy-dog expression I can manage. One that's worked plenty of times before.

Not this time. Gwendolyn sighs, the strong floral edge of her perfume making my throat tighten. "Adrianna–"

"Adrian Bentley has a pattern of this behavior," I argue, keeping my voice even. "There are whispers all over the industry. It's an easy win."

She leans back in her chair, folding her arms. "Look, I like the pitch. Truthfully, it's exactly the kind of investigative journalism we should be doing."

For a second, my shoulders relax. But I don't let myself smile. There's a but coming. I can feel it.

Her lips press into a thin line. "But I don't know what to tell you. Peterson is breathing down my neck. The studio still hasn't recovered from the last lawsuit, and with Dusk threatening to do the same, we're on thin ice. Between you and me, there's talk of letting people go. Peterson's looking at which reporters cause more trouble than they're worth."

I swallow hard as the weight of her words sinks in. Me. She's talking about me.

"Do yourself a favour," she says, her tone softening just slightly. "Stay off his radar and write the damn fluff piece. When the fiscal year is over, we can take another look at the Bentley story. He'll still be harassing people by then, no doubt."

I remind myself that this isn't her fault and there's only so much she can do with Peterson calling the shots. But that doesn't make it any less infuriating. This studio cares more about protecting its bottom line than exposing corruption, and that doesn't sit right with me.

"Staying off the radar isn't my job," I say, rising to my feet. "We shouldn't be deciding which stories to tell based on who might sue us."

"Adrianna." Her voice is sharp enough to cut through my protest. "I am desperately trying to save you here, so listen carefully to me. I know how important getting justice is to you, but you can't make this personal."

The lump is in my throat before I can stop it. "I'm not making it personal. This isn't about me, Gwen. It's about doing the right thing."

She looks at me for a long second, her eyes softening. Instead of arguing, she says, "Just keep your head down until the cuts are made and Dusk forgets how much you pissed him off. I won't be able to help you if Peterson decides you're a liability."

The threat hangs between us. People have been let go for less.

I plaster on a smile that doesn't reach my eyes and return to my desk. Gwendolyn thinks she's protecting me, but all I feel is anger. At her, at Peterson, at a system that rewards silence over truth when every fibre of my being screams to fight. Studio 48 is supposed to protect its journalists from men like Dusk. Instead, his and everyone else's hatred of me might just cost me my job.

How the hell is that fair?

At my desk, I drop into my chair and lean back, closing my eyes. The logical side of me knows what I should do: open my laptop, write the fluff piece, and stay off Peterson's radar like Gwen suggested.

My reputation is already hanging by a thread. One more story killed or another lawsuit threat, and I might as well start packing up my desk. Working with Reed on whatever this is should be out of the question. But a small part of me refuses to let it go, clinging to the hope that he's right, and this could be the story that finally holds Dusk and men like him accountable.

I exhale, open my eyes, and glance at the clock. Ten minutes. Ten minutes to decide if meeting Reed is worth the risk or if I should resign myself to writing about some model's bronzed pins.

Nine minutes now.

I lean back in my chair, rubbing at the tension forming at the base of my neck. This job has taken any chance I ever had at a normal life from me. I used to tell myself it was worth it to tell the stories that need telling but lately, I wonder if I was wrong. If I spent so many years fighting for justice only to find there's no justice at the top. Just the crushing knowledge that if I stop now, I'll have sacrificed everything for nothing.

The thought makes my stomach twist. This job is all I have. And that's why I can't afford to lose it. But it's also why I can't stop fighting. Because if I give up now, then what the hell was the point?

Seven minutes.

I drag a hand through my hair and glare at the email Gwen sent earlier, the unspoken warning between the lines. Keep your head down. Play it safe.

The seconds tick by, and I bite my lip, hating how much control he has right now. I'm used to being the one in the driver's seat and knowing exactly what I'm walking into. The uncertainty is driving me insane.

Five minutes.

I grab my bag and head for the lobby, telling myself I'll just hear him out, get this out of my system, then go back and write the fluff piece like Gwen told me to. Before I reach the doors, Peter, a fellow reporter, corners me, flashing his signature Hollywood smile and raking a hand through his perfectly styled chocolate-brown hair, which is the same move he probably uses in his part-time modeling gigs.

"Adri," he says, stepping into my path and lightly touching my arm. "I'm just wrapping up. Want to grab lunch?"

Gwen's convinced he has a crush on me. And sure, he's ridiculously handsome, but that eager, labrador-like enthusiasm doesn't do it for me. I fear I'd eat him alive.

"Sorry," I say with a polite smile. "Maybe next time. I've got an errand to run."

He doesn't need to know that the errand is Reed Redwood.

Before he can protest, I step into the elevator. As the doors slide shut, I exhale, rolling my shoulders back and shaking off the last smidgen of doubt. Once on the ground floor, I breeze through the metal detectors and head outside, the warm LA wind rustling my hair. I make my way to the café, and to my surprise, Reed is already there, waiting under the shaded porch and looking every bit like a Greek god come to life.

God, I hate him.

"Adrianna," he greets warmly. His hand rests on the small of my back, guiding me inside like I'm already his client and he's the overprotective bodyguard. The warmth of his palm seeps through the thin fabric of my shirt, and I can't decide if it's comforting or infuriating.

I hate that he made me leave my phone behind. It's practically an extension of my hand, my lifeline to leads, notes, and the outside world. Without it, I feel exposed. For all I know, Reed could be leading me straight into an elaborate honey trap, and I'm about to become the subject of a true crime podcast. Then again, I've taken bigger risks for smaller stories, half of which never panned out.

It's all part of the job.

He leads me up to the second floor, all the way to the farthest table in the corner. A deliberate choice. My murder theory starts feeling a little less like a joke. Reed pulls out a chair for me, and as I sit, his hand brushes mine. The contact is brief but sends an automatic pulse through my skin.

"If this is some elaborate plan to seduce and murder me," I say dryly, "don't bother. My friend has strict orders to send out a search party if I'm not back at the office on time."

For someone who claims to fight for the truth, I realize I lie a lot.

Reed smirks, sinking into the chair across from me with a kind of casual ease that borders on arrogant. "As tempting as that sounds, you're far more useful to me alive. What would you like to order?"

I order a latte with cream and three sugars. Reed disappears downstairs, returning minutes later with my latte and a black coffee for himself. Of course. What else would the devil drink?

The moment he sits down, the space between us feels smaller. The room seems to shrink. I hate that he has that effect on me.

This is... awkward. Needing something to keep my hands busy, I reach into my bag and pull out my notepad and pen. Old-fashioned? Sure. But with Reed's no-phones rule, it's my only option.

When I glance up, he's watching me, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "You brought a notepad?"

"You wouldn't let me bring my phone. Am I supposed to memorise everything?"

"I was hoping we'd have a casual conversation over coffee." He takes a slow sip of his drink, but his gaze drifts toward the door again, scanning, assessing, like he's always in protective mode.

Why does part of me like it?

"Then you don't know me very well," I say.

The corner of his mouth twitches, and before I can say anything else, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table. I catch myself noticing the thin, jagged scar running along his inner thumb and wondering how he got it.

"I know you better than you think," he says, studying me carefully. "The only question I don't have an answer to is why someone who seems to hate Hollywood is a journalist in LA."

I don't hesitate. "I enjoy hunting down rich assholes for a living, and this is where most of them live." There's a flicker of what looks like admiration in his eye. I sit back, straightening my notepad on the table. "I don't have a long lunch break. Can we get started?"

Without a word, he reaches forward and takes the notepad from my hands. His fingers graze mine in the process, a fleeting touch that sends an annoying jolt through me. I ignore it. He scribbles something quickly, then slides the notepad back across the table.

I don't look at it.

He sighs, impatient. "Indulge me, Adrianna."

I shoot him a glare but pick up the notepad anyway. The words take a second to register, and when they do, my stomach knots.

I have information about a Hollywood scam ring and witnesses willing to go on record.

I glance up, scepticism warring with the undeniable pull of curiosity. "You're serious?"

He nods, leaning in slightly. The space between us seems to shrink, his aftershave lingering in the air between us. Annoyingly, it's not entirely unpleasant. "If you're interested, I can take you directly to the source. You'll hear the rest from them."

I don't respond right away. The adrenaline is already kicking in, and my heart is racing with the possibilities. Stories like this are one in a million, which only makes me more suspicious.

"If this is true," I say, "and that if is doing some heavy lifting"—I give him a look that makes it clear I don't fully buy what he's saying—"why me? There are plenty of investigative journalists in LA. Why go through all this trouble to wear me down?"

"Because you're a powerful woman, Adrianna," he says, a glint in his eye, "and Hollywood is terrified of powerful women."

It's not the real reason he's interested me, though I appreciate the sentiment. We both know he chose me because most reporters don't want to destroy their reputation in Hollywood, and I'm already seen as a pariah.

I should tell him to go to hell. Instead, I say nothing. I can't. Dusk throwing around his power to kill my story was damn near enough to make me lose faith in what I do. But isn't this exactly why I became a journalist? To remind men like him that they're not untouchable? To prove that no amount of money or influence makes them immune to accountability? Everyone deserves justice, even if getting it puts a target on my back.

Even if it means working with him.

"And how do I know I can trust you?" I ask, taking a slow sip of my coffee. My hands shake slightly as I clutch the mug tighter. This is either the start of something I'll regret or something I'll never forget.

"You don't," he says, smirking faintly. "But what have you got to lose?"

What do I have to lose? A lot. If the story flops, it's another strike against me. If it doesn't, I'm a walking target. Dusk will be the least of my problems. Either way, I'm screwed. But the chance to expose a scam ring on this scale? The chance to finally write a story that matters again?

It's too good to pass up.

I set my coffee cup down and squarely meet his gaze. "I'm not saying yes, but I'll agree to hear your source out. And Reed?" I lean forward, staring him down. "If this turns out to be a waste of my time, I'll make you regret ever meeting me."

His eyes twinkle, but he knows better than to smile. "We leave Friday. Pack an overnight bag. I'll pick you up from work."

I rise to my feet, slipping on my jacket as doubt settles deep in my bones. This could be nothing—a wild goose chase, another disappointment. Or it could be everything. A story that finally brings Hollywood to its knees. Reed Redwood will either be my biggest lead or my biggest mistake.

By Friday, I'll know which.