❛ You tell me your problems-have I become one of your problems? ❜
Georgia Hardtford is an up and coming journalist, but when task with what seems like the impossible-destroy Rupert Campbell-Blacks reputation-she struggles to draw the line between he...
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The Rutshire Post offices buzzed with the energy of a deadline. Telephones rang, typewriters clattered, and the faint hum of a fax machine filled the air. Georgia Hardtford, or Gege as most people called her, sat at her cluttered desk, her brow furrowed as she flipped through a stack of notes for a piece she was drafting about a local charity fundraiser. She liked writing these kinds of stories—heartwarming, human interest pieces that didn't ruffle feathers or tear people down.
Her pen stilled as she heard the familiar bark from across the room.
"Hardtford!"
Gege sighed, setting her pen down neatly and smoothing the creases in her blouse. Henry Fontaine, editor-in-chief and professional tyrant, rarely called her into his office for anything good. She grabbed her notebook out of habit, tucking it under her arm as she wove her way past the rows of desks to his door.
"Come on in," Henry said gruffly as she reached the threshold, already lighting a cigarette. His office was as chaotic as ever—papers strewn across the desk, empty coffee cups balancing precariously on top of file folders, and the faint scent of stale whiskey in the air.
"Good morning, Henry," Gege said politely as she stepped inside.
Henry gave her a sharp look. "You're far too chipper for a newsroom. Close the door," he said, waving his cigarette.
She did as he asked, taking a seat across from him. He leaned back in his chair, puffing a cloud of smoke into the air as he studied her.
"You've been keeping busy," he said.
"Trying to," she replied. "I'm finishing up that feature on the Hands Across Rutshire campaign. They've done some incredible work with the youth programs."
Henry waved his hand dismissively. "Nice story. Won't sell papers."
Gege's smile faltered slightly. She clasped her hands in her lap, waiting for him to get to the point.
"I've got something bigger for you," he said, pulling a folder from the mess on his desk and tossing it toward her. It landed with a soft thud, and the name on the tab was impossible to miss: Rupert Campbell-Black.
She blinked in surprise. "Rupert?"
"Yes, Rupert," Henry said impatiently. "The country's golden boy. Politician, former Olympian, and all-around pain in the ass."
Gege frowned. She'd interviewed Rupert several times over the years. He was arrogant, sure, but always polished and professional. Their interactions had been cordial, even pleasant at times.
"What's this about?" she asked, hesitating to open the folder.
"Rumors," Henry said, leaning forward. "Financial discrepancies in his campaign. Maybe a mistress or two tucked away. The man's not as untouchable as he thinks he is."
