I yanked the yellow duvet away from my face, blinking against the glare. Sunlight sliced through the window, and I scrubbed at my eyes, stretching until my limbs protested. Legs dangling above the off-white carpet, I watched them sway.
Another day. Another wave of frustration threatened to choke me.
I am Damaris Lavender. Twenty years old, apartment-bound in New York, surviving alone. No knowledge of my biological parents, just a faded memory of an orphanage. They left me like a broken toy.
I’d always envisioned independence, a successful career. Fate, apparently, had other plans. It felt like God designed me for misery.
Shaking off the spiral, I headed for the bathroom, then shuffled to the kitchen. A long t-shirt, mid-thigh length, was all I bothered with. I shoved the pre-packed instant meal into the microwave. Apple juice from the fridge, a plastic cup, and I slumped onto a kitchen island stool, waiting for the beep.
Back in my room, laptop open. The first tab: breaking news. Slow internet meant the image loaded as a fractured mosaic. Before it fully formed, an email popped up from the news company where I worked.
Gold medalist in journalism from university. Sounds impressive. My reality is a mess, my career circling the drain.
I clicked open the email. Another pointless assignment. It’s been a year since I’ve seen a promotion, or even worthwhile work. They think I’m useless, a liability. Maybe today’s different. Sarcasm tasted like ash.
I hate that workplace. My colleagues treat me like I'm invisible. No serious tasks since day one, but I can’t leave. Bills don’t pay themselves. This job, at least, covers the necessities.
Finding another job is a nightmare. Gold medalist, sure. But zero real-world experience. It's not my fault they never give me a chance.
And then there’s the truth. We reporters are supposed to deliver truth. But the wealthy and greedy always find a way to bury the evidence I uncover. My reports disappear, scrubbed from the news cycle.
Sighing, I headed to my wardrobe. Black shirt, black jeans, bun for my long black hair, white sneakers. Door locked, I headed for the bus station. Fifteen minutes to wait. Relief washed over me when the bus finally pulled up. I’d already tested my patience to the breaking point. "Hey Andrew," I greeted the driver with a smile. He's thirty, and treats me like a little sister. "Hey Sis," he grinned back.
Gossip about celebrities filled the bus chatter.
"You heard about Lucifer Kingston divorcing Adelina?"
"They were newly married, but she's claiming abuse." A girl with ginger hair chirped.
"False," I said, before I could stop myself. "Look at the photos. Expensive jewelry, lavish parties. She looks happy in every frame. Greedy women cooking up a story to grab his money." I stared at the loading image, frustrated.
Another bus already arriving. I pushed out quickly, toward the news company building.
"Hey Xander!" I greeted the receptionist. He smiled back. One of the few coworkers who treats me like a human being.
"Dylan wants to see you. Urgent," he said, and I nodded.
Dylan owns the company, my boss, my childhood friend. I don’t want his help. I want to earn my career through merit, not nepotism.
I headed for the elevator. The doors opened, and my stomach lurched. Two disasters waiting for me.
Adria and Ariel. Their contemptuous glares can ruin your day.
They looked at me, smirking.
"Oh, look who decided to show up," Adria sneered.
I ignored her, stepped into the elevator.
"You hear about Adelina?" Ariel said to Adria, not looking at me.
"She's in Dylan’s office," Ariel added, leaving me in shock.
"What’s she doing here?" I wondered.
The elevator stopped. I rushed toward Dylan’s office, knocking on the door.
“Come in,” he called.
Inside, Dylan was facing a woman with honey blonde hair. She wore a tight, short red dress that screamed expensive.
I looked at them.
He smiled at me. She met my gaze with bored disdain.
“Iris, good. Let’s start our conversation,” he said, gesturing me to sit.
“You’ve heard about the Kingston divorce?” he asked.
“Yes.”
“She’s claiming physical abuse.”
I didn’t respond. I didn’t know Lucifer Kingston personally. I couldn’t judge him.
“So,” I said, raising my eyebrows.
“You have a chance to get a promotion. Save your career.”
“My career,” he repeated, smugly.
I didn’t respond, kept my face impassive.
“You need to dig up dirt on him. Follow him, spy on him. Do whatever it takes to ruin his reputation.” He paused. "Adelina is helping with the legal battle.”
I stood up, anger flaring. Adelina scowled at me.
“I’m not doing that,” I snapped. “I don’t know him. He could be innocent.”
I don't know what came over me, but I managed to speak up.
“Filthy piece of trash, just do what you’re ordered to!” Adelina barked.
I frowned. Who was she to talk to me like that?
Before I could respond, Dylan interrupted.
“Adriana, that’s enough. Iris is my childhood friend. You don’t speak to her like that.”
She looked away, furious.
“Iris, think about it. Dig up the dirt. The promotion. A chance to save your career. It will also help Adelina.” He glanced at her, who was smiling sweetly.
What if Lucifer Kingston *was* a bad man? What if he *had* abused her? These wealthy billionaires are all corruption and greed. My career is on the line. If I take this project, I might finally get my promotion.
I sighed, closed my eyes.
“I’ll work on it,” I said, looking at Dylan. I sensed Adelina’s smug satisfaction.
Am I doing the right thing?
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