Chapter 5
Breaking Dawn
ZOE
I juggle my oversized tote, empty coffee thermos, and half-eaten protein bar as I swipe my badge to get in.
The newsroom is quiet except for the hum of electronics and the ancient HVAC system.
My footsteps echo as I make my way past the editing bays toward my desk.
When I pass Donny’s office, I slow down, curiosity getting the better of me.
His walls are plastered with framed photos of his “glory days” playing for the Seattle Rainiers: Donny sliding into home. Donny mid-swing. Donny pointing dramatically at something off-camera. But the man himself is nowhere to be seen, just his desk lamp illuminating his shrine to himself.
“Zoe! We need to talk.”
I nearly jump out of my skin at Marcus’s voice behind me.
He isn’t usually in until seven, and he’s certainly never beaten me to work before.
When I turn, the expression on his face pretzels my stomach.
His eyebrows are doing that thing they do when the teleprompter fails during a live broadcast. Still, I chirp, “Morning, boss.”
“My office. Now.” He doesn’t wait for a response, just turns and disappears.
My senses are tingling like I’ve walked into an electrical storm. Something is very, very wrong.
And for a wild second, I consider pretending I didn’t hear him and making a run for it. But that’d only delay the inevitable. Besides, I’m not a runner—I get shin splints.
I follow him down the hall, my mind racing through every possible infraction, landing on what happened at the police station yesterday. But how would Marcus know about that?
My breath halts when I step into Marcus’s office and spot Donny lounging in one of the guest chairs like he owns the place, scrolling through his phone with his legs spread wide enough to qualify as a public nuisance.
Marcus closes the door with a soft click.
Yup, very wrong.
“Have a seat, Zoe.” Marcus gestures to the remaining chair.
I perch on the edge of the seat, back straight, thermos clutched. Donny doesn’t even look up from his phone, but the smirk playing at the corner of his mouth tells me he’s enjoying whatever this is.
“What can I help you with?” I say, aiming for breezy but landing on strangled.
Marcus steeples his fingers, leaning forward. “Yesterday. What really happened at the police station?”
My heart does a triple axel. I set my thermos down carefully, buying precious seconds to compose myself. I’m suddenly aware of a loose thread on my cardigan that I’m fighting the urge to pull.
“I told you,” I say, my voice impressively steady. “False lead.” I can’t run, but I can lie when necessary. And right now, it’s very, very necessary.
“Mm-hmm.” Marcus nods, his eyes never leaving mine. “What if I told you Donny has his own connections at the station? Would you stick to that story?”
Donny finally looks up, his smug face practically glowing with triumph.
I take a deep breath. “Look, I just need more time.”
“So you lied,” Donny barks, sitting up straighter.
“I wanted to confirm before I said anything,” I hedge, which this time, isn’t actually a lie. I had no confirmation of what happened. Only the conclusion I drew from what I saw, which, on its own, would be irresponsible reporting.
Marcus leans back in his chair, folding his arms across his chest. “You were burying a big story about Jonah Holt.”
And there it is. The bomb I’ve been dreading since I spotted Donny’s light on.
“There’s a big difference between burying a story and giving it a day for confirmation.” I dig deep for my most reasonable, professional tone.
Marcus’s face twists. “A day in this business is a lifetime. It gives another network the chance to steal possibly the biggest story of the year out from under us.” His jaw twitches. “Tell us what’s going on now so Donny can report it.”
My eyes bulge. “Donny? Why Donny?” I glance at him, incredulous. “You’re sports.”
Donny leans forward. “Because Jonah Holt’s a hockey player, duh. And I’m the one who found out the truth, and I want it.”
I bite back several responses, none of them workplace-appropriate.
“Why do you care who gets it?” Marcus adds. “Just do your job and produce it.”
My brain spins. Donny Dexter. Getting the story of a hockey star discovering he has a son? The story that, if handled poorly, could traumatize a child who’s already lost his mother? Not to mention how it could derail Jonah’s career when he’s already struggling?
Nope. No can do. Donny doesn’t deserve it, but more importantly, I can’t stand what this would do to Jonah and Eli if it’s not handled right. I need to negotiate, buy time.
“Give it until tomorrow.” I try to sound reasonable rather than desperate. “Then we have time to prep Jonah for an interview so he can get ahead of the story.”
Marcus’s face turns a disturbing shade of purple. “Lane, this story is going out today with or without your cooperation.”
I take a deep breath. “Okay, fine, then let me tell Jonah and prep him for an interview to tell his own story. More exclusive content for us, more dignity for him.”
Marcus slams his palm on the desk, making his KBVR “Manager of the Year” paperweight hop an inch. “We don’t want to tell Jonah. Whatever it is will be a lot better without him watering it down. He can come on air and give his side after. Ratings gold.”
I gasp, genuinely shocked even though I shouldn’t be. “That’s a horrible thing to do to a local hero just for ratings. KBVR is better than that.”
Marcus shrugs, his shoulders rising and falling with the practiced indifference of someone who sold his soul long ago. “KBVR won’t be around to sit on its moral high ground if we don’t do something big.”
My stomach feels like I’ve swallowed a live snake.
I blink, shocked, though should I be? Marcus turned on Sydney on a dime, and to help Donny out.
Those two are obviously so tight Marcus can’t see that he’s a puppy following a squirrel into traffic.
“There are so many things KBVR can do to boost ratings that don’t involve abandoning all scruples and turning our reporting into an inhumane gossip rag.
Sorry, but I won’t be a part of breaking this story. ”
“I see.” Marcus shrugs again. “You clearly don’t have the producer instincts I thought you had. Pack your things. It’s clear we have irreconcilable differences in our visions for the network.”
Wait. What?
I gasp. “You’re firing me?”
“You’ve left me no choice.”
I’m blinking like gnats just flew into my eyes, but I can’t stop.
Six-day weeks, overnight shifts, and running after stories in everything from blizzards to heat waves.
Four years of doing things like making Donny look competent on air when he can barely read the teleprompter without moving his lips.
“I’ve given this network four years of my life.
” My voice is surprisingly steady, considering my insides feel like they’re in a blender.
“And we thank you for your service. But you’re an assistant producer, Zoe. Those are a dime a dozen, and I can have you replaced by this afternoon with someone who’s willing to do what it takes to get our network back on track.”
“Wow.” So that’s how he sees me! A cheap, replaceable cog in a wheel.
He’s so wrong, but he doesn’t know it. He clearly doesn’t realize the infinite little fires I put out every day, and all the quirks of this station that no one knows how to fix but me.
I save Donny’s ass daily. I do all the research and behind-the-scenes work on the stories.
I’m here working split shifts more often than anyone should because something’s gone sideways, and I seem to be the only person who knows how to fix it.
“Someday soon, you’ll realize I’m not so easily replaceable. ”
I stand, surprised to find my legs steady beneath me. “And when you do, don’t come to find me.”
Donny’s smirk grows into a full-blown grin as I turn to leave. I resist the urge to “accidentally” spill my coffee on his pristine white shirt. Barely.
I don’t know why, but I’m not sad, although I probably will be—let’s get real. But right now, I’m just… ready to leave.
Maybe because I’m tired of how quickly Marcus will throw others under the bus for ratings, how loyalty means nothing in this business, how thin the line is between reporting and exploitation.
I already learned that with Sydney, so this just feels like a confirmation that KBVR is not the place for me.
Maybe that’s why this is so easy—it’s been in the back of my mind for a long time now.
It’s clear my much-deserved promotion was never coming.
The walk to my desk should feel like one of shame, but it doesn’t. And I’d know—I’ve had some doozies. Like the time I tried to sneak out of Brad Wilkins’ dorm room at 6 a.m. only to bump into his entire Ultimate Frisbee team doing morning stretches in the hallway.
I grab a cardboard box from the supply closet, tossing in my sad little plant that’s somehow survived four years of neglect, my “World’s Okayest Producer” mug (a gag gift from Sydney), and the framed photo of my family from our trip to Yellowstone.
My two little brothers and younger sister were such a pain in the ass on that trip, but I took care of them, as always, and it ended up being a lot of fun.
Then I toss in my two pairs of backup glasses, a half-empty bottle of emergency Advil, and three lipsticks in various states of usage. It’s amazing how little evidence there is of four years spent in this place. No awards, no recognition.
Outside the station, I immediately dial Jonah—I have to warn him before Donny blindsides him with this story, before Eli’s face is splashed across the evening news without consent or context.
The call goes straight to voicemail. Of course it does. It’s 4:48 in the morning, and Jonah Holt probably has my number silenced after our Christmas mess.
I call again. “Jonah, it’s Zoe. Call me ASAP. It’s an emergency.” I call again and again.