32. Maddie
Chapter thirty-two
Maddie
Nick wakes me up with coffee and The Intelligencer on a tray. I pick up the paper, and there it is: my article. My byline. Front page. I clutch the paper to my chest. I did it. I broke a major story. I sniff in the smell of paper and ink.
Nick hugs me. “You did it! We need to buy more copies. I only bought ten.”
“Ten copies!”
“Not enough, right?” he asks.
“That seems like enough,” I say. “I think it’s only my family and me.”
“And me,” Nick says. “One of those copies is for me. I’m framing it.”
“Me too. Let’s go to the deli on the corner. I need to send one to my mom.”
“But the fake-dating contract is on page six.”
“Are you serious? Ward released it way before we even met, if he was able to get it into today’s paper. Such a scumbag.”
My phone is beeping with congratulatory texts from my friends. My mom calls.
“Front page, Maddie! This is amazing!” she says. “I’m so happy for you.”
“I’m really happy,” I say. “This is my dream. Front page. I broke a major story about corruption, and now these families should have better housing conditions.”
“I know! You did good. There’s nothing like seeing your dream succeed,” my mom says. “That’s certainly what I felt with my company, and I’m glad you’ve found your dream. Sometimes I worry that your sister just adopted my dream without really confirming that this is what she wanted.”
“I thought you were upset that I didn’t want to join the family business.”
“Well, yes and no,” my mom says. “If this were your dream, that would have been great. I wanted you to pursue your dream of being a reporter but for you to know that you had this backup plan and a safety net. I felt that when your dad died, my security blanket disappeared overnight. I mean that in the best possible way. I leaned on your dad for strength and for warmth, and I felt lost without him.”
“I wish I could give you a hug right now,” I say.
“Well, come home soon, and bring that young man of yours too, although right now, I’m getting a sticky embrace from your niece. Wait!” my mom yelps. “Did you just put a lollipop in my hair?” she asks, her voice muffled. To me, she says, “I have to go.”
I turn to Nick and tell him about my conversation with my mom. “I bet it was even worse for your mom, with a baby and no partner.”
He nods. “I know. But I don’t know how to break through her current mindset.”
“Has she met the band?”
“No. She refuses to come see me play, and I didn’t want her to meet the band in case she was rude or dismissive. You’ve heard her.”
“I don’t think she’d be rude to their faces,” I say. “And if she met the band, she’d understand that you’re all committed artists, not in it solely for fame or some kick.”
“Maybe,” Nick says.
My phone rings again. It’s Felicity. “Congratulations! But be careful on the way to work because angry fans are milling about the front entrance. Take a cab and come in the back way.”
“I’m not coming in the back way,” I say. “But I’ll take a cab.”
“We’ll go together,” Nick says. “We need to be seen together.”
In the cab, I can’t stop staring at the front page. It’s my first time with a cover story. It’s my name in print right there. I run my finger over my name. Madeline Hughes. Nick is holding his own copy. Our cab driver is having a conversation in Bengali.
“I love the way you wrote this part about confirming the handwriting,” Nick says. “That was so well done.”
The cab slows down as we reach City Hall. Our cab driver turns to us to say his friend, who just dropped someone off in this area, said there’s some sort of protest outside The Intelligencer .
We pay and exit, both pulling our black baseball hats a bit farther down.
“It can’t be about us, right?” I ask, but as we turn the corner, it’s clear that it is.
About twenty fans are holding signs that state. Did they lie to us? outside The Intelligencer building.
“I’m so sorry,” Nick says.
“At least you have twenty fans,” I say.
He looks at his phone and growls. “It’s the Cara-wannabe woman. She’s the one organizing. She’s already uploaded a video saying she knew our relationship was fake.”
Suddenly, going in the back entrance seems like the better way to handle this.
“I don’t think it’s good if they get a picture of you with those placards,” I say. “And I prefer the focus to be on my front-page story rather than our relationship. Let me just go in the back way.”
Nick says, “If that’s what you want.”
I kiss him on the lips. “Yes. This will blow over if we show that we’re committed to each other, but we shouldn’t engage with it unnecessarily. Don’t worry about me.”
“All right. I’ll see you tonight. Go celebrate your victory,” he says. “I’ll go to the studio and work on our next song. I came up with some more ideas.”
“Inspired by real-life events?”
“Real-life feelings. And you.” He seems reluctant to let me go, squeezing my hand, but he does. His phone rings again.
“It’s my mom,” he says.
“You better take that,” I say.
“I think she will believe that my feelings were real,” he says. After one quick kiss, he answers his phone and waves goodbye.
I sneak into the building through the back entrance.
“Way to go, Hughes!” One of the senior news editors high-fives me. “That was some sharp investigative work. Very impressed.”
More congratulations greet me as I make my way to my desk in the newsroom, but I also feel like conversations stop as I pass by certain people. Am I being paranoid?
Nemesis turns to me as I sit down. “I knew you weren’t dating for real.”
“Except that we are dating for real,” I say.
“Delivery for Maddie Hughes.” Jing drops off a vase with a dozen red roses and a card that says LOVE NICK in large letters. “I brought them up from the front desk. So sweet of Nick.”
I meet Jing’s concerned glance. I have the best friends. And this is so Nick—looking out for me, even when I told him I was okay.
Felicity comes by. “Maddie, let’s talk in my office.”
I’m not sure if this is good or not.
“I’m worried that this fake-dating contract revelation is overshadowing your huge story,” she says.
“It will die down because we are dating,” I say more confidently than I feel.
Her phone beeps, and she reads the text. “The district attorney is holding a press conference to announce that they’re investigating these allegations. They’d like a copy of the letter with Ward’s handwriting.”
“This is good, right?”
“Very good,” Felicity says.
I return to my desk and focus on writing my next article.
But security messages me that I should take the back exit because more fans have gathered outside the building with signs that label me a liar and ask The Intelligencer how they could have hired a reporter who lied when our motto is “Truth Above All.”
This is so much worse than I imagined.
But then I am summoned to Shane’s, the managing editor’s, office. Based on the tone of the email, it’s not going to be about my article.
I want to be called in for my reporting—for a promotion—and instead I’m being called in for my relationship. My shoulders slump as I re-read the command.
I should never have agreed to fake date.
I was such an idiot. No matter how much I liked him, I knew that I didn’t want to be the story.
I knew that being a rock star’s girlfriend is incompatible with being an investigative reporter.
And if I didn’t truly realize that when I signed the contract—if I hoped we could date—this is a cold reminder of reality.
I walk into his office. The walls are covered with framed articles. His expression is stern, his hands steepled.
“Did you sign a dating contract and then appear in the press as a happily dating couple?” Shane asks. No preliminaries.
“Yes, but we weren’t faking our relationship.
The photos captured us hanging out together, and we like each other, so that came through.
We are dating now,” I say. “Nick’s label issued a statement already, and he said that I was his new love when the articles about ‘Nick’s New Love’ were published.
” All those articles were published after we were ambushed outside the midtown restaurant.
I’m being defensive, and he doesn’t look convinced.
“As you can no doubt surmise, Nick Devlin’s fans calling you a liar and questioning our hiring is not helpful.”
“I’m sorry. I exercised poor judgment. Not in dating Nick,” I say.
“But I should have asked him out at that moment when we discussed it.” That moment in the hallway when I thought he was asking me to date for real, I should have asked him.
I should have known my worth and said, Let’s date for real .
Shane looks like he doesn’t know what to do with that response. I don’t think that’s the takeaway he expected.
“I shouldn’t have fake dated him, because being a reporter is about telling the truth, and that’s normally my motto.”
He appears mollified with that response.
Hayden enters, clearly delighted with my downfall.
He suggests I be put on probation, but the phone keeps ringing for the managing editor with congratulations about my big scoop.
Another editor pops her head in to say it’s the most-clicked article and seems to be especially hot because I previously ran that Meet the City Agencies series.
People are shocked that the miniaturist is corrupt.
“We’ll discuss internally what the repercussions will be. Without this article, we would have dismissed you.” Shane waves me out.
Those words hit me physically.
If I hadn’t signed that contract, I’d be basking in the glow of success while seated next to him, taking those calls. But instead, I’ve been dismissed from his office—and possibly from this job.
Should I stay to make the case for myself? Isn’t my article enough to show I’m a good reporter, that they should promote me? This is my personal life and should have no impact on my career. Hayden shuts the door as I hesitate outside on the threshold.
I’m not going to beg in front of Hayden. Shane is smart. He’ll make the right decision. And if not, I’ll find a paper that knows my worth.