2
Talia Monroe had learned a long time ago that wanting something out loud gave people a chance to laugh before you reached it.
So she kept her wanting quiet.
She kept it pressed behind her teeth when younger reporters with shinier last names got assignments she had earned.
She kept it tucked beneath polite smiles when editors praised her instincts, used her angles, then handed the bigger stories to someone else.
She kept it hidden behind tailored blazers, clean copy, perfect deadlines, and a professional calm that had taken her years to build.
But quiet wanting was still wanting.
And Talia wanted the senior feature writer position so badly she could taste it.
She stood outside Martin Cade’s office with her tablet tucked beneath one arm, a leather tote hanging from her shoulder, and the Houston skyline glittering behind the newsroom windows like the city itself was daring her to want more.
Houston had always been good for that.
It was big enough to swallow a woman whole if she came weak. Loud enough to drown out excuses. Hungry enough to reward anyone willing to push. Talia loved it for that, even on days when the traffic made her question every choice that had led her to adulthood.
The newsroom around her buzzed with late afternoon energy.
Phones rang. Keyboards clicked. A producer cursed under his breath at a frozen video file.
Two interns whispered over a social media post like they had discovered national secrets.
Across the room, the lifestyle editor laughed too loudly at something a columnist said, the kind of laugh people gave when they wanted to be remembered.
Talia did not laugh for memory.
She worked for it.
“Talia,” Martin called from inside his office. “Come in before you wear a path in the carpet.”
She stepped inside and closed the glass door behind her.
Martin Cade sat behind his desk with his reading glasses low on his nose and three open screens in front of him.
One held the site analytics. One held an article draft.
The third had a photo of a Texas ranch pulled up, all golden grass, wide sky, and a white fence line that looked too clean to be real.
Talia noticed everything.
She always did.
“You wanted to see me?” she asked.
Martin leaned back in his chair and looked at her over the top of his glasses. He was in his late fifties, silver-haired, sharp-eyed, and too fond of making people wait for the point. He had built his career on knowing which stories would make readers stop scrolling. Talia respected him for that.
She also knew he enjoyed watching people reach for things.
“I did,” he said. “Sit down.”
Talia sat.
She crossed her ankles, set her tablet on her lap, and waited.
Her blouse was the deep green one that made her skin glow against the warm brown of her face.
Her hair was worn natural today, tightly coiled and shaped close around her head, neat but not tamed into apology.
She had learned years ago that people made assumptions about women who took up space.
Curvy women. Confident women. Black women who walked into rooms like they belonged there.
Let them assume.
She had work to do.
Martin tapped a finger against the edge of his desk. “You know Barbara is leaving.”
Talia kept her expression steady.
Everyone knew Barbara was leaving. Barbara had announced her move to a national magazine with tears, cake, and a farewell email so long it deserved chapters.
“Yes,” Talia said. “Congratulations to her.”
Martin’s mouth twitched. “That sounded almost sincere.”
“It was almost sincere.”
He laughed once. “That’s why I like you.”
No, Talia thought. You like me because I make deadlines, clean up messy copy, find the emotional center of a story, and don’t cry when you cut twelve hundred words.
But she smiled. “I’ll take it.”
“Her position opens officially next month.”
There it was.
Talia felt the words land in her chest, heavy and bright.
Senior feature writer.
Better pay. Better assignments. Better visibility. A real seat at the table instead of standing close enough to hear the conversation and pretending that counted.
“I’m interested,” she said.
Martin folded his hands over his stomach. “I know.”
“I’m qualified.”
“I know that too.”
“Then why do I hear a but coming?”
“Because you’re smart.”
She leaned back slightly. “And because there’s always a but.”
“There is always a but.” Martin took off his glasses and set them on his desk. “You’re one of the strongest writers in this building. You know how to take a profile and make it breathe. You’re good with difficult subjects. You’re better with reluctant ones.”
“I hear another compliment circling a trap.”
“You should. It’s a nice trap.”
Talia did not smile this time.
Martin turned one of his screens toward her.
The ranch photo became clearer.
Stanley Ranch.
The name appeared beneath the image in the metadata, along with several older article links, most of them about ranch expansion, local philanthropy, community support, and one very ugly set of stories connected to the Windgate family.
Talia’s fingers tightened around the edge of her tablet.
“I know that ranch,” she said.
“Most of Texas knows that ranch now.”
“Because of Beau Windgate.”
“Because of Beau Windgate,” Martin agreed.
“Because of the kidnapping of Mrs. Stanley. Because of all the women he and his brother Logan and raped and killed. Because of the old family money. Because people love a rich villain almost as much as they love a cowboy hero. Technically they weren’t rich any longer, Stanley took everything from them after an insult to the African American women on his ranch before the kidnapping. ”
Talia looked at the screen. “I thought the Beau Windgate story was already done.”
“Beau’s part, maybe. The family’s? Not even close.”
She glanced at him. “What exactly are you asking me?”
Martin clicked something on the keyboard, and another image filled the screen.
Not a formal headshot. A cropped photo from some public event or old news capture.
A younger man stood in the background near a fence line, his hat pulled low, his expression guarded.
Good-looking in a hard, wounded sort of way. Not polished. Not smiling. Not posing.
Gordon Windgate.
Talia had seen his name in articles, but always as an attachment to someone else. Youngest brother. Lesser-known Windgate. Present during this. Questioned after that. Connected to the ranch now. Not charged with Beau’s crimes. Not giving interviews.
She studied the image longer than she meant to.
“He’s younger than I expected,” she said.
Martin smiled. “Careful, Monroe. That sounded like interest.”
“It was an observation.”
“Your observations usually become interest if the subject has enough layers.”
“What do you want with Gordon Windgate?”
“I want his story.”
“Has he done something newsworthy?”
“He has done something better.”
Talia waited.
“He lives on the ranch that his brothers tried to bring down. He was instrumental in saving Edye Stanley and he testified against his brothers during their trial,” Martin said.
“After everything that happened, Gordon Windgate stayed in Texas on Stanley Ranch. Working. Living quietly. No interviews. No statements. No attempt to sell his version. The youngest Windgate brother, tied to a name people now associate with scandal and danger, is living on the ranch connected to some of the people his family hurt. There’s a story there and I want it.
He’s been living there for two years. I need to know why he turned on his family. ”
Talia did not like the way the sentence curled around her curiosity.
“That’s delicate,” she said.
“That’s why I’m giving it to you.”
“You haven’t given it to me. You’ve dangled it.”
Martin pointed at her. “Good. There’s the woman I was looking for.”
She ignored that. “What kind of story are you hoping for?”
“The kind people read.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It’s the only answer that keeps the lights on.”
Talia gave him a flat look.
Martin leaned forward. “I want something with teeth. I want the Windgate name. I want the scandal. I want the redemption angle, if there is one. I want the inside view of Stanley Ranch. I want to know why Gordon Windgate is still there. Is he being protected? Punished? Hidden? Is Luke Stanley giving him a second chance, or is there another story under the one everybody thinks they know?”
Talia’s stomach tightened.
There it was.
The job beneath the job.
“You want me to get close enough to him to find out.”
“I want you to get him to talk.”
“He doesn’t give interviews.”
“People who don’t give interviews are usually the ones readers want most.”
“Or they’re people who have decided they don’t owe strangers access to their wounds.”
Martin studied her.
Talia wished she could pull the sentence back. Not because it was wrong, but because it revealed more hesitation than she wanted him to see.
“This is why you’re good,” he said. “You don’t just smell blood. You ask where the bleeding started.”
“That’s charming.”
“It wasn’t meant to be.”
“No, it was meant to make exploitation sound thoughtful.”
Martin sat back. “You want Barbara’s job?”
The question hit clean.
No softness. No dressing.
Talia held his gaze. “Yes.”
“Then bring me Gordon Windgate.”
“That sounds like a hostage demand.”
“That sounds like journalism.”
“It sounds like a lawsuit if done wrong.”
“Then don’t do it wrong.”
She looked back at the screen.
Gordon Windgate stared out from the photo with a face that gave almost nothing away. He looked like a man used to being watched and tired of giving watchers anything useful. His shoulders were squared, but not with arrogance. More like he had braced for impact before the camera found him.
Talia knew that posture.
Different reasons. Same armor.
“What if there’s no story?” she asked.
“There’s always a story.”
“What if it’s not the one you want?”
Martin’s eyes sharpened. “Then make me want the one you find.”
That was the closest thing to trust he had offered.
It should have felt good.