Chapter 3
KATHERINE
Today, the elevator ride up feels longer than it should.
I slump against the mirrored wall, forehead resting against cool glass, eyes squeezed shut as the numbers crawl upward one by one.
Each stop sends a fresh wave of nausea rolling through me, my stomach pitching hard enough that I have to brace my hand against the rail to steady myself.
This is what I get for indulging in one reckless night—one too many drinks, one silent, dark-eyed man who kissed like he knew exactly what he was doing and had no intention of apologizing for it.
I swallow hard and breathe through my nose, like I’m talking myself down from a ledge instead of trying not to throw up in an elevator full of coworkers. The doors slide open on the tenth floor, my stomach drops, and I actually gag.
“Don’t,” I whisper to myself, clutching my bag tighter as I force my feet forward. “Do not do this here. You are a professional.”
The lobby of Breakline Media Group greets me with its usual polished chaos—glass walls, exposed concrete, and sleek furniture that somehow always smells faintly of citrus cleaner and expensive coffee.
Normally, I love it here. I really do. This place feels like home in a way very few spaces ever have.
Today, it feels like I’ve walked straight into hell with a hangover.
The lights are too bright, the hum of conversation too loud.
Someone laughs nearby, and the sound slices clean through my skull like a blade.
I wince and lower my head, weaving my way through the open-plan office on autopilot.
“Morning, Kate!”
I lift two fingers in response without looking up.
“Rough night?”
Thumbs-down.
“Birthday hangover?”
I pause long enough to glare accusingly at the speaker before continuing on, the simple act of walking requiring far more concentration than it should.
My desk comes into view like a mirage—familiar, comforting, and cluttered in a way that feels personal rather than messy. Photos taped along the divider, a half-empty mug I forgot to empty yesterday, and a stack of printouts from my last piece, annotated in my handwriting.
I drop into my chair and let my head fall back against it with a low groan. A second later, the click of heels approaches, and I don’t need to look up to know who it is.
“Kate Elizabeth Ellington,” Addison’s voice announces brightly. “You look like absolute shit.”
I groan and drop my head forward, resting it on my desk. “Please don’t shout.”
She laughs—the sound is warm and unapologetic—and I feel her presence settle beside me. I smell her before I see her—clean, expensive perfume, a hint of vanilla, and something sharp beneath it.
I lift my head just enough to take her in. Of course, she looks flawless.
Her dark hair is swept up into a sleek ponytail that somehow still manages to look effortless. Her makeup is perfectly done—defined eyes, glowing skin, and lips a muted rose. She’s dressed in tailored trousers, ankle boots, and a crisp blouse that probably costs more than my entire outfit.
I glance down at myself and wince. I look the complete opposite.
She sets her bag down on my desk, grabs my hand and steers me toward the break room like a woman on a mission—one hand at my elbow, the other already reaching for the coffee machine before we’re even fully inside.
“Sit,” she orders, pulling out a chair for me.
I collapse into it gratefully, elbows on the table, head dropping forward with another pathetic groan. The smell of coffee hits me immediately—rich and bitter—and my body responds like it’s found oxygen after being underwater too long.
Addison fills the kettle before opening cabinets, pulling out coffee grounds, mugs, sugar packets, and then pauses. “Aspirin?”
I lift my head just enough to nod. “Please. Before my brain leaks out of my ears.”
She finds the bottle in seconds and slides it across the table to me like a drug deal. I take two, washing them down with water she somehow already has waiting.
“Okay,” she says, finally turning to face me fully. “Now tell me why you didn’t text me when you got home last night?”
Last night? More like earlier this morning.
I wince. “Because I fell asleep the moment my head hit the mattress.”
“What time did you get home?” she queries, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Late,” I answer vaguely.
“How late?”
“Late enough,” I murmur, painfully aware that I’m surviving on two hours of sleep. It was all worth it, though—hangover and all.
She studies me now, really studies me. “Kate, why are you blushing?”
“I’m not blushing.”
Her lips curl. “I know that look. You got laid!”
I choke on air. “What? No!”
She raises a brow. “Kate.”
“Okay, fine, yes. I did hook up with someone,” I admit.
“With who?”
I hesitate, staring into my coffee like it might offer guidance. “The guitar man from the elevator.”
Her jaw drops. “The one who smelled like cinnamon?”
“Yes.”
She claps once, sharp and delighted. “I knew it. I told you. Now tell me everything.”
Addison, being the journalist that she is, won’t let it go until she has the full scoop, so I voluntarily give her the information she so craves. After I’m done, her gasp is loud enough to echo. “Wow. Goody two-shoes Kate actually had a one-night stand.”
“Don’t call me that,” I groan, covering my face.
She practically vibrates with glee. “I can’t believe you actually slept with cinnamon guitar man. Did you at least get his name?”
“No.”
She stares at me for a long beat, then she bursts out laughing. “Wow, he gave you a dozen orgasms, and you didn’t even get his name.”
“It wasn’t a dozen—“
She raises a brow.
I sigh. “Okay, maybe close to a dozen.”
She reaches across the table and starts fixing my hair, smoothing flyaways, tugging gently at my bun. “God, I love this for you.”
“I don’t,” I mutter. “I can’t stop thinking about him.”
Her hands still, and she looks at me more seriously now. “That’s different.”
“I know.”
She resumes fussing with me, pulling out a compact from her bag and dabbing concealer under my eyes. “Hold still. You look like you cried.”
“I didn’t.”
“You did something.”
I don’t answer.
She softens again, finishing my makeup with quick, practiced movements. “Okay. There. Presentable.”
I meet my reflection in the small mirror she hands me and barely recognize the woman looking back. Less wrecked, still tired, but… alive.
“Thank you.”
“Always.”
My phone buzzes on the table between us. It’s my mom. Addison sees the name and immediately steps back. “I’ll give you some privacy.”
“Thanks.”
She squeezes my shoulder once before leaving. “We’ll finish this later.”
Of course we will.
I take a breath, brace myself, and answer the call.
I step out of the break room and into one of the quieter glass-walled meeting rooms, closing the door gently behind me before answering the call. I don’t want an audience for this. I already feel thin, stretched too tight, like one more sharp word might split me open.
“Hi, Mom.”
There’s a pause on the other end. Not silence exactly, just breathing, the way she does when she’s trying not to sound upset.
“Katherine Rose Ellington,” she calls finally, using my full name in that careful tone that always means she’s worried. “Do you know how many times I’ve called you in the last three days?”
I sink into one of the chairs, pressing my fingers lightly to my temple. “I’m sorry. I’ve been busy.”
“Busy? You didn’t even call me back on your birthday.”
Guilt flares sharp and immediate. “I know. I meant to.”
“You always mean to,” she retorts.
My mother, Margaret Ellington, has worried about me my entire life. Ever since my dad left when I was eight—one packed suitcase, a promise to call, and then nothing but silence—she’s held on tighter. Too tight sometimes, but always out of love.
“Are you coming home for Christmas?” she asks.
The question lands heavier than it should.
“No,” I reply gently.
She pauses again, a bit longer this time.
“Why not?”
I stare at the glass wall in front of me, watching blurred shapes of coworkers pass by, their lives moving forward while mine feels… suspended. “Because I like my life here, and I don’t want to come home just to be reminded of everything I’m not.”
“That’s not fair. I never meant—“
“I know,” I cut in, instantly regretting the sharpness in my voice. “I know you didn’t.”
She exhales. “I just want you to be happy, Kate. I want you to have someone. A family. Stability.”
“I am happy,” I insist, even as the words wobble. “I love my job, and my life.”
We bonded over magazines when I was a kid—gossipy ones she pretended to disapprove of but always bought anyway. We’d sit on the couch together, dissecting celebrity scandals like they were morality plays, laughing and speculating and building a shared language that eventually became my career.
She gave me this life, even if she doesn’t fully understand it now.
“I’ll call you later,” I excuse softly. “I promise.”
“Okay. I love you.”
“I love you too.”
I hang up and sit there for a moment longer, phone resting in my palm, chest tight.
When I finally return to my desk, the newsroom feels louder than before. The rhythm of typing, phones ringing, and low conversations overlapping. I pull up my draft about Ava Noa, the cursor blinking expectantly at the top of the page.
Ava Noa is a pop icon who is temporarily stepping away from fame to focus on being a wife and mother. Wow, good for her.
I try to focus. I really do. I reread my notes, adjust phrasing, and tighten paragraphs, but my mind keeps drifting, slipping sideways into memory. Dark eyes, the weight of him, the way he barely spoke but somehow communicated everything through touch alone.
I shake my head and force myself back to the screen. This is my job. I’m good at this. I built a career out of observation, out of noticing the details other people miss, but today, all I can notice is the absence he left behind.
I type a few more sentences, delete them, type them again. The words feel hollow, like I’m writing about a life I don’t actually want.
By the time lunch rolls around, my head still aches, but the edge has dulled. Addison reappears at my desk, leaning casually against it like she owns the place.
“You alive?” she asks.
“Barely,” I groan.
Before she can say anything more, a familiar presence cuts through the noise of the newsroom.
“Sinclair.”
Addison straightens instantly, the casual lean melting away as professionalism snaps into place.
I follow her gaze to where our boss, Marianne Blake, stands at the edge of the newsroom, hands tucked into the pockets of her tailored blazer, posture relaxed but authoritative in that way that only comes from years of being unquestionably good at what you do.
Marianne is in her mid-fifties, with silver threaded through her dark hair and eyes that miss nothing.
She built her career the hard way—back when women had to fight twice as hard for half the credit—and it shows in the way the entire floor subtly shifts when she appears.
Conversations lower, chairs straighten, respect follows—unspoken but absolute.
She looks at Addison first, then at me, a knowing smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.
“Lunch?” she asks, and we nod. “You two always make it look like a conspiracy.”
Addison grins. “Only the fun kind.”
Marianne hums. “Good. I like fun conspiracies.” She then turns to Addison. “Pack your bags, Sinclair. You’re going to Somalia.”
My best friend’s face lights up instantly, excitement crackling through her like electricity. “Finally!”
Only Addison would be excited to go to a war-torn country. I feel my stomach dip, a strange mix of curiosity and unease curling low in my gut.
“But,” Marianne continues calmly, holding up a finger, “we’ve hit a snag.”
Addison’s smile falters just a bit. “Of course we have. What is it?”
“Our interpreter is sick, and every replacement we’ve tried to line up has either declined or suddenly remembered they’re allergic to conflict zones.”
Addison groans. “Cowards.”
Marianne’s gaze slides to me then, and my stomach drops. “Ellington. You speak Arabic and Somali, don’t you?”
I straighten instinctively. “I do.”
Addison’s head snaps toward me, eyes gleaming like she’s just been handed a winning lottery ticket.
“No, absolutely not.”
Marianne arches a brow. “Not even going to let me finish?”
“I learn languages for fun, so I don’t have to watch movies with subtitles. This was never meant to be a professional skill.”
Addison laughs. “That is the most Kate explanation I’ve ever heard.”
Marianne studies me for a long beat, not unkindly. “You wouldn’t be going into a warzone. The assignment is in Mogadishu—more peace talks and embassy-secured locations.”
The word peace talks echoes in my head. Mogadishu. A city I’ve only ever known through headlines and footage—dusty streets, armed convoys, history soaked in blood and resilience in equal measure.
Addison steps closer to me, lowering her voice. “Kate, this is huge. You’d be perfect.”
“I don’t want to be perfect. I want to be alive.”
Marianne smiles faintly. “A reasonable desire.”
Addison nudges my arm. “You’ll be with me the whole time. And you won’t even be reporting. Just interpreting.”
I hesitate, my heart beating faster now, something restless stirring beneath the fear. I’ve spent my career observing from the sidelines, writing about other people’s lives while keeping my own carefully contained.
Maybe that’s why the idea terrifies me—and probably why it tempts me too.
Addison turns to me, eyes bright. “Please say yes.”
“I might die,” I remind her.
She grins. “We all might. At least this way you’ll have a story.”
I look down at my desk, at the article half-finished on my screen, at the life I’ve built so carefully, and somewhere in the back of my mind, a silent, dark-eyed man lingers like a ghost I can’t quite shake.
“Fine, but if I die, I’m haunting both of you.”
Addison whoops, throwing her arms around me in a quick hug. “That’s my girl.”
As she pulls back, I realize something with a quiet, startling clarity. What have I just agreed to?!