Chapter 26
Footsteps clicked sharply across the tiled newsroom floor—brisk, decisive, unmistakable.
Linda never called when she could confront someone in person.
She stopped at Luke’s desk, arms crossed, clipboard tucked against a fitted blazer the color of cold steel. Her dark bob was perfectly smoothed into place, glasses perched low on her nose, eyes sharp enough to dissect a lie before it ever reached print.
Everything about her screamed precision. Control. Results.
Before she even said a word, Luke lifted a silent prayer.
Yes, another one. Maybe Amayah was having a bigger influence on him than he’d thought.
But talking to—and acknowledging—a higher power felt so grounding, like something he should have been doing for a long time. He’d even checked out some listings for local churches. He’d been meaning to find one—for Christmas and Easter.
But now, he wanted to find a church for more than just those days.
Something was changing inside him—for the better.
“Well?” she demanded, scanning the open tabs on his monitor. “How’s the story coming? You ready to expose Amayah Harper yet?”
Luke swiveled slightly in his chair, jaw tightening. “No, actually, I’m not.”
The air between them cooled instantly.
Linda’s lips thinned. “What do you mean?”
“Amayah doesn’t belong in this story.” He met her gaze without flinching. “She’s not the problem.”
Linda leaned one hip against his desk, tapping her pen once against the clipboard—a habit he’d learned meant her patience was already running thin.
“I thought you’d want to know: Your influencer girl reached out to her former boss asking about custom interior design packages.
Sounded like she was prepping a high-end property. ”
He squinted. “What? That doesn’t make sense.”
“It fits. She’s secretly buying a property and doesn’t want anyone to know about it.”
“How did you find out?”
“I have contacts everywhere.”
He shifted. “To me, it sounds like you’re determined to destroy her. Amayah isn’t Celeste, you know. Amayah had nothing to do with Hannah’s death.”
Linda narrowed her eyes. “Don’t you think I know that? I have to keep coming after you about this because you’re too blinded to see the truth in front of you! I clearly put too much faith in you. I shouldn’t have ever given you this story!”
Her words stung.
But Amayah had to have an explanation. Besides, all Linda had heard was gossip.
“I can probably find another influencer for you to bring down—one who really does have bad intentions. But it’s not Amayah. She’s not exploiting anyone. She’s feeding kids and helping the community. And she’s doing it without fanfare.”
“That’s exactly why she’s interesting.” Linda’s eyes narrowed. “The audience loves the rise before the fall.”
“I don’t want to see Amayah fall. She doesn’t deserve that.” A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Linda studied him carefully as if recalculating. “You’re too close.”
“No, I’m finally seeing clearly.”
“Do this story or you’re out. You can look for another job.”
Images filled his mind.
Images of Amayah laughing with the Crump kids.
Amayah whispering prayers under her breath.
Amayah standing among her broken outdoor Christmas decorations and choosing mercy.
If protecting her meant challenging the very machine that had shaped his career?
Then maybe it was time something cracked.
Just not her.
His jaw tightened as more images filled his mind.
Amayah standing in that dim house, touching the frame of her door like it was hallowed.
Maisie’s small arms around his neck.
The way integrity looked when it didn’t care about optics.
“What’s your decision?” Linda demanded.
He straightened and held his head higher. “I’m not sacrificing someone honest just to manufacture a headline.”
Linda exhaled slowly. “You’re losing perspective.”
“No. I think I’m finally finding it.”
“If you won’t write the story as assigned, Luke, you’re choosing not to be part of this newsroom anymore.”
He stared at his screen, cursor blinking patiently in a draft that now felt meaningless. “If that’s your stance, then I guess I am.”
“Then so be it.”
As she turned to leave, Luke called her name. She paused, waiting for him—probably to beg for his job back.
Instead, he said, “You know, these online celebrities aren’t the only people you have to watch out for. Regular, everyday people can also influence you in the wrong ways. Even people who were once your heroes.”
Luke stared at his desk.
At the scuffed surface. The coffee ring burned permanently into the finish. The little piles of clutter he’d curated—outdated press passes, half-filled notebooks, a cracked mug from a paper that didn’t even exist anymore.
This desk had been more than furniture. It had been identity. Armor. Proof that he mattered in a world that rarely offered certainty.
And now it felt like a shell he was stepping out of.
He reached for a stack of papers but didn’t move them—only rested his hand there, letting the quiet press in. The newsroom hummed around him: keyboards clicking, phones ringing, the muffled chatter of reporters chasing stories that wouldn’t wait.
Life went on, even when yours stalled.
Luke finally started packing, lifting each item with deliberate care. Pens into the box. Press badges. His cracked coffee mug. The photo pinned to his corkboard—a frozen pier at dusk, taken on the day he still believed truth could save anything. He slid it into the box last.
A shadow fell across his desk. “Hey.”
Harry.
His roommate hovered there, brow knitted as he waited for Luke to speak.
Luke’s chest tightened. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. I heard the blowup with Linda.” He rubbed his jaw. “You okay?”
Luke let out a humorless breath. “Define okay.”
Harry’s gaze softened. “You’re one of the best reporters at this paper. And this . . . all of this”—he gestured at the half-packed box—“doesn’t erase that.”
Luke stared at the box anyway.
Harry lowered his voice. “Don’t let one story—or one editor—convince you you’re done. Journalists don’t quit. They pivot.” A beat. “And you’ve always been better at that than you think.”
A lump rose in Luke’s throat. “Thanks.”
Harry stood, palms pressed against his knees. “Didn’t say it for thanks. Said it so you don’t walk out of here believing the wrong story.” He paused, eyes steady. “Especially not one about yourself.”
Then he squeezed Luke’s shoulder—brief, firm—and headed back toward his workspace.
Luke watched him go, blinking hard.
Harry, for all his glibness, was wise when it mattered.
For the first time all day, the ache in his chest shifted—painful still, but not quite as hollow.
He took a slow breath.
And started packing again.
There was only one place left to go when he left here.
Amayah’s house.
He needed to talk to her face-to-face.
Talk to the woman whose quiet faith he’d entered under false pretenses. The home where he’d stood beside children who carried too much and hope that pulsed stubbornly beneath broken wood and tired bones.
She deserved the truth.
All of it.
The story. The assignment. The lies. The damage.
Even if it shattered whatever light had started to grow between them.
Especially if it did.
Luke glanced back at the city skyline, frost rimming the edges of glass and steel.
Then he turned toward accountability.
Toward consequences.
Toward the door he no longer had any right to knock on—and yet would anyway.
Because whether she slammed it in his face or whispered for him to leave . . . he wasn’t walking away again.
Not this time.