Chapter 4

Maya's POV

I spent an entire week in that hospital bed, and Ethan never returned once.

Through the thin hospital door, I couldn't help but overhear the nurses gossiping during their shift changes.

"Hey, remember those two women brought in the other day? The one Mr. Vance carried in his arms only had a sprained ankle, but his voice was shaking so hard when he begged the doctors to run every scan possible so she wouldn't have lingering issues."

"The other one had it rough. Rolled all the way down from the second floor and lost her baby. Mr. Vance just signed the intake papers and went right back to sit by the first girl's side. The hospital bills were paid by his assistant later on."

"It's crazy how differently people get treated. I heard the girl who lost her baby was an investigative journalist, too. Seemed so quiet and polite..."

I stared up at the chandelier overhead, counting the little glass crystals one by one.

Part of me wanted to keep listening, but another part was terrified of hearing more.

A twisted ankle earned a frantic carry into the emergency room, while a brutal fall down the stairs was worth nothing more than a hasty signature on an intake form.

Hearing it laid bare by total strangers cut deeper than hearing it from his own mouth.

A moment later, a nurse came in to change my IV drip. Catching me awake, she froze, quickly dropping her gaze and pretending she hadn't said a word.

On the day of my discharge, nobody came to pick me up.

I handled the paperwork myself. The billing nurse slid the receipt through the glass window, offering only a flat, "Take care."

I hailed a cab back to the apartment. Everything remained exactly as I had left it.

The gold gift box still sat on the counter. The bakery cheesecake was covered in dark mold, drawing a few fruit flies around the cardboard edge.

I packed the rest of my belongings into the suitcase one by one.

I didn't have many clothes; neatly folded, they barely took up half the space.

The rest was filled with my reporting notebooks, stacked high, rising well past my knees.

One thought still kept me anchored.

For my latest investigative series, I had spent three grueling months tracking down and interviewing forty-four different sources, revising the draft through seven versions. Just last month, the piece had been submitted for a prestigious national press award.

It was the proudest, most demanding piece of journalism I had ever produced.

The man I loved was marrying someone else, and my unborn baby was gone. I had swallowed both bitter pills.

But as long as that investigation stood, I was still Maya Harper. I was still a damn good journalist.

I sat on the hardwood floor, booting up my laptop to check the review portal for the award.

An email from the newsroom sat at the top of my inbox, delivered yesterday afternoon.

I clicked it open. The subject line hit me like a slap across the face: *Maya Harper's Submission Withdrawn from National Press Award Consideration.*

I rubbed my eyes and read the words again.

The notice stated that my submission had been officially pulled from the ballot and replaced by a piece submitted by a newly hired staff reporter, Chloe Bailey. Furthermore, my entire investigative beat was being reassigned to Chloe, effective immediately.

My hand shook violently against the mouse, the cursor darting erratically across the bright display.

I had begged, coaxed, and waited out those forty-four sources one by one. There was one family whose doorstep I camped on for three straight days just to get a single on-the-record quote.

Now, every single one of those names had been turned into stepping stones for Chloe Bailey's career.

Before I could even catch my breath, my phone began buzzing.

It was the newsroom's HR department. "Is this Maya Harper? We've received a formal grievance alleging that you fabricated sources and falsified reporting materials in your investigations. The company is terminating your contract effective today. Please come in when you can to finalize your exit paperwork."

"Fabricated?" My throat felt like it was closing up. "I have full audio recordings and written notes for every single interview! You can pull the records and verify—"

"The evidence provided in the report was extensive, and we've already corroborated it," the HR rep cut in flatly. "You know the truth better than anyone. That will be all."

The call clicked dead.

I was fired.

I sat frozen on the floor, unable to move a muscle.

The very last pillar holding me up had just been kicked out from under me.

Chloe had just entered the newsroom. The fastest way for a rookie to cement her standing in the industry was to climb over my back, steal my award, and make sure I was blacklisted so I could never work in this field again.

Chloe couldn't have pulled this off alone.

Chloe asked, and Ethan pulled the strings.

I scrambled up, grabbed a coat, and rushed out the door.

I needed to look him in the eye and ask him why my hard work was handed over to pave someone else's road.

I marched straight to Vance Corporation. The front desk refused to let me upstairs, so I waited in the lobby. I waited from two in the afternoon until eight at night before Ethan finally emerged through the glass doors.

He was dressed in a sharp black suit, walking side-by-side with Chloe, the two of them laughing softly together.

Spotting me, Ethan gestured for Chloe to get into the waiting town car before walking over. "What are you doing here?"

I stared at him, my voice trembling with raw fury. "My investigative series... the allegations that I faked my interviews—did you do that?"

Ethan shoved his hands into his slacks pockets. "Chloe just joined the newsroom. A rookie needs a solid portfolio, or how else is she supposed to make a name for herself in that industry?"

"Consider that award your way of making amends for what happened on the stairs."

"Making amends?" My voice cracked, sharp and shrill. "My baby is dead! Who is going to make amends to me? Forty-four sources, and with one word you handed it all to her! Did you even care to ask me?"

"Your baby?" Ethan blinked, looking genuinely surprised, as if the memory had just barely surfaced. "That was an accident. Besides, we never planned on having kids anyway. It's gone, so just let it go."

*It's gone, so just let it go.*

I took a step back. Then another. And turned around to walk away.

I wasn't going to waste another syllable on him.

I would fight the newsroom directly to clear my name.

I had the raw audio. I had my notes. I had the phone numbers for all forty-four sources.

I walked down the city streets until my feet went numb, only to realize I had circled right back to the base of our apartment building.

I tilted my head back. The window upstairs was pitch-black.

I pulled out my phone, scrolling through my contacts from beginning to end, desperate to find someone—anyone—to talk to. But my thumb just hovered over the screen, unable to press call on a single name.

Over the years, I had poured every waking second into him and my reporting. Standing here today, I didn't have a single person left in my corner to hear me cry.