Night cloaked the city in a hush, save for the hum of luxury cars and camera shutters outside the Astoria Grand.
The media summit was in full swing—an annual circus of suits, speeches, and strategic handshakes.
And I had to be here.
I walked through the hotel lobby like I belonged, even though every cell in my body wanted to leave.
I wore a black satin pantsuit with a soft, unstructured drape, professional without being stiff.
The blazer was sharp, the silk blouse beneath it a soft ivory that caught just enough light to look deliberate.
My hair was pulled back into a clean low bun, no makeup, just skin...tired, unfiltered, mine.
The ballroom glittered. Warm lights spilled from crystal chandeliers.
Every table was dressed in white linens and name placards, flanked by waiters balancing trays of champagne and opinions.
Voices buzzed around the room, threaded with tension and flattery.
On stage, panelists were deep into a discussion on digital accountability. Polished speakers passed the mic like it was a crown, all calculated phrasing and rehearsed charm.
I hadn't even made it to my seat when the moderator's leaned into the microphone, voice smooth and theatrical.
"Ladies and gentlemen, our next panelist needs no introduction, but I'll give him one anyway. Editor-in-Chief of The Arch, the man whose byline sparks more debates than any headline—Nathan Reed."
Polite applause rippled through the ballroom, layered with a few eager cheers from his fan club. I didn't clap.
I collected a glass of sparkling water from a tray as it passed, murmuring a quick thanks to the server. Then made my way to an empty seat at the back, heels clicking softly against the marble floor.
Legs crossed, back leaned, glass in hand, every bit the composed professional...on the outside, anyway.
Inside? I was sharpening knives.
Nathan stepped forward, calm and sure, like the stage belonged to him. He didn't rush. He adjusted the mic slightly, glanced at the moderator with a small nod, then looked out at the crowd.
Then I heard him. His voice.
Measured, confident, effortless. The kind that flowed without trying too hard. I hated that it caught my attention.
"Journalism isn't about being the loudest voice in the room. It's about being the clearest." He started.
I scoffed quietly. Please.
The woman beside me side-eyed me with a half-smile.
Nathan Reed stood tall on stage, in a charcoal suit that probably cost more than all the outfits in my closet, no tie, collar open just enough to seem casual but not careless.
"Our job is to strip away the noise and offer people the truth," he continued. "Even if that truth is uncomfortable. Even if it makes us unpopular."
I rolled my eyes. "He would say that."
It was the first time I was seeing him in person, and I hated how… put-together he looked.
There was a steadiness about him, like nothing fazed him, like he never had coffee-fueled breakdowns or had to yell across an office just to get things moving.
The room leaned into his words. Even the servers had paused, trays in hand.
I forced myself to listen without glaring, cataloging counterpoints.
If Nathan Reed wanted to make this about integrity, then I'd be damned if I let him wear that crown alone.
I leaned further back in my seat, letting his words wash over me like lukewarm water. Unthreatening. Predictable.
"…and as editors, we have a responsibility to hold not just the powerful accountable, but ourselves as well," Nathan said smoothly, hands gesturing with just enough restraint to make him look thoughtful.
Murmurs. Someone even nodded like they were at a sermon.
I took another sip from my glass of water, resisting the urge to roll my eyes.
Responsibility, he said.
Coming from the man who'd practically blindsided us in this morning's exposé, it felt laughable.
The moderator finally stepped forward. "Well, that was enlightening. The floor is now open for a few questions. Anyone—?"
My hand shot up before he'd even finished the sentence.
Heads turned. Including his.
From the very back row, I stood, thank God for heels, shoulders squared and spine straight like the words had been burning in my throat all night.
The moderator blinked. "Yes, uh, you there in the back."
Nathan was still mid-turn when our eyes met.
It was the first time.
His gaze landed on me, and though he didn't flinch, I saw something shift. Not recognition, just awareness.
Rival. Challenger. Editor of the company he'd poked at with a stick that morning.
I lowered my hand slowly and raised my voice. Clear. Calm. Controlled.
"Yareli Galveston. The Standard. I have a question-"
He smiled, polite and unreadable.
"...about the kind of integrity that involves publishing half-truths for page views. Where does that fall in your definition of journalistic responsibility?"
The room hushed.
His smile didn't falter, but his eyes sharpened.
Ah. There it was. The flicker.
That tiny shift when someone realizes they're not being applauded, they're being challenged.
He leaned a fraction closer to the mic. "Ms. Galveston," he said smoothly, "I'd argue that integrity also includes context. Something your publication occasionally omits in the rush to 'break' a story first."
A polite little jab. Classic Reed.
I tilted my head. "So context is optional when it doesn't serve the narrative, then?"
A ripple of quiet oohs buzzed through the room like an electric current. Someone near the front audibly sipped their drink, as if settling in for a show.
Nathan's jaw flexed, just barely. "Context is essential. As is balance. But if we're discussing narratives, The Standard's editorial slant could fill a fiction shelf."
I smiled cooly. "And yet our fiction keeps outselling your facts. Imagine that."
The moderator chuckled nervously, stepping in like a referee who'd realized two boxers had tossed the gloves.
"Well," he said, "this is the kind of spirited dialogue we hoped for tonight-"
Nathan cut in smoothly, voice still warm, still PR-perfect. "Ms. Galveston and I may disagree on methods, but I think we're both after the same thing. Accountability. Truth."
"Mm," I said, eyes steady. "As long as it sells, right?"
He didn't answer that.
Didn't need to. The crowd was already murmuring again, a low tide of amusement and intrigue.
I sat back down, calmly sipping from my glass, pulse steady now. My point was made.
The gloves hadn't just come off—they'd been thrown across the room.
He glanced at me once more before continuing with the next question, and this time, there was no smile.
•••