The morning sun peeked reluctantly through the slats of the dusty blinds, casting faint golden lines across the cluttered bedroom. Lisa stirred, tangled in her sheets like a butterfly caught in a web. The room was quiet save for the soft hum of traffic in the distance and the rhythmic ticking of the wall clock.
Then it hit her.
Her eyes snapped open, wide with panic.
"No... no no no!" she gasped, lunging for the phone on her nightstand.
7:43 AM.
Work started at 8.
Lisa shot upright, hair wild, heart pounding like a war drum. The phone buzzed in her hand—three missed calls, all from her boss, plus a message that simply read: "Where are you?"
"Perfect," she muttered, scrambling out of bed. Her foot caught the edge of the comforter and she nearly fell, catching herself on the dresser with a grunt.
She darted to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face, and groaned at her reflection. Dark curls matted from sleep, a pillow crease still branded across her cheek. No time for makeup. No time for coffee. No time for anything but chaos.
In less than ten minutes, she threw on yesterday's blazer, grabbed a half-eaten granola bar from her desk, and bolted out the door—shoes mismatched, but she didn't care.
As she raced down the hallway of her apartment building, stuffing one arm into her jacket, she whispered to herself, "Today is not the day to get fired. Come on, Lisa, you've got this."
She had no idea how wrong—or right—she might be.
Lisa burst onto the sidewalk, blinking against the blinding morning sun. The streets of Los Angeles buzzed with their usual symphony—honking horns, barking dogs, and the blur of commuters zigzagging through crosswalks. She waved her arm frantically, scanning for any sign of an available cab.
A battered yellow taxi screeched to a stop just feet away, the tires groaning in protest. The window rolled down and the driver, a wiry man in mirrored sunglasses, tilted his head. "Where to?"
"Downtown—Wilshire and Grand. Fast as you can," Lisa gasped, sliding into the back seat and slamming the door behind her.
"You got it."
Before she could buckle her seatbelt, the car shot forward like a bullet from a gun. Lisa was flung back against the seat, one hand clinging to the door handle as the driver swerved into the far lane, narrowly dodging a delivery truck.
"Whoa!" she cried, eyes wide.
The driver didn't respond, eyes locked on the road with unnerving focus. The taxi weaved through traffic, skimming bumpers and ignoring red lights as if the city's rules didn't apply to them.
Lisa's stomach flipped as they took a corner so hard the tires squealed. Buildings whipped past her window like streaks of paint, and she felt that creeping sensation—like something wasn't right. It wasn't just the speed. It was the way the driver gripped the wheel too tight. The flicker of something unreadable in his rearview mirror.
"Hey, um, maybe you could slow down a little?" she offered, forcing a nervous laugh.
No response.
He turned down a narrow side street without signaling. Lisa's heartbeat quickened. Her phone vibrated in her purse—a notification—but she didn't dare take her eyes off the man behind the wheel.
The taxi finally screeched to a halt in front of a tall glass building shimmering in the mid-morning sun. Lisa practically threw a handful of crumpled bills at the driver and jumped out, legs still shaky from the breakneck ride. She didn't even bother to wait for change.
"RADIANT COMMUNICATIONS," the sign above the entrance gleamed, proud and polished.
She dashed through the revolving doors, heels clacking against the marble floor, and into the buzz of the newsroom. The air was thick with ringing phones, clicking keyboards, and the scent of stale coffee—home, in a way.
Lisa tried to sneak past her boss's glass-walled office, quietly making her way to her desk.
"Lisa!" a sharp voice called out.
She froze.
Mr. DeMarco—gray suit, sharper glare—stood in his doorway holding a newspaper in one hand, coffee in the other. His face was unreadable.
She slowly turned. "Yes, sir. I, uh—traffic. And my alarm didn't—"
"Save it," he interrupted, waving the newspaper. "You're lucky I need you for this."
She blinked. "Wait, what?"
DeMarco stepped forward, thrusting the newspaper into her hands. The front page was dominated by a dramatic black-and-white photo: a mansion cordoned off with police tape, and the bold headline:
"WIFE OF TECH MOGUL FOUND DEAD—FOUL PLAY SUSPECTED"
Just below that, in a bright blue banner:
"Lightpoint Media Wins National Journalism Award for Exposé on Political Fraud"
Lisa's eyes widened as she scanned the article. "Is this real?"
DeMarco nodded, lowering his voice. "Arielle Grant, wife of Nolan Grant—dead in their Bel Air estate last night. No suspects yet. It's huge. And Lightpoint just scooped up every major award for their last story. We're not getting left in their dust again."
Lisa looked up from the page, her reporter's instinct kicking in. "You want me on this."
"I want us to beat Lightpoint at their own game," DeMarco said. "So yes. Get everything you can—friends, family, neighbors, police leaks, background checks. If this is as messy as I think it is, there's a story beneath the story."
Lisa felt the weight of the challenge settle in. The tiredness, the panic—it all vanished under the rush of adrenaline.
"Yes, sir," she said, already grabbing her notebook. "I'll find the truth."
DeMarco smirked. "Make it shine, Lisa. Radiant's counting on you."
As DeMarco strode back into his office, barking orders into his headset, Lisa stood frozen in place, the newspaper still trembling slightly in her hands.
Nolan Grant.
The name echoed in her mind like a ghost dragging chains.
She'd heard it before—long before the headlines and the scandal. A memory stirred in the corners of her mind, vague and half-buried, like something she'd once tried hard to forget.
Her fingers tightened around the paper. For a second, the newsroom faded. The buzz of voices, the clatter of keys, the hum of printers—it all melted into silence. In its place came the memory of a dim hallway. A whispered conversation. Her mother's hushed voice on the phone. And that name.
Nolan Grant.
But what connection?
"Lisa?" a voice called, snapping her back to reality.
It was Josh, her fellow reporter and work best friend, balancing a coffee in one hand and a camera bag in the other. "You okay? You look like you saw a ghost."
She forced a smile, folding the paper and tucking it under her arm. "Yeah. Just… startled. Big story. Lot to take in."
Josh narrowed his eyes. "You sure? You went kind of pale."
"I'm fine," she said quickly, brushing past him toward her desk. "Just haven't had breakfast."
He raised a brow but didn't push.
Lisa sat down, heart still thumping a strange rhythm in her chest. She opened her laptop, pulling up everything she could find on Nolan Grant: tech magnate, founder of GrantTech Industries, multimillionaire, and now, newly widowed.
But even as she read, her thoughts kept drifting.