By Tuesday morning, Diane Lewis was already being pulled in three different directions before her second coffee.
The newsroom buzzed like a hive — producers darting between desks, the sharp tang of espresso and printer toner in the air. The Monday night bulletin had gone well, but no one remembered yesterday's triumphs here. It was always about the next thing.
"Diane!" A voice called across the room — Michael, the senior producer, his lanyard swinging, his tie half-undone. "We've got confirmation. He's agreed to the sit-down."
Diane looked up from her notes. "Who?"
He grinned. "Ethan Garrison. The tech billionaire. First major TV interview in four years. He'll do it with you."
A low murmur rippled through the team nearby. Garrison was practically mythic — self-made, secretive, famous for dodging journalists. Landing him was a coup.
Diane felt the flicker of adrenaline she lived for. "When?"
"Friday. Two hours. His team insists on pre-screened questions, but you'll have editorial control in post production."
She nodded slowly, calculating. That left her three days to prepare. "Understood."
Michael gave her an approving smile. "This is career-defining, Diane. Do this right and you're front-runner for the primetime slot next season."
She smiled, polished and calm, but something deep inside her tightened — that familiar, fierce pulse of need. The one that whispered finally.
She spent the afternoon in her office, her sleeves rolled up, eyes scanning pages of profiles, interviews, speeches. Garrison: brilliant, eccentric, philanthropic. A man who built an empire from his student flat and now shaped entire economies.
It was the kind of story her father would watch with his arms folded and nod, just slightly, in approval. The thought alone made her work harder.
A soft knock came at the door. She didn't look up. "Come in."
It was Ryan, still in uniform, carrying a tray of coffee cups.
For a heartbeat, neither of them spoke. The office door clicked softly behind him.
"You're not supposed to be up here," she said quietly, though her voice wasn't sharp.
"I know." His eyes darted to the floor, then back to hers. "I just wanted to see how you were."
She studied him — the open face, the boyish earnestness. Last night's adrenaline was gone, replaced by something quieter, almost tender.
"I'm fine," she said gently. "Busy."
He nodded, setting the tray down. "I figured. I just…" He hesitated. "You were different last night. I didn't want you to —"
"I don't," she interrupted softly. "We both know what this is."
He looked relieved, if a little wounded. "Right."
Diane reached for her coffee, the gesture casual but final. "I've got a big interview this week. Everything's on this one. I need to focus."
He nodded again, slower this time. "I get it."
"Good."
There was a pause — not awkward, just quiet. She gave him a small, warm smile, the kind she used to soften difficult goodbyes. "You're sweet. But this… can't continue. It was fun, that's all."
He managed a faint smile of his own. "Yeah. Fun."
For a moment, it seemed he might say something more — something about seeing her outside, or staying in touch, but he didn't. He just picked up the tray and said, "Good luck with the interview, Ms. Lewis."
Her throat tightened unexpectedly. "Thank you."
When the door closed behind him, she exhaled — slow, controlled, deliberate. Then she went back to work, erasing the interruption from her mind as if it had never happened.
By evening, Diane's desk was a constellation of notes, printouts, and coffee stains. Her pen moved swiftly across the page — potential angles, political connections, psychological hooks.
Then she froze.
An article she'd pulled from Society Weekly included a photo of Garrison — smiling at a charity gala, champagne glass in hand — and beside him, unmistakably, was Maggie Montgomery.
Diane felt the faint drop of her stomach, a sinking that began somewhere between her ribs.
She hadn't seen Maggie in months. Not since that spring luncheon, when Maggie had made a point of complimenting Diane's dress in front of half the room — and then mentioning, with faux innocence, that it was "almost exactly like" one she'd worn two seasons ago.
Maggie Montgomery: all charm and cruelty wrapped in couture.
Diane leaned back in her chair, tapping the pen against her lip.
If Maggie really was close to Garrison, she might know things the press didn't. Personal quirks, social circles, moods to anticipate. It was risky, but valuable. And Diane couldn't afford to be unprepared — not with this interview.
She stared at the photo a moment longer, then picked up her phone and scrolled to Maggie's number.
The call connected after two rings.
"Diane Lewis!" Maggie's voice was all light and champagne, dripping with practiced delight. "How are you, darling? It's been far too long."
"Maggie," Diane said smoothly. "I didn't expect you to pick up yourself."
"Oh, I always answer for important people," Maggie purred. "Now tell me — what brings the queen of current affairs to my humble phone line?"
Diane allowed herself a small laugh. "I'm working on a piece for Friday. Ethan Garrison."
A brief pause. Then, "Ah. The elusive Mr. Garrison. Yes, I know him rather well."
"I thought you might."
"Delightful man. Brilliant, of course. A little intense, but aren't all geniuses?"
Diane smiled into the phone, though her hand had gone cold. Maggie's tone was sugar wrapped around glass. "I was wondering if you might give me a little background. Off the record. How he is socially — what gets through to him."
"Mm," Maggie murmured, drawing it out. "You know how it is, darling. People like Ethan… they respond to authenticity. Confidence. Charm."
"All of which you have in abundance," Diane said evenly.
"Oh, you flatter me." Maggie's laugh was soft and dismissive, a performance honed by years of luncheons and charity boards. "Listen — why don't we discuss it properly? Tomorrow evening. Drinks at the Beaumont? Seven o'clock. I'll invite Ethan too. It'll be fun."
Fun. The word sat between them, brittle as ice.
"That would be wonderful," Diane said, her voice calm despite the quick, nervous flutter in her stomach.
"Perfect," Maggie replied. "Wear something dazzling. You always do."
The line clicked dead before Diane could respond.
She sat for a long time, phone still in her hand, staring at the silent desk.
Maggie Montgomery. Of course it had to be her.
They had been acquaintances for years — polite smiles at events, professional compliments laced with envy. Maggie had the kind of social reach that could make or break reputations. She floated through the city's upper circles, collecting secrets like other people collected jewelry.
If she wanted, she could open doors for Diane. Or close them forever.
Diane gathered her papers into a neat stack, as if the gesture might steady her nerves. She told herself she could handle Maggie — that she always handled women like her. But somewhere, deep in her gut, there was a prickle of unease she couldn't shake.
She slipped her notebook into her drawer and locked it. Time to head down to the studio for the evening's news. As she headed down, she thought of Ryan. His easy smile, the warmth of it. How uncomplicated he was. How safe, in its own reckless way.
And how very far behind her it already felt.
Tomorrow, she would have to step into a different kind of danger — one that wore heels and diamonds and called you darling.
That night, back home, Diane couldn't sleep. She lay beside Andrew, eyes open, the blue glow of her phone lighting the room. She scrolled through articles on Garrison, through society photos, through Maggie's perfectly curated social feed.
There was Maggie again — laughing with ministers, posing beside artists, clinking glasses with Ethan Garrison himself.
Diane zoomed in on one photo: Maggie's hand resting lightly on Ethan's arm, her eyes turned toward him with affection.
Her heart beat faster — not from jealousy, but from recognition. Maggie wasn't just pretending to adore the man; she was already head over heels.
Tomorrow night's drinks wouldn't be a friendly meeting. They'd be a test.
And Diane Lewis, ever the professional, would need to play the part flawlessly.
She switched off her phone and turned onto her side, closing her eyes against the faint light of the city outside.
In her mind, she was already rehearsing her smile.