Three days after the Met Gala failure, the air inside the Manhattan Spark office felt thicker than usual. The smell of stale coffee and recycled paper seemed to coat her tongue. Mia could still feel the chill of Vincent Rossi's glare every time she passed his glass-walled office. The stares of her colleagues in the newsroom followed her too some were cynical, others dripping with false pity. She was only given small, humiliating tasks: compiling celebrity event calendars, researching the backgrounds of reality show contestants, and once, waiting in a hotel lobby for six hours just to confirm if a famous movie star had actually used the emergency stairs to avoid paparazzi. She was a walking joke, just waiting for Rossi's final blow.
Her bedroom in Bushwick had transformed into a mini war room. On the stained coffee table, three types of documents were scattered: a pile of her mother's medical bills with threatening red numbers, the unfinished draft of her secret investigation into mayoral corruption, and her observation notes on Lucas Thorne. She read those notes repeatedly, as if the answer to all her troubles was hidden behind the word wariness.
The apartment buzzer sounded sharply on what should have been a quiet morning. Mia opened the door, still in her pajamas with her hair a mess, hoping it was a food delivery or one of her roommates. It wasn't.
Two men stood in the hallway. One wore a professional charcoal-grey courier uniform, holding a box containing a flat, cream-colored envelope that looked expensive. The other, larger, in a perfectly tailored suit and with a blank expression, simply watched. Her instincts screamed caution.
"For Amelia Carter," the delivery man said. It wasn't a question.
"Yes, that's me."
"Signature, please."
A digital tablet was offered. Mia signed it with a slightly trembling finger. The box was handed over with both hands, a ritual that felt excessively formal. Without another word, they turned and left, leaving her with the mysterious package on her doorstep.
Inside the apartment, her heart pounding, Mia opened the box. On a bed of black cloth lay a thick paper envelope. Her name was on the front, written in dense black ink in an elegant, sharp cursive. No return address. Just "Amelia Carter."
Her heart hammered as she tore open the seal. A heavy sheet of formal stationery slid out, with a simple letterhead: THORNE ENTERPRISES. Beneath it, a handwritten message.
Its contents made her breath catch. Lucas Thorne was inviting her or more accurately, summoning her for an exclusive, week-long interview at his country estate in East Hampton. The terms were non-negotiable. She was to stay on the premises, take notes by hand only, submit her list of questions for prior approval, her access would be restricted, and most terrifying of all, the final manuscript would be sent to him for fact-checking before publication.
This wasn't an invitation. It was a silk-wrapped trap. A test, or an elaborate punishment. The first thing she did was call Ivy, her roommate who worked at a law firm. "Is this legally binding? Can he make me stay at his house?"
"Sounds like a prisoner exchange agreement, Mia," Ivy answered after hearing the terms. "Technically, as long as you agree and there's no physical coercion, it's legal. But pre-publication fact-checking? That's a huge red flag. It means he can censor anything he doesn't like."
"And if I say no?"
"You go back to writing about celebrities sneaking out of hotels. But Mia, this is weird. This guy has the resources to end your career with one phone call. Why would he bother inviting you? Why not just send a cease and desist or something?"
That was the question. Mia hung up and stared at the letter again. She remembered her notes about his wariness. He was always wary. Maybe this was his way of controlling the narrative. Keeping your enemy inside the walls, under your rules. Or maybe this was the more disturbing thought, it was a form of sophisticated punishment. Confining her in a luxurious house for a week to show her exactly how small and powerless she was. Despair began to creep in.
The call from Jane at Thorne Enterprises, cold and professional, with a five-p.m. ultimatum, only reinforced the feeling of being trapped.
"If you cannot provide a decision by five p.m., the offer will be withdrawn and will not be extended again."
What choice did she have? None. Her mother's bills were piling up. Rossi's threat loomed over her. With a bitter, metallic taste in her mouth, Mia texted her confirmation. Yet, she had to take this to Rossi.
She took a quick shower, put on her most professional outfit, and carefully folded the letter into her tote bag. The trip to the office felt like a walk to the gallows.
The meeting with Rossi in his office was the final humiliation. As he read the letter, his expression shifted from annoyance to confusion, and finally, a sly, unpleasant smile spread across his face.
"He's inviting you into the lion's den," Rossi murmured, his eyes gleaming with greed. "Jackpot!"
He immediately translated the "interview" into an infiltration mission. She was to be his spy, looking for weaknesses, documents, family secrets, anything saleable.
"This is illegal, Vincent. I agreed to his terms," Mia protested weakly.
"What's illegal is your miserable life, Carter!" he snapped, his face just inches from hers. "You've got a backstage pass to the most private life in this city, and you want to play nice?"
He shoved a burner phone at her. "Report only if you find something big. Don't use your personal phone."
Mia left his office feeling tainted. She was no longer a journalist. She was a would-be turncoat on a payroll. That night, when she called her mother and lied about an "important journalistic assignment in the countryside," her voice almost cracked. "Don't you worry about me, Sweetheart. You focus on your work," her mother said, with a trust that felt torturous.
Sitting on the floor of her cramped room, Mia stared at the bag she'd packed. She was going to enter Lucas Thorne's fortress. But was her aim to dismantle it, or to understand the fortress itself? The recording pen and USB drive Rossi gave her the next morning at a coffee shop only added to the burden of betrayal she had to carry.
In the distance, Luke Thorne was likely gazing at the skyline, confident all his moves were calculated. But he couldn't calculate the turmoil inside the woman he'd invited, the struggle between desperation and resentment, between fear and a restless curiosity. He only saw a pawn on his chessboard, not the tiny spark that could burn his entire game to the ground.