Chapter 52
Chapter 52
I swear to the fucking moon, if one more thing goes wrong today, I’m snapping and taking someone with me.
I’m running late. The bus smelled like sweat and disappointment. And my shoes are completely soaked from stepping into a goddamn puddle that the universe so graciously placed right outside the building. So now, I’m squelching down the hallway like a drowned sewer rat, trying to pretend I belong here.
This place is sleek–glass walls, marble floors, all cold professionalism with a hint of “if you breathe wrong, you’re fired. My stomach is twisting, but I ignore it. This is what I wanted. A fresh start. A job. A real chance to claw my way out of the Omega gutter everyone loves to shove me in.
I adjust my blazer, take a deep breath, and push into the lobby.
And immediately get side–eyed by the receptionist, a blonde with perfect hair and the kind of nails that could stab a man. Her gaze drags down my outfit, lingering on my wet shoes. Yeah, yeah, judge me all you want, lady.
“Uh, hi,” I say, trying to sound professional and not like I just got baptized by the city streets. “I have an interview today for the journalist position.”
She blinks slowly, like I just told her I eat babies for breakfast. Then she sighs, picks up the phone, and presses a button. Yeah. The last one just arrived.”
Wow. Love that enthusiasm.
A moment later, I hear footsteps approaching, and then-“Oh my goddess, are you the new girl?”
A whirlwind of color and energy barrels toward me. The woman has bright pink glasses, a floral blouse, and the kind of grin that says she thrives on chaos.
“Uh…”
“I knew it!” She practically bounces on her heels. “I’m Zoe. I work in Lifestyle, which means I mostly write about pack gossip and why everyone secretly hates each other. But you? You’re here for real news, right? Political scandals, exposés, blood and betrayal?” She gasps dramatically. “Are you planning to take down the Alpha Council?”
What the fuck?
“I… just want a job,” I say carefully.
Zoe waves me off. “Ugh, boring. But fine. You’re new, which means you need the lay of the land. First rule: Watch your back. This place is basically a wolf den, and not the fun kind. People will step on your throat for a story–sometimes literally. Second rule: The coffee machine is cursed. No one knows why, but if you drink from it, you’ll get the shits.”
I blink. “Noted.”
“And lastly“-her voice drops conspiratorially-“our boss? Total hardass. No one has ever pleased him. Ever. I think he feeds off disappointment.”
Great. Just what I need. Another asshole with a power complex.
Before I can ask more, the receptionist–who I swear is still judging my shoes–looks up. “Taryn Sinclair?”
My stomach flips.
“Boss wants to see you now.”
Fuck. Okay. Time to get my shit together. I shoot Zoe a quick glance, and she wiggles her finge a mock prayer. Not
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Chapter 52
comforting, Zor.
*92%8
I step into the hallway, my pulse kicking up, my mind racing through every possible scenario. Maybe he’ll be old. Some wrinkly, cranky editor who’s seen too much and expects too little. Maybe he won’t even look up from his papers. Maybe
I step into the office.
And freeze.
It’s him.
My motherfucking neighbor from the apartment.
Sitting behind a massive desk, arms crossed, eyes sharp and burning with recognition.
For a solid three seconds, neither of us speaks.
Then-
“You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
I hate coffee.
Not drinking it–I practically survive on that bitter, liquid caffeine. But making it? Apparently, that’s where my talents abruptly end.
The machine in the breakroom is supposed to be idiot–proof, but it’s currently hissing at me like I’ve personally offended it ancestors. I push a few buttons, praying to whatever higher power controls this goddamn thing. The screen flashes: ERROR: WATER TRAY MISSING.
“What the fuck is a water tray?” I mutter under my breath, searching the counter.
“You’re new, huh?” A voice startles me, and I turn to see a guy leaning against the doorframe, watching me with amused curiosity. He looks like he’s barely survived a hundred all–nighters and maybe a minor existential crisis. A true journalist.
“Is it that obvious?” I deadpan.
He smirks, walking over. “The trick is not fighting it. This machine feeds on desperation.” He plucks a piece of the contraption from under the counter, slides it back in, and the coffee machine immediately hums to life.
I gape at it. “Traitor.”
“Welcome to the hellhole. I’m Max, investigative reporter and office caffeine dealer.”
“Taryn. New idiot.” I grab a cup and hold it up. “You want one?”
He shakes his head. “Nah, I live off nicotine and spite.” Then his gaze flicks to my ID badge, and his lips twitch. “Wait. You’re Sinclair?”
A sense of foreboding slides down my spine. “…Why?”
Max whistles low. “Man, I don’t know who you pissed off in a past life, but landing under his management? Brutal.”
And just like that, my day is officially worse.
Because I know exactly who he is.
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Chapter 52
My pain–in–the–ass neighbor. My boss. The human equivalent of a locked file cabinet.
As if on cue, my work email dings. I glance at my phone.
Liam Beckett: Report to my office. Now.
Fuck my life.
The walk to his office is short but feels like a funeral march. I grip my notepad like it’s a shield and knock on the door.
“Enter.”
I push it open, stepping inside. Liam is exactly where I left him last time–behind that massive desk, exuding power and disapproval. He’s scanning some papers, but I know he registered my arrival the second I stepped in.
“You’re late,” he says flatly.
“For what?”
He finally looks up. “For existing, apparently.”
I scowl. “Glad to see you’re still a ray of sunshine.”
Liam ignores me and slides a file across the desk. “Your first assignment. An exclusive interview with a high–ranking werewolf official. You leave in an hour.”
I snatch up the file, flipping it open. My stomach twists. This is huge. Way bigger than I expected for a newbie.
“You’re serious?”
“No, I just like wasting paper.”
I bite back a retort and scan the details. The official is someone from the High Council–big political connections, strict interview protocols. I need to be prepared.
“Got it,” I mutter, turning toward the door.
“Sinclair.”
I stop.
Liam leans back in his chair, watching me with that unreadable expression. “Don’t embarrass the company.”
I resist the urge to flip him off. Barely.
An hour later, I’m pacing in front of the mirror in the office restroom, clutching my notepad and muttering interview questions like a lunatic.
“What is your stance on the recent pack alliance negotiations?”
“How does the Council plan to address rogue attacks in the Free City?”
I groan. “God, I sound like a bootlicker.”
“I’d have to agree.”
I jump, whirling around. Liam is leaning against the doorway like he fucking teleported there.
“Were you spying on me?” I accuse.
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Chapter 52
He raises an eyebrow. “Ilard to spy when you’re monologuing loud enough for the entire floor to hear.”
I glare. He smirks.
“Good luck, Sinclair.”
Something in his tone makes me pause. Not quite mocking. Not quite encouraging either.
Then he’s gone, leaving me alone with my spiraling nerves.
I’m gathering my things when I hear it.
Low voices in the hallway. Two senior reporters whispering, their excitement barely contained.
“Did you hear? The Lycan King is coming to the city soon.”
My breath stops.
“He never visits the Free City. It must be something big,” one murmurs.
“I heard he’s staying for a while. Probably political matters, but who knows?”
The file in my hands slips, papers scattering. My vision blurs. My heartbeat roars in my ears.
Enoch.
My Enoch.
No. Not mine. Not anymore.
.92%
I grip the edge of the desk, my knuckles turning white. The room feels smaller, closing in. My mind reels, dredging up memories I buried deep–his touch, his voice, the way he left.
Liam’s voice cuts through my haze. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
I force a shaky breath, clutching the necklace hanging around my throat–the one Enoch gave me.
I can’t do this.
I have to do this.
I swallow down the panic, straighten my spine, and force a smile. “Just nerves.”
Liam doesn’t look convinced.
And as I walk away, my mind is already racing ahead.
Because if Enoch is coming here…
I might not be ready.
But I have no fucking choice.
