Natasha's POV
The coffee had gone cold two hours ago, but Natasha Quinn didn't notice. Her eyes burned as she stared at the laptop screen, fact-checking another celebrity gossip article about which actress wore what dress to which party. Six months ago, she'd been breaking stories about corporate corruption. Now she was verifying if a socialite's purse was really Hermès or a knockoff.
This was her life now. This cramped studio apartment with peeling paint and a bathroom door that wouldn't close properly. This soul-crushing work that paid barely enough for ramen and rent. This loneliness that wrapped around her chest like a vise every single night.
Her phone buzzed on the cluttered desk.
Natasha almost ignored it. Nothing good ever came from notifications at two in the morning. But her hand reached for it anyway, muscle memory from her journalist days when breaking news could come anytime.
The screen lit up with an Instagram notification.
Marcus Webb tagged you in a post.
Her stomach dropped. Marcus. Her ex-fiancé. The man she'd planned to marry. The man who'd destroyed everything she'd ever worked for.
Her finger hovered over the notification. Don't look, the rational part of her brain whispered. Nothing good will come from this. You know it's just another knife in the wound.
She tapped it anyway.
The photo loaded slowly, like the universe wanted to drag out her torture. When it finally appeared, Natasha felt the air leave her lungs.
Marcus stood in an expensive restaurant—the one Natasha had introduced him to, the one where they'd celebrated her first major investigative piece. His arm wrapped around Simone Park, Natasha's former best friend since childhood. They both smiled at the camera, their faces glowing with happiness that felt like acid on Natasha's skin.
The caption made it worse.
She said YES! I'm the luckiest man alive. Can't wait to spend forever with my best friend and soulmate. Thank you to everyone who supported us through difficult times when trust was broken.
That last line. That carefully crafted sentence that sounded sympathetic but was really a knife aimed straight at Natasha's reputation. When trust was broken—as if she'd been the one who'd betrayed them. As if she'd been the liar.
Six months ago, Marcus and Simone had systematically destroyed Natasha's career with fake plagiarism charges. They'd fabricated evidence showing she'd stolen stories from freelancers. They'd doctored emails and created false witnesses. They'd painted her as a spoiled rich girl who took credit for other people's work.
The industry had believed them instantly. After all, Natasha was the daughter of the Quinn publishing dynasty. Of course she'd used her privilege to cheat her way to the top. The story fit too perfectly.
Her awards were revoked. Her job vanished overnight. Her own father had publicly disowned her to protect the family name, calling her an embarrassment to journalism.
And now Marcus and Simone were engaged. They'd stolen her life and were celebrating it with champagne and diamond rings.
Natasha's hands trembled as she read through the comments under the photo.
So happy for you both!
You deserve this after everything you went through.
True love always wins!
Each comment felt like a slap. These people didn't know. They didn't know that Marcus had whispered I love you to Natasha the same week he was planning her destruction. They didn't know that Simone had helped Natasha pick out her engagement dress while fabricating the evidence that would ruin her.
The rage started small, a burning coal in her chest. But it grew. And grew. Until it consumed everything else—the exhaustion, the loneliness, the crushing depression that had been her constant companion for six months.
Natasha stood up so fast her chair crashed backward. Her vision blurred red. Her breath came in sharp gasps.
They'd taken everything from her. Her career. Her reputation. Her family. Her future. And now they were posting engagement photos like they were the victims who'd overcome adversity.
The laptop sat on the desk, still showing that fact-checking article about designer purses. This was her life now because of them. This humiliation. This poverty. This complete and total destruction of everything she'd worked for.
Natasha picked up the laptop with both hands.
For one moment, she saw her reflection in the black screen border. Dark circles under her eyes. Unwashed hair pulled into a messy bun. The same sweater she'd worn for three days because she couldn't afford to waste money on laundry.
This was what they'd made her.
She threw the laptop across the room with all her strength.
It hit the wall with a satisfying crash. The screen shattered into spider-web cracks. Pieces of plastic broke off and scattered across the floor. The device made a sad electronic whine before going completely dark.
Natasha stood in the middle of her tiny apartment, breathing hard, surrounded by the wreckage. Her laptop was destroyed. She'd need it for work tomorrow. She couldn't afford to replace it. This moment of rage had probably just cost her the only income she had left.
She didn't care.
Let it all burn. Let everything fall apart. She had nothing left to lose anyway.
Natasha walked to her mattress on the floor—she'd sold her bed frame two months ago—and collapsed onto it. She didn't cry. She'd run out of tears weeks ago. She just lay there, staring at the water-stained ceiling, feeling the rage settle into something cold and hard in her chest.
Revenge. That's all she had left now. Somehow, someway, she would make them pay for what they'd done. She would expose the truth even if it took everything she had left.
She closed her eyes, exhausted but too angry to sleep.
Tomorrow would be another day of humiliation and struggle. Tomorrow she'd have to figure out how to work without a laptop. Tomorrow she'd—
A sharp knock echoed through the apartment.
Natasha's eyes flew open. She checked her phone: 2:47 AM.
Who knocked on doors at 2:47 in the morning?
The knock came again, more insistent this time. Three hard raps that made her door rattle in its frame.
Natasha sat up slowly, her heart suddenly pounding. This building wasn't in a great neighborhood. Late-night knocks usually meant trouble—debt collectors, angry landlords, or worse.
Ms. Quinn? a male voice called through the door. I know you're awake. I saw your light on. I need to speak with you about a business opportunity.
A business opportunity? At three in the morning?
This was either a scam or something dangerous.
Natasha stood up, her mind racing. She should ignore it. Pretend she wasn't home. Wait until whoever it was went away.
But then the voice spoke again, and everything changed.
My employer is willing to pay you one million dollars for six months of your time. But the offer expires in five minutes, so I suggest you open the door.
Natasha's hand was on the doorknob before her brain could catch up.