Chapter 3

CHAPTER THREE

An hour later, Betony jumped off her bed.

She caught her breath as she glanced at the wall clock: eight-thirty. She was running late.

In her past life, a late start on a story assigned by Mr. Rogers meant panic, cold sweats, and frantically dialing excuses. He was her Chief, a cold man who gave a damn about nothing else except performance even if one was on a sick bed. Today, she pulled on a sharp charcoal blazer, strapped on her watch, and brushed back her hair with cool, deliberate precision.

Today wasn't just any assignment. She was scheduled for an in-person exclusive interview with Warrant Officer Zaid Macaulay—a high-ranking, decorated military operative overseeing a quiet, classified expansion of emergency air marshal training protocols.

Mr. Rogers had assigned her the interview three days ago with strict, hovering warnings not to screw up the network's connection with the defense sector. But Betony had a far more personal reason for going.

In her previous life, six weeks before the world drowned, two armed thugs had dragged Betony into a blind alley after catching her filming an illicit dockside supply exchange. They had beaten her against a brick wall, stripping her camera away, their guns raised to end her life.

It was Zaid Macaulay who had appeared out of nowhere.

He had followed the commotion from his unmarked vehicle, stepping into the alley without a flicker of hesitation. Before the thugs could even align their sights, Zaid had dealt with them—lethal, terrifyingly efficient, and utterly composed. He had checked her pulse, produced his silver military credentials to ease her panic, and driven her safely back to her office building.

She had never had the chance to properly thank him before the ocean took everything.

At nine-forty-five, Betony walked into the private lounge of the Grand Central Military Annex.

The room was quiet, lined with dark mahogany and floor-to-ceiling glass overlooking the city plaza. Standing by the window, a cup of dark coffee in his hand, was Warrant Officer Zaid Macaulay.

He was in his mid-thirties broad-shouldered, tall, and wearing a crisp, unadorned dark military fatigue uniform that barely concealed the dense, disciplined muscle beneath. His jaw was cleanly carved, his dark hair cropped short, and his hazel eyes possessed the sharp, evaluating stillness of a predator that never stopped scanning its environment.

When the door clicked shut, Zaid turned.

His eyes locked onto Betony. A subtle beat of silence stretched between them—sharp, potent, and charged with an unscripted tension that made the air in the room feel heavy.

"Miss Betony," Zaid said, his voice a low, smooth baritone. He didn't offer a rehearsed, distant smile. Instead, he studied her face, taking in her calm posture and the unflinching, clear look in her eyes.

"Warrant Officer Macaulay," Betony replied smoothly, walking over and extending her hand.

His grip was firm, warm, and broad, sending a quiet pulse of electricity up her wrist before she pulled back.

"I expected an anxious reporter rushing in with a list of generic PR questions," Zaid remarked, his hazel eyes narrowing with genuine amusement. "You look like you just walked off a negotiation table."

Betony took a seat across from his desk, setting her voice recorder down. "I don't waste time on fluff, Officer. And I know your time is valuable."

For the next twenty minutes, Betony conducted the interview with a razor-sharp efficiency that clearly caught Zaid off guard. She didn't falter over classified terms; her questions about the emergency air marshal training protocols were direct, intelligent, and focused on large-scale emergency readiness.

Zaid leaned back against his desk, watching her closely. There was a quiet, unmistakable chemistry building between them, an unspoken recognition between two people who understood danger.

"You're asking very specific questions about civilian evacuation readiness, Miss Betony," Zaid observed, his tone dropping an octave. "Most journalists only care about defense budgets."

"Let's call it a hunch that the world might need heavy logistics sooner than people think," Betony said, clicking off her recorder.

She stood up, smoothing her blazer, and looked him dead in the eye.

"Official interview aside, Officer Macaulay... I wanted to thank you."

Zaid raised an eyebrow, tilting his head slightly. "For the interview?"

"For being the kind of man who pays attention to his surroundings," Betony said, a subtle, knowing smile touching her lips. "People like you are rare."

Zaid looked at her for a long moment. He reached into his chest pocket, pulled out a matte-black military contact card with raised silver lettering, and extended it to her.

"That’s my direct line," Zaid said, his eyes holding hers with intense focus. "Not my office secretary. If you ever find yourself in a situation where you need quick answers or real protection call it. Anytime."

Betony took the card, her fingers brushing his palm. "I just might hold you to that, Officer."

By noon, Betony stepped back into the bustling newsroom.

Mr. Rogers met her near the printing bays, holding a clipboard. "Well? Did you get the Macaulay coverage finalized? He’s a tough nut to crack..."

Betony didn't answer. She pulled a folded sheet of paper from her pocket and dropped it onto his clipboard.

It was a formal notification of a fourteen-day unpaid leave of absence, effective immediately.

Rogers looked down at the paper, then glared up at her, his face turning blotchy red. "What is this nonsense? Leave? During peak quarterly reporting? I’m not approving this!"

"I wasn't asking for your approval, Mr. Rogers," Betony said smoothly, picking up her handbag from her desk. "I was giving you notice. I won't be in tomorrow." Several times in the past he had rejected her request for leave and she had always complied, against herself. Now she wasn't asking, she was taking it.

"If you walk out that door right now, you're fired!" Rogers shouted, his voice echoing through the open cubicles.

Betony didn't even pause. She gave him a cold, polite nod, turned on her heel, and walked straight out of the building into the afternoon heat.

Ten minutes later, she slid into the back seat of a yellow cab parked on the main avenue.

"Where to, miss?" the driver asked, checking his mirror.

Betony pulled out her notebook, opening it to her financial checklist.

"First National Bank on 5th," Betony said calmly. "And keep the meter running. We're making four more stops after that."

She rested her hand against the window, her thumb tracing the antique silver ring on her middle finger. The clock was ticking. It was time to drain the banks dry.