1

Anya’s pov

I closed my laptop with a quiet, decisive thud—the sound of a door slamming shut on an entire career. Below the screen, the final headline of the night glared back at me: Kai Rhodes: A Monument to Mediocrity, Or Just a Man Who Needs a New Hobby? It was vicious. It was unfair. It was exactly what our readers at The Spotlight loved.

“Three thousand words of pure, unadulterated bile, Anya,” Maya’s voice chirped from the Bluetooth speaker in the corner of my small, cramped office. She was probably balancing her phone on her shoulder while stirring her third cup of coffee, despite the clock pushing past midnight. “Did you really have to use the word ‘flaccid’ seven times to describe his latest live album?”

I stretched, wincing as my back protested the long hours hunched over this cheap, second-hand desk. The chair cushion was flat enough to be a decorative coaster.

“It was artistically justified, Maya,” I retorted, pulling my messy, dark hair into a tighter bun. “The man has been phoning it in for three years. He thinks his brooding good looks are a substitute for a decent guitar riff. Someone has to say it. And that someone is me.”

And that someone is me. I repeated the phrase silently. Anya Sharma, The Critic. It was a persona I’d built meticulously, sharp-tongued, untouchable, the queen of the take-down. It paid the bills, and not just the small ones. The Spotlight was a wildfire, and I was the accelerant.

But I hated it.

I hated spending my nights dissecting the life of a rich, miserable thirty-year-old musician. I especially hated that the musician was Kai Rhodes, the one person on this earth I was probably legally related to and certainly despised the most. I hated it, but I did it. Because The Critic had a much more important alter-ego, The Crusader.

“Look, I get the journalistic integrity bit,” Maya conceded, her voice softening. “But your obsession with Kai borders on the clinical. You could have reviewed anyone—that pop princess with the awful new video—but you always go for him.”

I leaned back, running a hand over the rough, brown canvas of my father’s old messenger bag. “He’s an easy target, Maya. Low-hanging fruit for high-traffic views. We need the views. The views bring the ads. The ads bring the money.”

And the money… the money was the only reason I was still in this tiny office above a laundromat, sacrificing my social life, and, honestly, my soul.

I reached for the bag. “Enough about the King of Brood Rock. Did you get those documents scanned for me? I need to review them before I hit the road tomorrow.”

“Yes, they’re in the shared folder,” she replied, a hint of exhaustion in her voice. “The permit application, the budget proposal, the full pitch deck for the corporate sponsors. All ready for The North Star Foundation.”

I felt a genuine smile finally break through the tight mask I wore for my readers. That name, The North Star Foundation, felt like cool water on a scorching day. It was my north star. It was my everything.

“Maya, you are a saint. I love you,” I whispered, already clicking open the heavily encrypted folder.

“I know. But you love those documents more,” she shot back. “Seriously, though, when are you going to stop writing those takedowns and start focusing on the actual launch? You’re making serious bank now, Anya. Why the extra pressure?”

I stared at the thick, bound legal documents resting on the desk. They were the key. The literal key to saving lives, to giving people the second chance my mother never got.

I closed my eyes, and the image flashed, not the bright lights of a celebrity concert, but the brutal, sterile white light of a hospital room years ago. The smell of antiseptic. My mother, her face impossibly still, her journey tragically ended because the right support, the right sanctuary, wasn’t there when she crossed the border. That memory—that devastating, silent grief—was the engine that ran my life.

“It’s not enough, Maya,” I said, my voice dropping to a low, serious tone. “The initial funding for the operational costs is there, yes. But I need a huge, non-negotiable lump sum—a serious anchor investor—to guarantee the first two years of the legal aid program and, more importantly, secure the land for the community center. Without that, it’s just a nice idea. I need it to be a sanctuary.”

I looked at the stack of Spotlight contracts, the massive bonuses tied to traffic. The ugly calculus was simple: the bigger my hatred for Kai Rhodes was, the better my takedowns were, and the more likely I was to get the money that would ultimately save someone else’s mother.

“The more traffic, the more leverage I have to get that big deal,” I explained. “I’m close. So close. Just one last, massive cash injection, and then The Critic can retire.”

“Fine. Just… be careful,” Maya warned. “And about that road trip tomorrow? That hot doctor in Chicago? Is the appointment still on, or is The Crusader keeping you chained to the desk?”

I felt a familiar flutter of anticipation, the promise of a brief, interstate escape from this suffocating office, a few hours of pure, uncomplicated physical distraction. “The plane leaves at noon. I’m just trying to clear the deck. Why?”

“Just checking. Don’t want your scalpel getting rusty on the personal side of things. Okay, Crusader. Now go get some sleep.”

“I will,” I said, managing a final, exhausted smile. I disconnected the call, pushed the Spotlight laptop to the side, and pulled the North Star documents toward me.

It must have been close to three in the morning when my phone, resting quietly next to the NGO binder, vibrated, startling me.

It was a generic, automated news alert from an industry wire service. The headline was stark, the language brief, and the content horrifying.

BREAKING: Popular love song Musician Kai Rhodes Involved in Serious Automotive accident.

My heart, which had been beating steadily with the purpose of The Crusader, suddenly lurched and stalled. I frantically clicked the alert. The article was a bare-bones summary, but the key was buried deep: Sources confirmed the accident occurred approximately one week ago, and his team has been desperately trying to suppress the news. The severity, which includes a serious, career-threatening injury, has finally leaked due to pressure from his major sponsors.

It wasn't a fresh accident; it was a crisis that had just become public. His team had lost control.

I felt a sudden, sickening jolt… not of grief, but of something far colder and more professional. The Critic immediately recognized the opportunity. This wasn’t just traffic; it was a phenomenon. This was the kind of explosive exclusive that could secure my foundation’s future tonight. The thought sent a jolt of exhilaration, a dark, professional thrill that instantly made the idea of a simple “dick appointment” tomorrow feel small and dull.

Before I could even process the professional implications, a new, more specific, more focused email notification chimed on my main computer screen.

The subject line was simply: RE: Kai Rhodes Coverage.

The sender was Ethan Cole.

Ethan Cole. Kai Rhodes’s ruthlessly ambitious, brilliantly sharp manager. And my longtime, secret crush. He was the one man in the industry I respected—a financial and PR genius wrapped in a suit that looked like it was tailored by a god.

My hands were shaking as I clicked the email open. It was short, formal, and utterly life-changing.

Anya…

I saw your recent piece on Kai. Aggressive, as always. You have the access, the name recognition, and frankly, the unique perspective we need.

Kai is stable, but the situation is severe. The career-threatening injury is confirmed. I need the definitive story of his recovery and comeback. Not a smear piece. The authorized story.

I want The Critic to write the only official account. I’m offering an exclusive contract. The terms are non-negotiable. The payout is substantial enough to launch your Foundation tomorrow.

Call me immediately. I have a plane to catch.

Ethan C.

I read the words “substantial enough to launch your Foundation tomorrow” three times. The blood rushed out of my head, replaced by a dizzying mixture of professional shock, forbidden opportunity, and a sudden, sharp thrill. The money was salvation. The chance to work with Ethan was intoxicating. The subject was the man I hated most.

I glanced at the two laptops sitting side-by-side on my desk: the one with the hateful article about Kai and the one with the beautiful, desperate plans for the North Star Foundation.

This wasn’t just money. This was the final key.

I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my phone, and the Chicago doctor was instantly forgotten. To save my mother’s legacy, to work with the man I secretly admired, and to finally get close enough to destroy the man I despised, I was about to walk into the viper’s nest.

My finger hovered over Ethan Cole’s number, the thrill of the chase overriding every single moral and personal warning in my head. I hit the call button. The dial tone sounded like a countdown to my destruction. I was exchanging my personal life, my morals, and my immediate future for one single, dangerous contract, and I didn’t care.

The phone connected. I could hear the faint, frantic sound of an airport lobby on Ethan’s end.

“Ethan Cole,” he answered, his voice sharp, rushed, and utterly magnetic.

I swallowed, my own voice trembling slightly with the weight of the lie I was about to tell. “This is Anya Sharma. The Critic. You have my attention.”

There was a pause on the line, a long, charged silence where I could hear him inhaling.

“Good,” he said, the single word cutting through the noise. “Now listen closely, Anya. There’s one more thing you need to know about this deal, and this piece of information is precisely why I chose you.”

Okay.. slow down now cowboy, what could this be.