2

~Anya

The call with Ethan Cole had lasted precisely eight minutes and thirty-two seconds. When I finally hung up, the silence in my tiny office was immediately swallowed by the chaotic ringing in my ears.

Kai has absolutely no idea you’re coming.

The audacity of those words, delivered with Ethan’s surgical precision, sent a hot, sickening rush through me. This wasn’t a journalistic opportunity; it was an ambush. Ethan wasn’t hiring a writer; he was hiring a Trojan Horse, and the man I hated was about to be blindsided. The professional thrill was immense, but it was mixed with a sudden, clammy realization: I was walking into a trap set by my secret crush against my step-brother. This was going to be ugly, complicated, and possibly disastrous.

Ethan had been all business—cold, concise, and utterly compelling. He hadn’t asked if I was capable, he had simply stated that I was the only person for the job. He knew about my ambition, about The Spotlight’s savage reach, and he understood the brutal psychology of public opinion.

He’d bypassed the years of hatred simply because I was the best public hater of Kai Rhodes. If The Critic, the woman who had routinely called him a “monument to mediocrity” could be convinced of his authentic comeback, the public would have no choice but to believe it, too. I wasn’t just a writer; I was a journalistic lie detector whose professional co-sign was invaluable. I was a weapon he was hiring.

The payout was astronomical. Enough to secure the community center land, hire the core legal team, and stabilize The North Star Foundation for three full years. My mother’s legacy was within reach. It wasn’t just a game-changer; it was a mission accomplished.

And all I had to do was write a sympathetic, authorized biography of the one person I had spent the last five years trying to publicly dismantle: my step-brother, Kai Rhodes. The thought made my stomach clench with an unpleasant mix of triumph and professional revulsion.

And what about Kai? The idea of seeing him again—let alone working alongside him for a month—sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with old, festering hatred.

Kai Rhodes. The name was like a rusted razor blade on my tongue.

Our history was a brutal family collision, not a celebrity feud. It began seven years ago when my father, Mr. Sharma, a shrewd but financially struggling real estate developer, married Eleanor Rhodes, a woman of mythic wealth. Kai was twenty-three then, already famous, and he viewed my father as a manipulative gold-digger who had leached his way into the family. And me? I was the collateral damage, the “little leech” who was counting the spoils.

I remembered the confrontation in the Rhodes dining room—the first, and only, time we truly spoke. I was twenty-one, fresh out of college, sitting at the massive mahogany dining room table in his mother’s estate, studying my budget spreadsheets.

Kai walked in, smelling of patchouli, expensive leather, and pure, concentrated contempt. He was impossibly tall, with sharp, angular bone structure, and his eyes—the color of a stormy green-gray ocean—fixed on me with a terrifying intensity.

“What is she doing here?” he’d demanded, his voice low and gravelly.

My father had tried to intervene. “Kai, this is Anya. My daughter. She’s studying—”

“I know who she is,” Kai cut him off. “The little leech. Does the entire family business transfer over in the divorce, or just the tacky furniture you brought with you?”

My father went pale. My own mother had died just the year before, and I was fiercely protective of my dad, despite his sometimes questionable business morals. I remembered gripping the edge of the table until my knuckles turned white.

“My father is not a leech,” I snapped back, standing up so our eyes were nearly level, despite the difference in our height. “He loves your mother. And unlike you, the self-obsessed little artist, he actually works for a living.”

“Works for a living?” Kai sneered, taking a step closer, crowding my space. “He’s running a Ponzi scheme on my mother’s estate, and you’re here, counting the spoils. Get out of my house. Both of you.”

The fight escalated, spiraling quickly into years of cold, mutual resentment. I saw him as the quintessential spoiled star, wealthy, entitled, and incapable of appreciating anything outside his own self-pity. He saw me as the manipulative daughter of the man who dared to touch his family’s sacred money.

When Eleanor Rhodes passed away two years later, the will became a legal battlefield. My father got a substantial, but not astronomical, settlement. Kai got the bulk of the estate, and with it, his freedom from the Sharmas.

The official family link was severed, but the hate remained. His manager, Ethan, used my father’s legal involvement as an excuse to block me from covering any Kai Rhodes story. It was the only thing that made me angrier than the hatred itself.

I realized the only way to get close enough to earn the money I needed was to build a public persona so toxic, so notorious, that no contract could exclude me. That was the birth of The Critic. I had stopped writing about local theater and started writing venom about the privileged celebrity class, with Kai as my constant, primary target. I had destroyed his image piece by piece, not because I truly believed he was worthless, but because I knew it drove traffic, and traffic was money. I had called his last album a “symphony of self-indulgence” and suggested his stage presence was “less rock star, more over-caffeinated mime.”

And now, here I was, hired to write his redemption story. The irony was a bitter pill I was eager to swallow.

I opened Ethan’s email again. The news reports confirmed the dominant left hand was severely damaged, requiring multiple surgeries. The prognosis for full recovery was poor. For Kai, who played complex, furious guitar riffs, his hands were everything. His talent wasn’t just his voice; it was the ferocious, almost violent passion with which he commanded the instrument. Losing that would be losing his identity.

I felt a small, unexpected prick of genuine sorrow. Not for Kai the spoiled person I hated, but for Kai the artist I secretly, grudgingly admired. To have that gift, that primal ability to connect with millions through music, snatched away by fate seemed cruelly unfair.

But my rational brain quickly squashed that sentiment. He’s rich. He’ll be fine. This is just a plot twist for his next arena tour.

My phone rang, making me jump. It was Maya.

“Anya, I just saw the news! Kai Rhodes! Are you okay? I know you hate him, but you must be devastated for the traffic.”

I took a deep breath. “Maya, something huge just happened. Ethan Cole just emailed me. He’s offering me the authorized story of Kai’s comeback. Exclusive, unlimited access for a month.”

A stunned silence followed. Then, Maya’s voice came back, slow and laced with suspicion. “Wait. Ethan Cole? The guy who has hated The Spotlight since the will reading? Why you? And why now?”

“He says I have the right perspective. He’s offering a contract for enough to launch the Foundation tomorrow, Maya. Enough for the land.”

“No. Way,” she breathed. “That’s insane. It’s a miracle! But Anya, be careful. That family history is a powder keg. Why would they let you anywhere near him, knowing what you write? There has to be a catch.”

I knew there had to be a catch. Ethan Cole didn’t give away eight-figure deals for charity. But I was so blinded by the vision of the North Star Foundation’s successful launch, the images of immigrant families finally safe and supported, that I pushed the warning away.

“I’m meeting him tomorrow morning. I’ll read every clause. I promise. But Maya, I can’t pass this up. This is it. This is the exit plan for The Critic. One month, and I save my life’s mission.”

“Just don’t forget who you’re dealing with,” Maya warned, her voice tight. “Anya, you’re walking into a deal brokered by your secret crush to write about the man you publicly hate, all while chasing a legacy tied to your family’s deepest pain. That’s not a story, that’s a tragedy waiting to happen.”

“It’s going to be a success story,” I corrected her, my voice steeling with professional resolve.

I looked back down at the news alert about Kai’s broken hand. The spoiled star, wounded, silent, and vulnerable. The perfect subject for a comeback narrative.

This contract wasn’t just a job. It was a chance for vindication, money, and maybe, just maybe, the validation of a crush. I had three distinct, desperate agendas that had just perfectly aligned:

The Crush: Get closer to Ethan Cole, the man who held the keys to my journalistic future and maybe more.

The Cash: Secure the life-changing money for the NGO, fulfilling my mother’s legacy.

The Critic: Get enough dirt on Kai Rhodes to finally ruin him, once and for all, proving that my initial judgment that he was a self-obsessed parasite was correct.

I didn’t sleep that night. I didn’t need to. The hatred that had defined my life, the ambition that fueled my career, and the mission that consumed my soul had just perfectly aligned. I was ready for war.

I grabbed my phone, ready to send one final text to Ethan before booking my flight. I had saved my mother’s legacy, secured my future, and set myself on a collision course with the man I crushed on and the man I despised. I felt a surge of exhilarating, terrifying power.

The phone buzzed in my hand just as I was typing Ethan’s number. It wasn’t him. It was a text message from an unknown number.

My heart dropped to my stomach, and every air in the room suddenly felt trapped. The text was short, personal, and utterly devastating to my carefully constructed v professional armor. It didn’t mention the contract or the money.

It only mentioned the thing I had worked so hard to keep hidden.