Chapter One

The newsroom was loud enough to lift the ceiling. Everyone was crowded around Scarlett Conti’s desk.

My editor-in-chief, Mr. Clark, looked openly pleased behind his glasses. “As expected of a top Columbia Journalism grad, Miss Conti. Congratulations. The assignment went out yesterday, and today you already secured exclusive interview permission from the Moretti family’s don—Mr. Vincent Moretti.”

He swept his gaze around the room, voice rising. “You all know the rule: Mr. Moretti doesn’t do interviews. Everyone on the East Coast media circuit knows it’s ironclad. The Moretti family doesn’t need media hype—Vincent Moretti is a brand in and of himself, the strongest kind.”

Scarlett Conti’s mouth curved into a flawless smile, her long blond hair catching the overhead light.

“It’s my honor, Mr. Clark. I only did what I should.” Her voice was clear, humble in exactly the right measure.

Around her, the team erupted into louder amazement and flattery. And fair enough: since Vincent Moretti took over the family business, no newspaper, TV station, or magazine had ever landed an on-camera sit-down with him. His face existed only in courtroom sketches, blurred long-lens photos, and the city’s back-alley legends.

I forced my lips into something that barely qualified as a smile. My fingers tightened unconsciously around the pen in my hand.

Me—Evelyn Ross—I’d been at *The Eastern Beacon* for five years.

I started on neighborhood burglary reports. I worked my way up to deep-diving port smuggling rings—came close to getting tossed into the ocean as fish food. Five years of sweat, blood, and yes, tears, just to reach the threshold of chief investigative reporter.

One final step.

Then yesterday, without warning, HR dropped a notice like a brick: a new investigative reporter was parachuted straight into our core unit. Scarlett Conti. She looked like she’d stepped off a Hollywood set, and her résumé was blinding—an Ivy League undergrad, a Columbia master’s in journalism, fluent in three languages, plus internships at top-tier European media outlets. When she introduced herself, she was poised, gracious, her eyes sweeping over every one of us.

“Hi, everyone. I’m Scarlett Conti. I may have the academic background, but on the real front lines of news, I’m still new. I hope I can learn from all of you.”

She was polite, no attitude, and she won a lot of goodwill instantly. But when her gaze met mine for a brief second, the quick flash of a smile—so faint it was almost nothing—pricked like a needle.

That wasn’t shyness. There was something else in it.

And then that morning, she and I were called into Mr. Clark’s office alone.

Mr. Clark rubbed his hands, looking from me to her. “Evelyn, Scarlett. You both know this: whoever gets Vincent Moretti’s interview becomes the next chief of Investigations. This is your final test—fair competition.” He emphasized the last two words.

In that moment, a ridiculous certainty swept through me.

Because Vincent Moretti—the name the whole city feared and respected—was my husband.

My husband, in a secret marriage.

When we left the editor’s office and stepped into the hallway, Scarlett offered her hand first. Her fingers were long and elegant, nails trimmed to perfection. “Hi, Evelyn. Can I call you Eve? Or… Ross?” She paused, then added, “I know you. I read your series on the dockworkers’ union. It was excellent.”

My brow lifted. She didn’t just know my name—she’d done homework.

“Thank you.” I shook her hand lightly; her skin felt cool. “Evelyn is fine. Welcome aboard, Miss Conti.”

We exchanged contact information and walked to the elevator in silence, passing out through the heavy glass doors of the building into the noisy street. Early autumn wind already carried a bite.

Just as I was about to say goodbye, she spoke—quietly, but the sound slid cleanly into my ear.

“Evelyn.”

I stopped and looked at her.

She met my eyes. There was no polite smile now—only something sharp, naked, unmistakably a challenge.

“We,” she said slowly, each word polished to a blade, “are competing fairly.”

It was just a chief reporter position.

But what I saw in her eyes went far beyond that.

As if what we were fighting over had never been only a title.