CHAPTER 9

ELLE

The photo surfaces at 11:47 PM Saturday night.

I'm in bed, scrolling through Twitter like I do every night (a habit I should break), when I see it: a grainy image of two people at a restaurant table, faces obscured by lighting and distance, but the body language unmistakable. The man is leaning forward. The woman is touching his hand across the table. The caption reads: "Mysterious Dinner: Who is Blake Delvalle's new flame?"

My stomach drops.

It's not recognizable as me. Not really. The lighting is too dim, the angle too distant. Someone would have to know what to look for to identify me in that photo.

But someone will look. Someone always looks.

The photo is retweeted 347 times by the time I refresh. By midnight, it's on three different sports gossip blogs. By 1 AM, there are speculation threads about who Blake's mystery woman is. By 2 AM, my phone buzzes with a text from an unknown number: "Hey Elle, it's Derek from the team. Saw a photo of you and Blake. Want to comment?"

Derek doesn't have my number. I didn't give him my number. Someone gave him my number, which means someone on the team or in the organization already knows or is figuring out who I am.

I don't sleep.

By 7 AM Monday morning, I have seventeen missed calls. Most of them are from unknown numbers. Two are from Sienna. One is from my mom, which I can't bring myself to listen to.

My phone rings again at 7:43 AM.

"Elle." Sienna's voice is sharp. "My office. Now."

I don't say anything. I just drive.

The Riverside Chronicle newsroom is quiet when I arrive—most people aren't in yet—and I've never felt more exposed walking toward Sienna's glass office. She's already at her desk, coffee in hand, her expression unreadable.

"Close the door," she says.

I close it.

"Are you involved with Blake Delvalle?"

The question is direct. There's no room for maneuvering. I could lie—I could say the photo is just two colleagues having dinner, discussing the story, nothing more. I could gaslight her into believing there's nothing here to worry about.

I open my mouth to do exactly that.

And I see something in her face—not judgment, exactly, but recognition—and the lie dies on my tongue.

"It's complicated," I say instead.

Sienna sets down her coffee. She leans back in her chair. And she watches me with the kind of careful attention that makes my skin crawl.

"Tell me," she says.

So I do. I tell her about Blake and me, five years ago. I tell her about the assignment, about my refusal, about walking back in anyway. I tell her about the photos, about the deal, about the fact that I agreed to stay embedded in exchange for... what? Leverage? Proximity? The chance to prove I was over him?

I don't tell her about Saturday night. About Blake admitting he was wrong. About him saying the deal was off and the photos were destroyed. About the moment when I thought maybe we could actually fix this.

"You lied to me," Sienna says quietly.

"I didn't—"

"You told me you could handle this assignment objectively. You told me there was no conflict of interest. You looked me in the eye and you lied."

"There's no bias in my work—"

"I don't care about your work right now. I care about the fact that you compromised your credibility and my publication's credibility the moment you got involved with him again." She stands up, and she's furious in a way that makes me want to disappear. "Do you understand what this photo means? Do you understand that every piece you've written is now going to be questioned? That sponsors are going to pull out? That you've just torpedoed your own career?"

"The photo doesn't prove anything—"

"The photo doesn't need to prove anything. The rumor is enough."

And that's when my phone buzzes.

I look down, and there's a tweet from @SportsGossipDaily:

"CONFIRMED: Blake Delvalle's mystery woman is Elle Bloom, journalist covering The Forge for the Riverside Chronicle. Are we trusting her coverage? THREAD:"

The thread has thirty-seven tweets. Thirty-seven tweets breaking down every piece I've written, analyzing them for bias, suggesting that my criticism of Blake's playing style was either a power play or proof that I was "trying to hide the relationship." Thirty-seven tweets from people who've never met me, analyzing my motives, my credibility, my character.

"Oh God," I whisper.

My phone is blowing up now. Actual reporters are calling. Other journalists are texting. My mom has left four voicemails. There's an email from Chronicle management marked URGENT.

"You need to talk to legal," Sienna says, and her voice has shifted from fury to something more complex. Resignation, maybe. "Because this is about to get a lot worse."

By noon, it's worse.

A sports blogger has published a detailed breakdown of my coverage arguing that my criticism of Blake was a "power play to maintain journalistic integrity while hiding a personal relationship." Another blogger is suggesting that my positive coverage of the team's other players was "overcompensation to hide bias toward Blake."

Nobody has actual proof of anything. But proof doesn't matter. Narrative matters. And the narrative is: Elle Bloom, ambitious journalist, got involved with the team captain, lost her objectivity, and is now being exposed.

My boss, Richard, calls me at 12:30 PM.

"We need to talk about your objectivity," he says without preamble.

"Richard, I—"

"A sponsor just pulled out. They're concerned about bias. Three other sponsors are watching to see how we handle this." His voice is tight. "What exactly is your relationship with Blake Delvalle?"

"It's complicated. We knew each other years ago, and—"

"I don't want complicated. I want a clear answer. Are you dating him?"

I think about Saturday night. About Blake saying the deal was off. About the moment before the photo was taken when I thought maybe we could actually fix this.

"No," I lie.

But Richard doesn't believe me. I can hear it in his silence.

"We're pulling you from the assignment," he says finally. "Effective immediately. You're no longer embedded with The Forge."

"What? Richard, you can't—"

"I can, and I am. Your credibility is compromised. The publication's credibility is compromised. We need separation, and we need it now."

He hangs up.

I sit in my car in the Chronicle parking lot, and I'm shaking, and I'm trying to breathe, and I'm understanding with perfect clarity that Blake has destroyed me. Not intentionally, maybe, but just by being Blake. Just by existing in my life and making me small enough to fit inside his orbit.

The paparazzi photo was an accident. The leak from someone on the team was inevitable. But the fallout—the career destruction, the credibility questions, the sponsors pulling out—that's all on me for being stupid enough to think I could embed with my ex and maintain professional distance.

Sienna texts me at 2 PM:

"We need to discuss next steps. Come back in at 4."

I don't go back in. Instead, I drive to a coffee shop and sit in a corner booth with a cup of coffee I don't drink, and I scroll through my phone watching my career implode in real time.

By 4 PM, there are over two hundred tweets tagged #BlakeBloom (they've already created a hashtag). By 5 PM, a major sports outlet has picked up the story. By 6 PM, it's trending on Twitter.

And Blake hasn't said anything.

He hasn't defended me. He hasn't clarified the relationship. He hasn't done anything except exist, which is apparently enough to burn my entire professional life down.

My phone rings at 6:47 PM.

It's Blake.

"I'm sorry," he says immediately. "Elle, I'm so sorry. I didn't know—"

"Save it," I say, and my voice is ice. "You destroyed me."

"I didn't—"

"You destroyed me, Blake. My career is over. My credibility is gone. Every piece I've written is being questioned. Sponsors are pulling out. And you did this."

"Elle, I would never—"

"This is exactly what you wanted, isn't it?" I'm shaking now, but my voice is steady. "You wanted everyone to know I was yours. You wanted me exposed. You wanted my career to implode so I'd have nothing left but you."

"That's not true—"

"Isn't it?" I hang up.

I turn off my phone.

I sit in the coffee shop booth, and I understand that I've made the worst decision of my life, and there's no walking it back now.

Everything is burning, and I'm the one who lit the match.