Chapter 2 — Under the Spotlight

Jake

Jake Bennett adjusted the lanyard around his neck, the edges of his press pass grazing the buttons of his shirt. The laminated card—and everything it represented—seemed heavier than it should, a physical reminder of both his return and the privilege he was determined not to lose again. Stepping into the newsroom, he was hit by a sensory barrage: the rhythmic clatter of keyboards, the persistent trill of ringing phones, the murmured exchanges of hurried voices threading through the space like a living pulse. The faint smell of stale coffee and printer ink hung in the air, grounding the scene in gritty reality.

He paused just inside the threshold, scanning the room. The newsroom was a study in contradictions—cluttered desks stacked with papers and Styrofoam coffee cups juxtaposed with the sleek glow of monitors displaying polished headlines. The sharp hum of the overhead studio lights added a faint undertone to the chaos. Jake smirked faintly. It was an ecosystem of precision and barely-contained turbulence, and he couldn’t help but feel the familiar spark of adrenaline. This was where he belonged, where the stakes were high, and every choice mattered. After years of watching from the sidelines, it was good to be back.

But the whispers started before he could take his second step. A group of writers near a bank of monitors angled their heads toward one another, their voices just loud enough to carry.

“That’s him,” one said. “The scandal guy.”

Another chuckled under their breath. Jake’s jaw tightened, and his stride faltered for the briefest of moments before he squared his shoulders and pressed on. He wasn’t here to make friends. The weight of their judgment prickled at the back of his neck, but he refused to let it show. His press pass hung against his chest, a reminder of why he was here: to prove he still had what it took.

“Bennett!”

The voice cut through the din, clear and cheerful, and Jake turned to see a wiry man threading his way through the desks. Elliot Marsh approached with a wide grin, his cardigan slightly askew and a chipped ceramic mug in hand, emblazoned with a sci-fi quote Jake couldn’t place. The man’s energy was infectious, a sharp contrast to the wary glances Jake had been collecting like currency since walking in.

“Elliot Marsh,” the man announced, his hand thrust forward. “Head writer. Welcome to the circus.”

Jake took the offered hand, his smirk softening into something more genuine. “Good to know somebody here knows how to say hello.”

Elliot chuckled, taking a long sip from his mug. “Oh, don’t get too comfortable. They’ll warm up to you once they realize you’re not here to burn the place down. Probably. Let me guess—you’ve already gotten the side-eyes, the whispers, and maybe even one of Mia’s patented death glares?”

Jake chuckled low. “She’s definitely... efficient.”

Elliot lowered his voice, leaning in with a conspiratorial grin. “That’s one way to put it. Don’t take it personally. She’s like that with everyone. Except maybe Laura, but that’s a whole other soap opera.”

Jake arched an eyebrow, curiosity snagging. “What’s Laura’s deal?”

Elliot nodded toward the corner of the room. Laura King stood near a junior producer, her crimson blazer cutting a striking figure against the muted tones of the newsroom. Her sharp eyes flicked briefly toward Jake, narrowing slightly before she turned back to her conversation with a polished smile. Even from a distance, her presence was magnetic, every movement deliberate.

“She’s... territorial,” Elliot said, his tone light but meaningful. “She likes being the star of the show. Good luck with that.”

“Noted,” Jake said, filing the observation away.

Elliot motioned for him to follow, weaving through the maze of desks with practiced ease. “Come on. Let me show you to the war room.”

As Jake followed, the weight of the newsroom’s collective gaze settled on him like an invisible shroud. The silent scrutiny was nothing new—he’d felt it before, years ago, clawing his way up the ranks in journalism. That same unspoken challenge pulsed in the air: prove yourself. Jake’s fingers brushed against the press pass again, grounding himself as he pushed forward.

By the time they reached the glass-walled conference room, the faint hum of monitors and the clatter of keyboards faded into the background. Inside, Mia Carter stood at the head of the table, her executive notebook open in front of her. Her tailored blazer was immaculate, every detail of her appearance exuding precision and control. She didn’t glance up immediately, her pen hovered midair as though caught between jotting down a thought or dismissing it. When her green eyes finally met his, they were piercing, devoid of warmth.

“You’re late,” she said, her voice clipped and deliberate.

Jake leaned against the doorframe, his smirk returning. “Didn’t realize I was punching a time clock.”

“You’re always on the clock here,” Mia replied, gesturing to the chair at the opposite end of the table. “Sit. We need to talk about your pitch.”

Jake took the seat, leaning back casually. “I take it you’ve had a chance to read it?”

Mia’s gaze flicked to her notebook, her manicured nails tapping softly against the cover. “I have. And while your enthusiasm is... commendable, a story linking one of our major sponsors to a corruption scandal is risky at best.”

“Risky gets attention,” Jake countered, leaning forward now. “And isn’t that the point? Attention. Ratings. Relevance. You want to shake things up? This story does that.”

Her jaw tightened slightly, but she didn’t respond immediately. Instead, she flipped a page in her notebook, her expression carefully composed. Jake caught himself noticing the small details—the faint furrow between her brows, the way her fingers paused briefly over the pen as though reconsidering her next move.

“Risky also attracts lawsuits,” Mia said finally, her tone measured. “And in case you haven’t noticed, Sunrise Daily isn’t exactly in the business of alienating our sponsors.”

Jake’s smirk flickered, replaced by a faint shadow of something darker. “Let me be clear—I don’t gamble with facts. My sources are solid, and I know what’s at stake. I’m not here to crash your show. I’m here to prove that real journalism still matters.”

Her expression remained unreadable, and the silence stretched between them like taut string. Jake could almost see the calculations in her mind, the careful weighing of risks and rewards.

Elliot’s voice broke through the tension like a pin popping a balloon. “Well, this is fun,” he said, grinning broadly from his spot near the door. “Let me just grab some popcorn.”

Mia shot him a sharp look. “Don’t you have scripts to finalize?”

“Already done, boss,” Elliot said, raising his mug in a mock toast. “But I’ll leave you two to... bond.”

He disappeared with a laugh, leaving the air between Jake and Mia charged once again. Jake leaned forward, his tone softening but staying firm. “You don’t have to trust me. Trust the story. Give me a week, and I’ll bring something to the table that people won’t just watch—they’ll talk about.”

Mia’s gaze didn’t waver as she closed her notebook with a soft thud. “One week,” she said, rising and gathering her things. “And if you so much as breathe the wrong way, I’ll shut it down. Understood?”

Jake rose as well, his smirk sharpening into something steeled with determination. “Crystal clear.”

As Mia strode out, her heels clicking against the tile, Jake turned to glance at the newsroom beyond the glass walls. The weight of judgment still hung heavy, but this time, he let it fuel him. One week. He’d make it count.