Chapter 1 — The Downfall

Riley

The relentless hum of fluorescent lights filled the newsroom, a white noise Riley Monroe had once found soothing—proof of life, movement, purpose. Now, it pressed on her like an interrogation lamp, harsh and unyielding. She stared blankly at her computer screen, its bright glare throwing the headlines into sharp, mocking relief.

"Investigative Journalist's Exposé Crumbles Under Scrutiny."

"Monroe's Corporate Corruption Scandal: A Misstep in Journalism."

"Riley Monroe: Hero to Disgrace in 48 Hours."

The words crawled across the screen like venomous insects, stinging her pride with every read. She forced herself to look away, but the whispers in the newsroom were no gentler. They slithered through the air, weaving a net of judgment around her.

“…how could she miss something so obvious…”

“…gutsy, but reckless…”

“…you think she’ll survive this?”

Riley’s jaw tightened. Her hands hovered over the keyboard, trembling slightly before she clenched them into fists. The images from two days ago replayed in her mind, vivid and cruel. The CEO of Dermatech Pharmaceuticals had stood smug at the center of the conference room, dismantling her investigation piece by piece. A single retracted interview—a whistleblower who had flipped under pressure—had been enough to unravel her months of work.

She’d built her case meticulously, followed the threads relentlessly. She was so sure she had the truth. But truth didn’t matter anymore. Perception did. And the world now perceived Riley Monroe as a failure.

The weight of it all crashed over her like a wave. She leaned back in her chair, the newsroom fading into a blur of motion and noise. For a fleeting moment, she wondered what she would do if she couldn’t recover. Could she? The thought sat like a stone in her stomach, cold and heavy.

A sharp knock on the edge of her desk jolted her out of her spiral. She looked up to find Greg, her editor, standing over her. His shirt was wrinkled, and the deep crease between his eyebrows betrayed his exhaustion—or perhaps his disappointment.

“Monroe. My office. Now.”

The newsroom seemed to still as she stood, smoothing her blazer—a nervous reflex more than anything else. Her boots clicked against the polished floor as she followed him, every step amplifying the weight of the stares she imagined on her back. She kept her chin high, refusing to flinch.

Greg’s office was a glass box at the edge of the newsroom, its blinds half-drawn in a token effort at privacy. He shut the door behind her and gestured toward the chair opposite his desk.

“Sit.”

Riley obeyed, folding her arms tightly as she leaned back, projecting a confidence she didn’t feel. Greg sank into his chair with a weary sigh, rubbing a hand over his stubble. His desk was unusually bare, save for a coffee cup with a faint lipstick smudge on the rim and a single folder sitting squarely in the center. A family photo, slightly askew, sat tucked into the corner. Riley’s gaze lingered on it—a wife, two kids, a dog. Stability. A life outside this newsroom.

“You know why you’re here.” Greg’s voice was level, but the edge of resignation in it felt like a slap. “We need to talk about next steps.”

“Greg, I can fix this,” she cut in, leaning forward. “I just need time. There’s more to Dermatech—I know there is. If I can just—”

“Stop.” He raised a hand, his tone firm. “This isn’t about salvaging the story, Riley. That ship has sailed. The board is breathing down my neck, and they want this contained. Which means no more investigative pieces. Not for now.”

Her breath caught. “You’re benching me? After everything I’ve done for this paper?”

“I’m not benching you.” His voice sharpened. “I’m trying to give you a chance to regroup, to rebuild your credibility. But it won’t be here in Auckland.”

Riley blinked, her mind struggling to process his words. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Greg slid the folder across the desk toward her. She hesitated before opening it. The words “Willow Glen” stared back at her, accompanied by a photo of a quaint main street and a brief description.

“This can’t be serious,” she said, her voice thick with disbelief. “You’re sending me to write fluff pieces? Human-interest stories about sheep farmers and bake sales?”

“It’s a profile of a town fighting to survive,” Greg corrected. “They’re trying to secure a government grant to keep their community afloat. It’s a story with heart, with stakes—exactly what people want to read right now.”

“But I’m not a human-interest journalist,” she snapped. Her throat tightened as she added, “You can’t just demote me to… to this.”

“Riley.” Greg’s tone turned hard, his eyes locking on hers. “This isn’t a punishment. It’s an opportunity. You need to step back, recalibrate, and prove that you can still deliver something meaningful. If you nail this—write something that resonates—you’ll have a chance to work your way back. But if you keep fighting me on this, there won’t be anything left to work back to.”

The air seemed to thicken between them. Riley opened her mouth but found no words, her arguments crumbling under the weight of his logic. She glanced down at the folder again, her fingers brushing over the edges. The paper felt heavier than it should, as if it carried the sum of her failures.

“How long?” she asked finally, her voice quiet and strained.

“A month. Maybe two,” Greg said. “Enough time to write the piece and get your head straight.”

“And if I don’t?”

“You will,” he replied simply. “Because I know you, Riley. You don’t walk away from a challenge.”

The words should have felt reassuring, but they only made her chest ache. She stood abruptly, clutching the folder like a life raft. “Fine. I’ll do it. But don’t expect me to enjoy it.”

Greg offered her a faint smile, but she didn’t return it. Her boots echoed hollowly on the floor as she left his office, the newsroom’s buzz swallowing her whole. She dropped into her chair, staring at the folder in her hands. The photo of Willow Glen stared back at her—a snapshot of rustic charm that felt like a taunt.

Her gaze flicked to her ID badge lying next to her keyboard. The shiny plastic felt like a relic of a life she no longer recognized. For a moment, she considered leaving it all behind—storming out of the building and never looking back.

Instead, she opened a blank document and began typing. The words came slowly, each sentence laced with bitterness and determination.

She wasn’t about to let this be the end of her career. Not yet.