Total pages in book: 70
Estimated words: 67479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67479 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 337(@200wpm)___ 270(@250wpm)___ 225(@300wpm)
“That’s not happening. I’m not playing around, Maya.”
“Are you interested in that trashy-looking reporter at the door? You can see what she’s wearing, right? She’s only after you for your money.”
Surely, she isn’t talking about me.
Well, I suppose that’s the polite way of saying no to the interview. I’m not invested in Soren. Sure, the man knows how to use his tongue, but we’ve forgotten about that and moved past it like it never happened.
Soren’s eyes don’t leave his sister as he cuts her down. “Mind your fucking words in my office, Maya.”
Maya stands from her chair and leans over the desk. “You’re going to protect her over me?” she accuses.
I have no idea what she’s talking about.
What would Soren be protecting me from?
“No. I’ve told you and warned you, and you continue to not listen,” he replies.
She straightens, and her hand lands on her hip. “You can’t give up on me, Soren. We only have each other,” she states. Then she turns and walks past me, lifting her nose in the air as she goes. All I can do is stand rooted to the spot, wondering about the strange conversation I just witnessed. When I finally turn to face Soren, I find him sitting in his expensive executive chair, watching me as he taps a pen on the desk.
“You’re on time,” he notes.
“I am,” I reply. “Do I call you ‘boss’ now?” I keep my gaze on him as I take a seat.
“I prefer, sir.” His piercing gray eyes don’t waver, full of challenge. “But if ‘boss’ makes it easier for you. I won’t argue.” His lips twitch ever so slightly when he says it. “I actually called you here to fire you.”
At first, I think I didn’t hear him correctly. My brain just refuses to process it. But then he repeats it, and sure enough, I’m fucking fired. The word slams into me like a well-timed slap. Heat rushes to my face. Humiliation, hurt, and disbelief all tangled into one breathless second. I should say something. Fight back. But for one terrifying heartbeat, all I can do is stand there, stunned.
Was this his game plan all along?
To fuck with me?
Yes, he was my story, but I haven’t done anything to hurt his business. I only seek the truth.
“How dare you—”
“And promote you,” he says, not letting me finish. “I’ve read your articles. You’re a fantastic writer.”
For a second, I stare at him, my brain trying to catch up.
Promote. Not fire. Not ruin.
The pressure in my chest releases so fast I nearly sway.
“Thank you…” I manage, still stunned. “I think.”
“I recognize talent when I see it, Miss Knight.” There he is again, using my last name like that.
“Can you stop calling me that? It’s Noah’s family name.”
“Okay, Hurricane. Any other requests?”
“Is this to stop me from doing the story on you?”
He resumes tapping the pen. “I saw an opportunity and took it.”
“Okay, so why?”
“Why what?”
“Why buy the company where I work, fire me, then promote me to a different position?”
“I just told you the why, but you don’t seem very interested in listening.”
“Oh, I’m very interested in listening. What’s the job?”
“I want you to manage the newsroom here.” My eyes go wide. The newsroom? Like, where the stories are approved or rejected. He wants me in charge of that?
My heart stutters. That’s not just a promotion; it’s a power shift. One I was not expecting.
“What’s the catch?” I ask, already knowing.
“You drop the story on me.”
And there it is. The leash.
I rise, smoothing my expression into something polite. Controlled. Even as my insides are in tumult. “I’ll think on it,” I tell him, then turn to leave.
“You have until the end of the day. I’m in the ring tonight. I’ll see you there. You remember how to get there?”
“Yes.”
But the real answer is more complicated. I open the door, and I don’t look back as I walk out.
SIXTEEN
SOREN
My hands are wrapped, and I’m shirtless as I look out at the crowd. I don’t usually pay attention to the onlookers before a fight. I prefer my mind to be clear of anything and anyone before stepping into the ring. It’s how I drag myself back down to reality.
My father put me in boxing when I was young, and I’ve always loved it. It was probably one of the only good things he ever did for me before he died. All that pent-up aggression I had from losing him and my mother had to be sourced somewhere, and being left to raise my sick sister had to be let out somewhere. It just so happened that someone mentioned an underground fighting ring, so I went to watch and knew straightaway it was what I needed.
The following night, I asked if I could step into the ring and fight. The guy laughed in my face. Sure, I was tall enough, but I didn’t have the body of a fighter—too lean, too hollow from skipping meals. Our parents hadn’t left us with a damn thing. Even though growing up, we had money, it seems they owed a lot of people, so it was on me to find work wherever I could, scraping together cash just to keep us afloat. People are always surprised when they hear that part of my story because my grandparents were very wealthy. But my father blew it all on alcohol and gambling until there was nothing left but the house.