Chapter 1

Andrea

I slip through the office door at 9:47, shaking snow from my coat like a wet dog. My boots leave puddles on the industrial carpet, and powdered sugar from the donut between my teeth dusts my scarf. Not my finest entrance.

Deena glances up from her cubicle, eyebrows climbing. "Rough morning?"

"The subway decided to die at Grand Central." I shrug out of my coat, draping it over my chair. "And I needed carbs to survive."

Harry snorts from across the partition. "That's your third donut emergency this week."

"Don't judge me, Smith."

Leland spins in his chair, grinning. "Gregory's been prowling. Looked like he wanted blood."

My stomach drops. "Great."

"I'd say you're screwed, but that's stating the obvious." Tammy doesn't even look up from her screen, fingers flying across her keyboard.

I'm the youngest one here by a good five years, and they never let me forget it. But I've closed more stories in the past six months than Leland has in two years, so the teasing rolls off easy enough.

"Andrea!" Gregory's voice booms from his office, sharp as a whip crack.

The entire floor goes quiet.

I brush sugar off my blouse and square my shoulders. "Wish me luck."

"You'll need it," Deena mutters.

Gregory's office smells like stale coffee and old newspapers—a dinosaur's den in a digital world. He's hunched over his desk, glasses perched on his nose, looking every bit the grizzled journalist who's seen too much and trusts too little.

I close the door behind me. "Look, the train—"

"Sit down."

His tone stops me cold. Not angry. Something else. Something sharp and hungry.

I sit.

He studies me for a long moment, those piercing blue eyes cataloging every detail. Then he slides a folder across the desk.

"Preston Maverick," he says.

My hand freezes halfway to the folder. "The Preston Maverick?"

"You know another billionaire CEO with that fucking name?"

I flip it open. Inside are printed emails, blurry photos taken from a distance, time-stamped logs. My pulse kicks up as I scan the contents.

"He's having an affair?"

"With his twenty-six-year-old assistant." Gregory leans back, arms crossed. "Been going on for eight months. Fancy hotels, weekend trips to the Hamptons. The whole sordid cliché."

"Jesus." I flip through more photos. Preston Maverick, silver-haired and imposing, his hand on the small of a blonde woman's back as they enter a hotel. Another of them in a restaurant, leaning close. "How'd you get these?"

"I have a source. Respectable, credible, with access."

"Who?"

"Doesn't matter. What matters is this." He taps the folder with one thick finger. "This is the story that brings down Maverick Industries' golden boy image. The man's been untouchable for decades. Squeaky clean public persona while he guts companies and screws over workers behind closed doors."

I know Gregory's history with Maverick Industries. A story he worked on fifteen years ago got buried by their legal team, cost him a promotion, nearly cost him his career. He's been waiting for payback ever since.

"You want me to write the exposé?"

"I want you to get inside. Dig deeper. This affair is just the surface. Preston Maverick doesn't make mistakes, so if he's slipping here, he's slipping elsewhere. I want everything. The financial irregularities, the shady deals, the whole rotten core."

My mouth goes dry. "You want me to infiltrate Maverick Industries?"

"You're the only one who can do it." He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "You're young, smart, ambitious. You went to Harvard, for Christ's sake. You can blend in with those corporate types. Deena's too recognizable, Harry's too old, Leland's too incompetent, and Tammy would rather die than schmooze."

"Gregory—"

"This is your Watergate, Collins. Your Pentagon Papers. You break this story, and you'll have every major outlet in the country trying to poach you."

The offer dangles in front of me, glittering and dangerous. My brain's already spinning, thinking through angles, approaches, risks.

Then reality crashes in.

"I can't."

His eyes narrow. "Excuse me?"

"I have…" I swallow hard. "…history with that family."

"What kind of history?"

The words stick in my throat. I haven't talked about Wolfe in years. Haven't let myself think about him beyond the occasional 2 AM spiral when I've had too much wine.

"I dated Wolfe Maverick. In college."

The words hang in the air between us, heavy with implications I'm not ready to unpack.

Gregory goes very still. The kind of still that reminds me he wasn't always a desk jockey. That before the editorial meetings and budget cuts, he was out in the field, chasing leads and reading people like open books. "Preston's son."

"Yeah."

His gaze sharpens, calculating. "For how long?"

"A year." The memories flood back unbidden, unwanted. Late nights in the library where we'd pretend to study but mostly just talked about everything and nothing. His hand in mine as we walked through Harvard Yard in the fall, leaves crunching under our feet. The way he looked at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered. The way he made me believe I was. "It ended badly."

"How badly?"

I force myself to meet his eyes. "Badly enough that I haven't spoken to him since graduation."

The silence stretches. Gregory processes this information, his expression unreadable in that way that's made junior reporters squirm for decades. I can practically see the gears turning in his head, slotting this new piece into whatever puzzle he's been assembling.

Then, slowly, he smiles.

It's not a nice smile. It's the smile of a man who's just realized he's holding all the aces.

"That's perfect."

"What?"

"You have an in. A personal connection." He taps the folder again. "Wolfe Maverick is the VP of Operations. He has access to everything—his father's schedule, company files, internal communications. You rekindle that old flame, and suddenly you're inside the castle walls."

Ice slides down my spine. "You want me to use him?"

"I want you to do your job."

"That's—" I stand up, chair scraping. "That's not journalism, that's manipulation."

"It's investigation. You think Woodward and Bernstein got Deep Throat by being nice? You think every undercover reporter in history hasn't played a role?" He stands too, matching my energy with his grizzled intensity. "Preston Maverick has been destroying lives for profit for thirty years. His company's environmental violations alone have poisoned three communities. He's crushed unions, gutted pensions, and bought enough politicians to fill the Senate. And he does it all with a smile and a charitable foundation that's probably a tax shelter."

"I know—"

"So you also know that someone needs to stop him. And his son." Gregory's voice softens, just slightly. "His son is either complicit or he's a victim. Either way, he's your key."

I sink back into the chair, mind racing. Wolfe. God, I haven't even let myself cyberstalk him in years. What's he like now? Still the earnest, idealistic guy I fell for? Or has Preston molded him into a carbon copy?

"What if he sees right through me?" My voice comes out smaller than I'd like. "What if he wants nothing to do with me?"

"Then you pivot. But my guess? A man doesn't forget his college girlfriend. Especially not one who got away." Gregory's expression turns almost sympathetic. Almost. "Look, I'm not asking you to marry him. I'm asking you to get close enough to get the truth. Whatever that truth is."

"And if he's involved in his father's mess?"

"Then you expose him too."

The donut in my stomach turns to lead. But underneath the anxiety, there's something else. Curiosity. A spark of the old ambition that got me through Harvard, that landed me this job, that makes me good at what I do.

I stare at the folders spread across his desk. At the photos of Preston Maverick scattered among the documents—all silver-fox charm and carefully curated public image, hiding the rot underneath.

Right here in front of me is the chance to do something that actually matters. Something bigger than puff pieces and feel-good features.

"I'll need autonomy," I hear myself say, my voice steadier than I feel. "Full control of the investigation. Complete editorial independence. And if I find out Wolfe's clean, I'm not throwing him under the bus just for the story."

Gregory's smile returns, wolfish and deeply satisfied. "Deal."

I pick up both folders, holding them against my chest like armor. Like they might protect me from whatever the hell I'm about to walk into. "I'm going to need a new wardrobe. If I'm infiltrating that damn company, I can't show up in Target clearance."

"Expense it. Within reason."

"And therapy. Probably a lot of therapy."

"Don't push it, Collins."

I turn toward the door, my heart hammering against the folders pressed to my ribs, then pause with my hand on the doorknob. "Gregory? Why me? Really? You could've given this to someone with more experience. Someone who doesn't have... history."

He studies me for a long moment, his sharp blue eyes assessing. "Because you're hungry enough to take risks, but you've got enough heart to do it right. You won't cut corners just to get the story. You'll get the truth." He leans back in his chair. "And because I think you want answers about Wolfe Maverick as much as I want answers about his father."

Damn him for being right.

He's not wrong. Not even a little bit.

I leave his office, folders tucked under my arm like contraband, and nearly collide with Deena in the hallway. She's clearly been hovering, waiting for the verdict.

"Well?" She searches my face, eyes wide with concern. "Are you fired? Do I need to start writing your LinkedIn recommendation?"

"Worse," I say, still processing what I've just agreed to. "I'm going undercover."