The editors, the editor-in-chief, and The Sunny's director were already seated when Saul opened the meeting room door. The atmosphere carried a solemn air, infused with the director's expensive cologne and the metallic scent of freshly brewed coffee. The oval mahogany table reflected the overhead lights and supported twelve perfectly aligned black leather chairs.
The assistant editor remained at the end closest to the entrance, sitting across from Francis Bishop.
The newspaper's powerful boss, at fifty-four, was a man whose presence dominated any room. Tall, obese, and sporting a gleaming bald head that shimmered under the white lights, Francis wore clothes slightly smaller than his measurements demanded.
The folds of his shirts revealed bulges he preferred to ignore, and the waistband of his trousers always sat a few centimeters above where it should. He rarely wore a jacket—he claimed it restricted his movements, but everyone knew it was to show off his colorful suspenders, as eye-catching as his red-framed glasses. They were his trademark, along with his sharp tongue and explosive temper.
Behind the scenes, though he had never confirmed it, the entire newsroom knew Francis was gay—and respected him even more for facing prejudice with arrogance and style.
— We were waiting for you to start — Mick provoked, in his usual tone of challenge.
Saul rolled his eyes, responding with calculated silence—a small gesture of contempt that said everything.
— I liked the eerie piece about Jessyca Volpi — the director commented, adjusting his glasses.
— Did you manage to secure an exclusive? — Mick asked, getting straight to the point, trying to regain control of the meeting.
— She scheduled a press conference at L'oscar London...
— I hate press conferences! — Francis interrupted, raising his voice and slamming his heavy hand on the table. — People never say anything interesting at press conferences, newspapers publish the same quotes, the same clichés! I want something new, Saul—exclusives, stories that sell headlines!
— How did you plan the coverage? — Mick insisted, trying to restore calm.
— I'll go over the schedule in a moment. I intend to use two reporters and three paparazzi, covering every angle of the event — Saul replied, controlling his breathing.
— Isn't Meggie too inexperienced to go out in the field? — Diana asked, her tone slightly acidic, as if hoping to find flaws.
— She's not part of that team — Saul explained with a faint smile — but she'll be a key piece for the success and credibility of the story.
— Who the hell is Meggie? — Francis interjected, frowning, having no idea who they were talking about.
— An American intern who came to train at our newspaper. I assigned her as Saul's assistant — Mick explained, unable to hide his irritation.
— And what relevance does this American have for us? — the director questioned impatiently. — Have we lost all our good reporters and now have to teach those who used to copy us?
— Right now, she's more important than anyone at this table — Saul replied firmly, almost defiantly.
Francis leaned back, surprised by the boldness, while Mick shot Saul a disapproving look. Diana was stunned, analyzing every detail of Saul's expression, and the other editors exchanged intrigued glances.
— The top model scheduled afternoon tea at L'oscar London with one of her best friends — Saul revealed, savoring the suspense. — In this case, my assistant.
— Mick, I should've been informed about this, don't you think? — Francis shot him a murderous glare, his words like blades.
— From the moment I saw the girl, I thought she had pedigree — the chief editor commented, trying to ease the tension.
— I'm surprised too, Francis — Mick justified, glaring at Saul as if to say: you'll pay for this.
— After the meeting, Mick, I want you in my office — the director ordered in an icy tone.
With a flushed face, Francis hated looking like an idiot in front of his subordinates, and he would blame Mick for failing to inform him about Meggie's arrival at The Sunny. It didn't matter that she was just an intern—being connected to one of the most famous women on the planet made her a valuable piece on the editorial chessboard.
He must be getting something out of this... — Mick sniffed, his instinct sharp from years in power circles.
— And she writes extremely well — Saul continued without hesitation — she wrote a first-person piece about Jessyca Volpi. I want to publish it in tomorrow's edition.
He's totally into her... — Diana deduced, biting her lip, consumed by jealousy she tried to conceal.
— I trust your instincts, Saul — Francis declared, ignoring Mick in the hierarchy. — Send the article directly to me.
It was his lucky day. He had invited Meggie to dinner and had handled the editorial meeting with elegance, but Saul knew fate was treacherous—it liked to offer victories before charging dearly for them.
The memory of Justine's accident still haunted him like a living shadow. They had been returning from vacation, talking about plans for Bora Bora, when the car skidded on the wet road. He remembered her laughter seconds before the impact, the scent of her perfume mixed with smoke and blood.
They had lived one of those loves that make the world seem insignificant, that make mortals arrogant enough to challenge heaven. But among the gods who governed their lives, there was one who did not forgive: his father, Winston Nolland. Traditionalist to the core, he never accepted his son's relationship with a woman of uncertain origins, whose family remained shrouded in mystery.
At first, he believed the relationship would be temporary. However, when Saul announced they would marry, Winston's fury became public and humiliating. Arguments became routine, and five weeks after the last one, Justine died.
The old man changed drastically afterward—he attended the funeral, asked for forgiveness, cried before the coffin—but what fate had taught Saul never faded: it only took a few seconds for paradise to become hell. That was why he always distrusted moments when things seemed too good.
— Your first article will be published in tomorrow's edition — he told Meggie as soon as he left the meeting room, trying to hide his pride.
— Fantastic! Let's celebrate — she replied with the radiant smile of someone who still believed in fairy tales.
— I'll send the article to Francis and I need to leave for an appointment.
You think you'll get away from me that easily? — she thought, tilting her head.
— I need to give you my address — she said mischievously, handing him a piece of paper.
— Okay. Write it down.
Before Saul could react, Diana appeared like lightning, her heels echoing across the wooden floor.
— Saul, you were incredible! You should've seen Mick's face during the meeting — she said, approaching his desk.
Diana wore a dark-blue dress that fit her body like a glove, stiletto heels, and golden hoop earrings. In every sense, she was a walking masterpiece of the fashion world.
— Thank you — he replied, trying to remain professional.
— Congratulations, Meggie. I heard your writing is excellent—and that you're well connected. You're working with the right person — Diana said, her sweetness clearly artificial.
— Thank you. You look beautiful — the American replied diplomatically.
— You too. Our departments could work together—we'd be a success. In fact, I'd like to do a fashion piece on Jessyca Volpi — Diana suggested, staring at her.
— Can you give me her number?
— Who said I have her number? — Meggie shot back without hesitation.
— Aren't you friends? Aren't you meeting in London?
Saul noticed his assistant's discomfort. Meggie crossed her arms, leaning back. In front of her, the blonde woman was an intimidating presence—a refined predator.
— Jessyca asked Meggie not to mix work with personal life — Saul intervened firmly. — She wants to meet a friend, not a reporter from The Sunny.
Meggie relaxed in her chair, visibly relieved.
— Let me know if she changes her mind — Diana replied with a venomous smile before turning to Saul. — I got two tickets for a concert at the Barbican. Want to come with me?
— When?
— Tonight, at nine.
— Unfortunately, I can't. I already have another commitment.
— Must be something special—you never turn down the Barbican.
— He invited me to dinner — Meggie cut in, her eyes gleaming provocatively.
Diana's gaze was a blade. Saul froze, caught off guard and embarrassed.
The whole newsroom will know about this... I'm screwed... — he thought.
— I hope you enjoy your evening — Diana said sarcastically, walking away slowly, leaving behind a trail of Chanel No. 5 and resentment.
Without saying anything, Saul sent Meggie's signed article to the director and opened Google Images.
— It was you... — he murmured, staring at the face on the screen.
He picked up the piece of paper on the desk—the address written by his assistant—and, with a restrained smile, said goodbye to her.
Minutes later, he was on his way to meet the priest, unaware that that night would change everything.