Harrison’s head snaps up, eyes widening fractionally before narrowing into slits. He removes his glasses, setting them deliberately on the desk before leaning back in his chair.
“How about that. The junior reporter returns.” His gaze sweeps over me, taking in every expensive detail of my appearance. “Though you’re hardly dressed for the part anymore, are you?”
I close the door behind me and take a seat without being invited. “I came to tender my resignation.”
Harrison snorts, a harsh sound devoid of humor. “Resignation? Is that what happens when a journalist goes native? When they crawl into bed—literally—with their subject?”
The crude accusation stings, but I keep my expression neutral. “I’m making a career change.”
“A career change,” he repeats flatly. “To what, exactly? Professional arm candy? Mob wife? Or did Varela offer you a position in his organization? PR, perhaps? You could certainly use your journalistic credentials to give his criminal empire a veneer of legitimacy.”
I force myself to breathe evenly. This was always going to be ugly. “I didn’t come here for your approval, Harrison. I came out of professional courtesy to tell you in person rather than emailing.”
Harrison leans forward, planting his elbows on the desk. “Let me be very clear about something, Lea. The moment you walked public with Varela’s ring on your finger, your career in journalism was over. Not just at the Journal—everywhere. No reputable publication will touch you. You’ll be poison.”
“I’m aware of the professional consequences.”
“Are you?” His voice rises slightly. “Because from where I’m sitting, it looks like you’ve thrown away years of education and hard work for a man who will use you until you’re no longer useful, then discard you like yesterday’s news.”
Maybe that was true a month ago, but that was before... before everything changed.
“You don’t know him,” I say.
Harrison barks a laugh. “I know his type. I’ve been covering men like Nicolás Varela for thirty years. They don’t change. They don’t reform. They don’t suddenly develop a conscience becausethey’ve fallen in love.” He spits the last two words like they taste foul in his mouth.
I lean forward, meeting his gaze directly. “This isn’t a fairy tale, Harrison. I’m not deluding myself that I’ve tamed the beast or saved his soul. Nico is exactly who he’s always been.”
“Then what the hell are you doing?” He gestures at my ring. “You come in here looking like you stepped out of a luxury magazine, wearing a rock that could pay off my mortgage, telling me you’re throwing away your career for a man who runs half the criminal enterprises in Chicago. Make it make sense, Lea.”
“I love him,” I say simply.
Harrison’s expression darkens. “Love? That’s your explanation? Christ, you sound like a schoolgirl, not the sharp reporter I hired.”
“Not being with the man I love would destroy me,” I continue, the words flowing from some deep, certain place inside me. “And before you dismiss that as melodramatic nonsense, think about what we’ve been through together. He’s seen me at my absolute worst—broken, betrayed, violent—and he’s still here. He’s shown me parts of himself no one else sees.”
“Stockholm Syndrome is a hell of a drug,” Harrison mutters.
I shake my head. “It’s not that simple, and you know it. My relationship with Nico is... complicated. But it’s real. And my role isn’t just to be his lover. I’m his partner, his advisor. I can help temper his violence with diplomacy, his instinct with rational thought.”
Harrison’s eyes narrow. “So that’s the story you’re telling yourself? That you’re the good influence? The angel on hisshoulder?” He leans back, disgust clear in his expression. “You’re not his partner, Lea. You’re his possession. His trophy. And one day, you’ll wake up and realize you’ve traded your soul for designer clothes and a fancy address.”
The words cut deep, but I hold my ground. “I’m choosing this life with my eyes open, Harrison. I know exactly who and what Nico is. I know what he’s capable of. And I’m still choosing him.”
For a long moment, Harrison says nothing, just studies me with those shrewd eyes that have intimidated countless sources and junior reporters over the years. Then, to my surprise, his expression softens slightly.
“You know, when the Publisher first assigned you this story, I thought you were too green, too idealistic. I figured you’d either wash out in a week or deliver some sanitized puff piece that wouldn’t make it past the first edit.” He shakes his head. “Instead, you went deeper than anyone expected. Too deep.”
“I found the truth,” I say. “Just not the truth I was looking for.”
Harrison sighs heavily, suddenly looking every one of his sixty-plus years. “Your father was a good man. One of the best reporters I ever worked with. He believed in holding power to account, in exposing corruption wherever he found it. What do you think he’d say if he could see you now?”
The mention of my father lands hard. For a moment, I can’t breathe, can’t think.
“My father,” I begin, my voice rougher than I intend, “was murdered by my mother because he discovered she was a North Korean operative. Every memory I have of my family is tainted by that truth. The lessons he taught me about integrity and truth were real, but they existed within a framework of lies.” I meetHarrison’s startled gaze. “So I don’t know what he’d say. I’ll never know. But I know he’d want me to build a life based on honesty, even brutal honesty, rather than comfortable lies.”
Harrison’s mouth opens slightly, then closes. For perhaps the first time since I’ve known him, he seems genuinely speechless.
“I didn’t come here for your blessing,” I continue. “I came to close this chapter properly, to thank you for the opportunity, and to wish the Journal well.”
