He Risked My Life to Make His Mistress Famous

The door handle turned with a soft click that sounded like thunder in the silent boardroom. I froze, my finger hovering over the keyboard as the download reached 97%. The voices in the hallway grew louder—one male, one female.

"—told you we should have waited until tomorrow," the man hissed.

"We can't wait!" The woman's voice was high-pitched, nervous. "I need this footage tonight!"

I recognized that voice instantly. Paige.

The download bar crawled to 100% just as the boardroom door burst open. A security guard stepped in, flashlight beam sweeping across the room before landing on me. Behind him stood Paige, clutching a rented camera with shaking hands.

"Freeze!" the guard shouted, drawing his weapon.

I raised my hands slowly, my mind racing. "I'm a journalist with the New York Sentinel. I have permission to be here."

The guard's laugh was cold. "No one has permission to be here at 2 AM."

Paige's eyes widened as she recognized me. "Miranda? What are you doing here?"

"Working," I replied tersely. "What are you doing here?"

"Getting B-roll," she whispered, her face pale. "Preston said I needed more footage to... to make the story believable."

Of course he did. The lying bastard knew exactly what he was doing—sending Paige into danger to legitimize her stolen byline.

"Both of you, hands behind your backs," the guard ordered, stepping forward with handcuffs.

Another guard appeared in the doorway. "Perimeter breach confirmed. Silent alarms triggered across the north wing."

"Corporates won't like this," the first guard muttered. "Take them to the storage warehouse. Call it in."

---

The warehouse air reeked of chemicals and decay. Industrial pipes crisscrossed overhead, dripping with unknown substances that sizzled when they hit the concrete floor. Paige and I sat back-to-back, bound to separate pipes with zip ties that cut into our wrists.

"I'm sorry," Paige whispered, her voice cracking. "I didn't know you'd be here."

"Clearly," I replied, testing the bindings. They held firm.

Two armed men paced nearby, their radios crackling with coded messages. More guards arrived, their faces hardening when they saw us.

"Journalists," one spat. "Always sticking your noses where they don't belong."

I straightened as much as the restraints allowed. "Gentlemen, we're not looking for trouble. If you release us now, no one needs to get hurt."

"Shut up!" Paige suddenly shouted. "Do you know who we work for? We're from the New York Sentinel! Our network has lawyers who will destroy this place!"

I closed my eyes, fighting the urge to strangle her myself.

The head guard's expression darkened. "Sentinel, huh? The same network that's been investigating our operations?"

"It's not what you think," I began, but he was already signaling to his men.

"Make sure they're secure," he ordered. "And move them closer to the containment area."

Rough hands dragged us deeper into the warehouse, past rows of chemical barrels marked with biohazard symbols. They propped us against pipes near a leaking storage tank, the acrid smell burning my nostrils.

"An industrial accident," the guard said conversationally, checking his weapon. "Tragic, really. Two reporters got too close to dangerous chemicals while investigating illegally."

Paige's sob was genuine. "You can't do this! Preston will—"

"Preston will what?" I cut in sharply. "Save us? He sent you here knowing the risks."

"He wouldn't—" she began, but her voice faltered.

Hours passed in a haze of fear and chemical fumes. Paige's cries eventually subsided into whimpers. My own throat burned from the toxic air, my head swimming with fatigue.

Then came the commotion—shouting, footsteps, the sound of vehicles approaching outside.

"Police! We've surrounded the building!"

Flashlight beams cut through the warehouse darkness. Through blurred vision, I saw figures in tactical gear streaming through the doors.

And there, at the center of it all, was Preston—his face a mask of concern as cameras captured his every move.

"Paige!" he shouted dramatically. "Miranda! Hold on, we're coming for you!"

He was flanked by network security and local police, a perfect media storm already forming around him. As the guards scrambled to escape, Preston rushed forward, his expression shifting between fear and determination for the cameras that followed his every move.

"Stay calm," he instructed the officers, his voice carrying perfectly for the recording. "There are dangerous chemicals everywhere. We need to approach carefully."

I watched through watering eyes as he orchestrated the rescue operation like a director staging a scene. His gaze swept over Paige and me, lingering on her tear-streaked face before briefly acknowledging my presence.

In that moment, I knew with absolute certainty that if he had to choose who to save first, it wouldn't be me.