We Meet Again, After All These Years

The next morning, Alya walked through the revolving glass doors of the BCF Washington headquarters.

She wore a sharp, tailored charcoal suit. A flesh-colored medical patch covered the stitches on her forehead. Her face was pale, but her posture was rigid with defiance.

She walked into the Human Resources department.

Linda Hayes, the HR director, sat behind a massive mahogany desk. She slid a thick employee handbook and a cheap plastic ID badge across the table.

Linda didn't look up from her monitor. "Sign the last page. And a word of advice, Ms. Rivas. I know you're Emerson Jordan's protégé from London, but this is D.C. Your connections overseas won't get you special treatment here. Keep your head down and don't cause any drama."

Linda spoke loudly. The interns and junior writers passing by the open door slowed their steps.

Whispers hissed through the hallway. Alya clearly heard the word traitor float through the air.

Alya's expression didn't change. She picked up the pen, signed her name with aggressive, sharp strokes, and walked out without saying a word.

As she turned the corner toward the main newsroom, she nearly collided with a man holding a tray of coffees.

"Whoa-Alya?"

It was Liam Kensington. He looked older, his hair slightly graying, but his eyes lit up with genuine surprise. He had been a junior editor in London before transferring to D.C.

"Liam," Alya said, her tone polite but distant.

"It's great to see you," Liam smiled. "I'm the Deputy Editor here now. Come on, I'll introduce you to your team lead."

Alya followed him through the bustling bullpen. Liam stopped in front of a massive corner desk covered in designer bags and expensive makeup.

Elana McKee sat behind the monitor. She was a D.C. socialite playing at being a journalist.

Elana slowly looked up. Her eyes raked over Alya's cheap suit with blatant disgust.

"Elana, this is Alya Rivas," Liam introduced.

Elana let out a sharp, mocking laugh. "Rivas? As in Faustino Rivas? I didn't realize BCF was hiring the offspring of federal criminals."

The entire section of the newsroom went dead silent.

Alya stepped forward, placing both hands flat on Elana's desk. She leaned in.

"Journalism is about uncovering facts, Elana," Alya said, her voice smooth as glass. "Not about whose lap you sit on at the Capitol Hill country club to get a quote."

Elana's face flushed a violent, ugly red. Alya had hit the exact nerve of her insecurity.

Elana stood up, grabbing a mud-stained manila folder from her tray, and slammed it into Alya's chest.

"You want facts?" Elana spat. "Go cover the federal infrastructure project in Ward 8. The contractors are complaining about permit delays. Bring me a quote by 5 PM, or you're fired."

The surrounding reporters smirked. Ward 8 was a miserable, muddy wasteland with zero political scoop. It was a punishment assignment.

Liam frowned. "Elana, she's a senior investigator. That's a job for an intern."

Alya held up a hand, stopping Liam. She took the folder.

"I'll have it by four," Alya said calmly.

She turned and walked to the equipment room, grabbing a heavy DSLR camera and a telephoto lens.

An hour later, Alya stood ankle-deep in freezing, thick brown mud. The construction site was a chaotic mess of bulldozers and rebar.

Her assigned intern, Chloe, refused to get out of the BCF news van, complaining about her shoes.

Alya ignored the biting wind. She pulled up the contractor data on her phone.

Her eyes narrowed. The shell company running the site was a subsidiary of the Rasmussen family trust.

This wasn't a dead-end story. This was a massive money-laundering operation.

Suddenly, the roar of heavy machinery stopped.

A convoy of three black, armored Maybachs rolled through the chain-link gates, their tires crushing the gravel.

The site foremen and local politicians scrambled forward like obedient dogs.

The rear door of the lead Maybach opened. A highly polished, custom-made Italian leather shoe stepped out onto a freshly laid red carpet over the mud.