The Last Secret of Mrs. Vale

Mira's POV

The shrill ringing of my phone dragged me out of a dream I couldn't remember.

I groaned and reached blindly across the narrow bedside table until my fingers found the vibrating device. The cracked screen flashed the time along with the name of my landlord.

A sigh escaped my lips before I answered. "Good morning, Mr. Benson."

"It would be a better morning if you paid your rent, Miss Sutton."

I sat up and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. "I know,” I said quietly. “I'm expecting payment for an article."

"You told me that last week."

I lowered my head. " I'm sorry… sir. I just need a little more time."

"You've got three days."

The firmness in his voice made my stomach knot. "I'll pay."

"I hope so," he replied. "I don't enjoy chasing tenants, but I can't keep making exceptions."

The line went dead.

I lowered the phone slowly and let out a long breath. I had exactly three days to come up with two months' rent.

I pushed myself off the bed and crossed the apartment. My bedroom, living room, and workspace all shared the same space. A worn sofa sat beside a folding table buried under notebooks, newspaper clippings, a laptop that only cooperated when it felt like it, and two empty coffee mugs waiting to be washed.

The kitchenette consisted of a tiny sink, a microwave that hummed louder than its heated food, and a refrigerator that looked almost as empty as my wallet.

I opened it anyway.

One sachet of milk, half a loaf of bread, and two eggs. After making myself a simple breakfast, I carried the plate to the window.

I ate slowly while scrolling through my emails when a message from another publication caught my attention.

“We're looking for something with broader public appeal. Thank you for your submission.”

I stared at the words for several seconds before locking the screen.

Another rejection.

Every publication wanted something different. Some wanted celebrity gossip, others wanted politics, some wanted crime, but I wanted stories that are real.

Stories that make people pay attention. Stories that uncovered truths people preferred to hide. Unfortunately, meaningful stories don't always pay the bills.

There was something satisfying about separating truth from rumor, fact from fiction. Maybe that was why rejection never convinced me to quit, because someone had to keep asking uncomfortable questions.

After washing the dishes, I took a quick shower and got dressed.

My camera bag rested beside the door. I picked it up and checked everything. Camera, recorder, notebook, pens, extra batteries… everything was there.

My equipment mattered because replacing any of it simply wasn't an option.

My phone buzzed again, but this time it wasn't my landlord. It was a bank notification reminding me to top up my empty account balance.

I slipped the phone into my pocket before I could check the balance again. Money had a strange way of shrinking every time I looked at it.

Outside, I locked my apartment, greeted the elderly woman downstairs with a smile, and caught the next bus into the city.

By the time the bus pulled to a stop near the newsroom, I had already decided what today would be about.

The newsroom was already buzzing by the time I pushed through the glass doors.

Telephones rang from every corner, keyboards clattered without mercy, reporters hurried from one desk to another, carrying files, cameras, and half-finished cups of coffee as if the world would stop spinning if they slowed down for even a second.

It was chaotic in a way that somehow made perfect sense, because to me, it felt like home.

"Well, look who finally decided to show up.”

I turned to find Daniel leaning against the edge of his desk with his usual mischievous grin.

"Morning," I said as I walked past him.

He glanced at the camera bag hanging from my shoulder before checking the clock on the wall. "You're late."

I gave him a silent nod, without saying anything.

He studied my face for a moment before nodding knowingly. "Landlord again?"

A quiet sigh escaped my lips.

Daniel's expression softened for a brief second before he flashed another grin. "You know, there's nothing wrong with writing celebrity news every once in a while. The pay is good."

I ran a hand through my hair. "Daniel... I really don't have the energy for this conversation."

He laughed. "You'll never change."

"I hope not."

Daniel and I disagreed on almost everything, but somehow, we'd become friends.

Still smiling, I made my way to my desk and placed my camera bag beside my chair.

My faithful old laptop greeted me with its usual protest, the screen flickering twice before finally lighting up. "Come on," I muttered, pressing the power button again. "Just survive one more day."

The fan roared to life with a loud whir.

Good enough.

I opened the investigation I'd been working on for the past two weeks. Pages of financial records filled the screen. Large payments, duplicate invoices, money disappearing into companies that barely existed on paper… Everything about Harrison Construction felt wrong.

I couldn't explain it yet, but every instinct I had as a journalist told me there was a story hiding beneath those numbers.

All I needed was a little more time, but unfortunately, time wasn't something my landlord was willing to accept as rent.

As I gathered my notes, movement near the assignment board caught my attention.

Several entertainment reporters had gathered around it, arguing over camera positions and interview schedules.

Pinned to the center of the board was a large notice.

VALE–PIERCE ENGAGEMENT GALA. PRESS ARRIVAL: 6:00 P.M.

I barely spared it another glance, because celebrity events had never interested me. Give me corruption, give me fraud, give me people desperately trying to bury the truth, and I'd choose that over billionaire romances every single time.

Clutching my file, I headed toward Richard Lawson's office.

The door stood half-open.

Without looking up from the documents scattered across his desk, Richard said, "If you're about to tell me you've uncovered another national scandal before nine in the morning, make it convincing."

A smile tugged at my lips. "I'll do my best."

Richard had been my editor for almost two years. He questioned every source I quoted, he challenged every conclusion I reached, he rejected more of my stories than he accepted, but strangely enough, that was exactly why I respected him.

He finally looked up.

"So... what have you got?" I placed my file on his desk. "I think Harrison Construction has been laundering money through fake subcontractors."

His eyebrows lifted slightly. "Can you prove it?"

"...Not yet."

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. "Mira."

He opened the file, carefully reading through several pages before closing it again. "It's interesting, but it still isn't publishable." Then he folded the file and slid it back toward me. "Come back when you have proof."

Frustration bubbled inside me, but I knew arguing wouldn't change his mind.

Richard reached into his desk drawer and pulled out a cream-colored envelope. "I have another assignment."

I looked at it curiously.

He slid it across the desk, and I picked it up and opened it.

Inside were photographs of a lavish hotel ballroom decorated with crystal chandeliers and white roses, along with an invitation embossed in gold lettering.

Kieran Vale and Vanessa Pierce request the pleasure of your presence...

I looked back at him. "I thought the entertainment desk was covering this."

He nodded. "They are."

"Then why am I here?"

Richard tapped the invitation. "Entertainment already has enough photographers."

"And…?"

"They'll get pictures. I need someone who can actually ask a question worth answering.”

I stared at him. "So you want me to cover the press conference."

He nodded. "Kieran Vale rarely speaks to the media. When he does, everyone wastes the opportunity by asking predictable questions.”

For a moment, I wasn't sure whether to feel complimented or manipulated. I looked back down at the invitation.

The name Kieran Vale was impossible to ignore. He was one of the country's youngest billionaires, the Chief Executive Officer of Vale Group, and a man who avoided publicity despite constantly making headlines.

Beside his name was Vanessa Pierce, daughter of one of the nation's most influential political families.

Their engagement wasn't just society news, it was tomorrow's front page.

I closed the folder with a quiet sigh. "When do we leave?"

"In an hour."

Back at my desk, I packed my notebook, voice recorder, spare batteries, and camera before opening my laptop one last time.

I searched for Kieran Vale, and dozens of articles filled the screen. Business awards, corporate acquisitions, international partnerships... Then one headline near the bottom caught my attention.

Business Billionaire Loses Wife in Tragic Yacht Explosion.

"Press team, we're leaving in five minutes!" someone called across the newsroom.

I shut my laptop immediately and slipped it into my bag.

After clipping my press badge onto my blazer, I adjusted the strap of my camera over my shoulder and followed the others toward the elevator.