"It might be," she agrees, and it's her candor more than anything that makes me worry. Booker has always seemed like a queen on her throne, ahead of the curve, doling out the story beats in the newsroom like a commander with her legions.
She sighs. "Anyway, we won't know more for a while. There's talk of whole departments being cut, major buyouts, but nothing confirmed yet."
"Whole departments," I repeat. "Surely they can't do that?"
"Acture Capital has bought the majority stake," she says. "They can do anything with the Globe they feel like."
I open my mouth to say something, but her gaze has locked on a spot beyond my shoulder. I turn to see, and watch a man walk through the hallway with a box. A picture frame sticks up over the edge.
"Oh my god," I whisper. He's been fired.
"Shit," Booker says. "That's Phil, our music correspondent."
"They're already firing people?"
"Seems like it. He worked here for decades." Her voice sounds like it's coming from far away, and she stares at the door where Phil disappeared. "I have another job for you, Audrey."
"It's not fancy, and I won't pretend to you that it is," she says. No-nonsense, just as always. "Someone needs to interview the new CEO for the corporate newsletter."
"The person responsible for all of this," I say. "Right?"
Her tone is hard. "Yes. The interview order is coming from management itself. Something about introducing the CEO to the staff. No doubt it'll be a puff piece, Audrey. You'll probably speak to an assistant. You might even get pre-recorded answers."
I nod. It's grunt work, as opposed to my solo article, but I'm a junior reporter. I'll do it. I'll do anything, any journalistic writing they'll allow me.
But I don't have to enjoy it.
"I'll get on it right away," I say.
"Good. I've been told they're expecting you up on the fifteenth floor."
"Now?"
"Now," she repeats grimly. She shakes her head and strides off, and I get the feeling she has a lot more thoughts about the new management than she's letting on.
They'd let Phil go. They'd cut my article, and so many others, without even knowing what they were about. Just a halt on all employee-driven initiative.
Departments might get slashed. Whole groups of people, just like Phil.
I grab my notepad and head toward the elevators. They might want a puff piece, but I'll be damned if I don't ask the new CEO at least one question about what's going on. I make it up to the fifteenth floor with my heart hammering in my chest. This is what I like doing. Asking tough questions, getting real answers. But I'll also come face-to-face with someone who now owns the company I work for.
The reality of that sets in.
One wrong word, and I might be the one to collect my things from my desk and leave. Not that I have many things to collect yet. And if they're planning on gutting the newsroom, slashing the Globe , junior reporters won't be high on the list. This whole thing, my dream job, the beginning of my career, could all be over before it's even started.
I'm greeted by a soft-spoken assistant in an atrium. His name is Timothy, according to the name tag on his desk, and he's an executive receptionist.
"My name is Audrey Ford," I say. "I'm here for an interview with the new CEO for the company's newsletter?"
"Ah, yes. Thanks for coming so quickly," Timothy says. "Mr. Kingsley is waiting for you just inside here."
It takes me a moment to process his words. I really will come face-to-face with the CEO. No fast-talking assistant, no pre-recorded answers.
I clutch my notepad like a shield and walk toward the closed door. Knocking twice, I announce myself.
"Audrey Ford here, from Investigative, for an interview!"
"Come in," a voice calls.
I push the heavy door open and step into an office flooded with light. The CEO has the best office, I think. How typical.
Then I register who's sitting behind the glass desk.
Auburn hair pushed back over a square forehead. A mouth that looks like it's always quick to charm, a smile hiding in the corner. And familiar tawny eyes that lock on mine.
"Carter?" I ask.
Audrey is standing in the doorway to my office, clutching a notepad to her chest like it's armor. She looks different than that night, three weeks ago, when she'd been hyperventilating inside a dark bar.
Her dark brown curls are swept back in a low ponytail and the dress she'd worn is long gone. In her place is a woman in slacks and a blouse, professional, her attention fully focused on me.
Her eyes are wide. "Carter?"
"Audrey?" I stand. "What are you doing here?"
"I work here."
"Here? At the Globe ?"
"Yes," she says. Then she looks out at the hallway, as if my assistant might hear. She pushes the door closed. "I told you I was a journalist!"
"I never thought you'd work here," I say.
"Started two weeks ago, actually."
That makes me smile. "Which is why they're sending you up to interview me for the company newsletter."
She frowns at me, like I've just offended her. Like we haven't given each other much worse punches over text.
"You're the CEO," she says, voice tense. "You work for Acture Capital?"
"I'm one of the co-owners, yes," I say. "We acquired the Globe a few weeks ago, though negotiations have been on-going for over a year."
She takes a seat in the chair opposite my desk and demonstratively opens her notebook. I sit back down. Despite the irritation etched on her face, her features shine more without the makeup she'd worn in the bar. A smatter of freckles dance across her nose.
An old phrase my mother likes to say flashes through my brain. The kind of woman you earn, not charm.
"So," Audrey says, picking up her pen. "What made you want to acquire the Globe ?" Then, before I can respond, she puts her pen down again. "How can you be the new boss of the company I work for? How did this never come up in text?"