For some reason, the station doesn’t decide to fire me, although I get demoted back to reading the news at three a.m. again. I hate it, but the silver lining is that I don’t have to see as many people at that hour.

Especially Mackenzie.

I’m basically a pariah at WSPR now. No one really talks to me, and I hear people whisper about me behind my back as I go by. I’m not sure whether they mean for me to hear them talking about me. And after a few days, I don’t even care anymore.

About a week after the fake fiancée story breaks, Ethan calls me into his office. I brace myself, assuming this is the moment when he finally tells me I’m fired.

He’s on the phone when I come in, and motions for me to sit down in a chair, which I do. Strangely, I’m fairly relaxed, sitting back as I wait for him to finish his call. Maybe it’s because I’ve been waiting for the axe to fall all week. Now that it’s about to, it’s almost a relief.

Eventually, he hangs up his phone and turns to his computer for a second to type something. It’s almost like I’m invisible, but I just wait for him to acknowledge me. When he’s finished typing, he turns to me, his face expressionless.

“Well,” he says dryly. “I imagine this has been an interesting week for you.”

“Yes.” I don’t elaborate. There’s no point.

“You realize, of course, that your worth to our station has diminished considerably since this story broke.”

“Well,” I shoot back, “since our station is the one that broke the story, I guess that’s something it ought to have thought about before they ran it.”

Ethan narrows his eyes. “You’re lucky you haven’t been fired, Anna. You know that?”

“But today’s when my luck runs out, right?” I challenge him. “Ethan, if you’re going to fire me, just do it.” I sigh tiredly. “Why waste your time and mine?”

He blinks at me and leans back in his chair. “There may be a way for you to salvage your job here,” he says slowly. “No guarantees. But depending on how it goes, there’s a chance.”

My stomach flips, and weirdly, I’m not sure if it’s from hope, or apprehension. “What is it?”

“A tell-all,” he says promptly. “An interview with the woman tapped to be Mason Robichaud’s fake fiancée. What they offered you, what the terms of the agreement were. What Robichaud is really like behind the scenes.”

“No,” I retort. “Absolutely not.” Not only is it against the terms of the non-disclosure agreement I signed, but I couldn’t possibly do that to Mason. Not to mention that I somehow know, without even being told, that the reality of Mason Robichaud isn’t juicy enough for them. They would want me to paint a picture of a man who’s struggling with alcoholism, desperate to keep his career afloat. They’d want me to paint Mason as a villain. Or at least as a tragic figure.

The fact that he isn’t any of that is not nearly interesting enough for me to keep my career here at WSPR. I’d have to lie. I would never betray him like that.

And the fact that I’m actually in love with him?

Well, that’s something they’d never believe.

Ethan cajoles me for a while. Then he switches to threats. Finally, when I still refuse to give him what he wants, he tells me my days are numbered here at the station.

“I’ll tell you what, Ethan,” I say, rising from my chair. “I can give you the number right now: Zero. I’m done.”

And then, simple as that, I’m walking out of his office and striding through the newsroom to collect my things.

I don’t say goodbye to anyone. I just put all my stuff in a paper ream box and leave. Thankfully, I don’t run into Mackenzie on the way out.

I no longer have a job at WSPR.

And given everything that’s just happened, I might not be able to get another job with any other news agency in town.

I should be terrified. I should be crying.

Mostly, I’m just numb.

On the way home, I contemplate the irony of my life. That I got caught up in the same machine that caught Mason.

He got shit on by the media with a lie of a story. One he couldn’t fight, not even with the truth.

And now, the two of us got caught up by a story that — on the surface — is the truth.

I was Mason’s fake fiancée.

But the real truth is, the reason we got caught is because I’m in love with him and was trying to protect him.

And now he hates me.

I was on an upward swing in my career, but I had to do something shady to get there. Whatever it takes to get ahead, I told myself at the time. The broadcast journalism world isn’t a nice place to begin with. I knew that. But I don’t think I’m cut out for doing what I need to do to get where I thought I wanted to be.

I don’t want to do this anymore.

The thought comes unbidden to my mind. But as soon as it’s there, I can’t push it away.

I don’t want to work in broadcast journalism anymore. I don’t want to be part of ruining people’s lives, just for the sake of an interesting story.

I have no idea what I’ll do next. But no matter what it is, somehow I know this is the right decision. Because I suddenly feel lighter than I have in weeks. My chest feels like I can breathe again.

I have some money saved up. I’ll figure things out. Hell, maybe I’ll even move back to Nebraska, to be with my dad.

I don’t know. I just know that I’ve come to a crossroads. And there’s no going back.

The only person I’ve been able to confide in through all of this is Harriet. The day the story broke, she sat up with me long into the night. I sobbed, and she fed me ice cream. And in true, awesome Harriet fashion, she did not tell me everything would be okay. She let me wallow in how much everything sucked, and didn’t try to talk me out of it.

When I get back home after quitting my job, I’m unbelievably thankful to see her car parked outside. I need someone to talk to — someone who knows the whole, ugly story. And I know that Harriet of all people will be supportive when I tell her I’m going to leave broadcast journalism. She always thought I was wasting my talents at WSPR, anyway.

“Harr!” I call out as soon as I open the door. She calls back that she’s in the kitchen. I find her at the small table, eating toast and drinking tea. Her iPad is sitting in front of her.

“You’re home ear—” she begins, and then notices the box that I’m carrying. She immediately puts two and two together. “Shit, they fired you,” she breathes, shaking her head. “The bastards.”

“Not exactly,” I say, setting the box down and pulling out a chair to sit beside her. “I actually quit, though Ethan was about to fire me anyway. He wanted me to do a tell-all interview about Mason, as a condition of keeping my job. I refused.”

“Wow, that’s shitty. But good for you, Anna. I’m serious. With everything you’ve told me about that place, it’s a goddamn snake pit.” She gives me a serious look. “You can do better.”

“I think so, too,” I nod, giving her a tremulous smile. I realize it’s actually the first time I’ve smiled at all, in at least a week.

“Shit, speaking of Mason, I’m assuming you heard?” Harriet continues, glancing toward the screen in front of her.

“Heard what?”

“Jesus, how is it that you work — sorry, worked — in a news station and I’m always telling you stuff?” Harriet says in disbelief. “I just happened to be on Facebook and saw it on my feed. Apparently, Mason’s brother got in a car accident. He hit a little kid and then ran his car into a phone pole.” She gives the screen a dark look. “Sounds like there was alcohol or drugs involved, though the news stories aren’t saying that outright.”

“Oh, my God,” I breathe, my heart beginning to thud in my chest. “Is the little girl okay? Is Mason’s brother okay?”

Harriet touches the screen a couple of times, and peers at it. “It says the little girl is in critical condition,” she says, scrolling. “It says the state of Derek Robichaud is unknown.”

I’m stunned. I sit back in my chair, unable to speak. I think about Patsy and Robert, and how terrible this must be for them.

And Mason. I want to talk to Mason. I need to call him. I need to know how he is.

But will he even talk to you?

We haven’t spoken since the day the story about us broke. The last time I spoke to him, he told me he didn’t even want to be in the same state as me.

I stand up from the table and go into my bedroom. With shaking fingers, I press his name in my contacts, choking back a little hitch in my throat as I see the heart next to his name. The phone rings once, then goes straight to voicemail.

Not a good sign.

I text him next:

God, that sounds lame. But it’s the best I can manage.

Hours later, I check my texts for the dozenth time. There’s no sign he’s even read it.

Setting my phone down on the bed, I put my head in my hands and cry.

“Anna?”

I start awake. My room’s dark. I must have fallen asleep.

A sliver of light cuts into the darkness. Harriet’s silhouette appears.

“You want some dinner? I was thinking about ordering from that Thai place.”

I almost refuse. But I know I’ll have to eat eventually. May as well have something ready, if I ever get my appetite back.

“Sure,” I say tiredly, heaving myself up on the bed. “Order whatever you want.”

“I mean,” Harriet says as she pulls out a forkful of pad thai from the container, “Maybe Mason’s just too preoccupied to check his messages.”

“No. He hates me.” I push a few noodles around on my plate. My stomach is rebelling at even the thought of food right now.

“Where does his brother live, again?” she asks me. “Colorado, I think the article said?”

“Denver.”

“Maybe that’s where Mason is. You think?”

“I don’t know. Mason and his brother don’t get along so well.” I shrug, feeling wretched. “Probably his parents are there by now, though.”

“So,” Harriet says slowly, “Why don’t you call his parents, then? You said they knew about the deal between the two of you.” Harriet sets her plate down. “I mean, you’ve met them, right? It wouldn’t be weird for you to just call and let them know you heard about Mason’s brother, and that you’re thinking of them.”

“Maybe.” I’m not convinced. “They probably hate me too, though.”

“Why would they hate you?” Harriet challenges. “You helped their son get back on his feet. You could tell them you didn’t have anything to do with the story coming out. I mean, it would probably make them feel better to know you didn’t screw over their son. Maybe they’d listen where Mason didn’t.”

“If they believed me,” I murmur, despondent. “Besides, don’t you think they have more important things on their mind, Harriet? And why wouldn’t they just side with Mason, anyway?”

“Maybe because they love him? And want him to be happy?” Harriet shrugs. “Come on, it’s worth a shot, isn’t it? At this point, what have you got to lose?”

I almost laugh. Well, she’s right about that anyway. Things officially could not be shittier between Mason and me.

At this point, all I’ve got to lose is my pride.

“Harriet,” I say suddenly, “why are you trying to get me to do this? You don’t even like Mason.”

“Honestly?” One side of her mouth quirks up. “Because you’re in love with this guy. And frankly, I think he’s in love with you, too. Call me a romantic, I guess.”

I don’t have the number for either of Mason’s parents. The best I can do is call around to Denver hospitals and ask for Derek Robichaud.

On the fourth try, I find the hospital he’s in. And miracle of miracles, they put me through to his room.

Mason’s mother answers. I take a deep breath, and let it out.

Here goes nothing.