* * *
Her apartment was spotless.
Not cozy — just clean. Every corner lined up, every surface clear. The couch looked like no one had ever sat on it, and the candle on the coffee table had a layer of dust she pretended not to notice.
Savannah kicked off her heels at the door, lined them up beside the others, and stood for a second in the quiet. The air felt still, like it was waiting for her to mess it up. She dropped her bag on the counter, then immediately straightened the strap. The act was automatic.
She opened her phone, checked her mentions again, and told herself she’d eat later.
The fridge hummed softly. She poured a glass of wine she didn’t really want and carried it to the couch, scrolling until the buzz from earlier started to flatten into background noise. Her story was still trending. People she’d never met were quoting her questions, tagging her by name. One local blog had already written a piece about “the new face shaking up City Hall.”
She should’ve felt proud. She’d done everything right.
Instead, she felt the same thing she always did once the adrenaline wore off — the hollow between wins, the silence after applause.
She looked around her apartment: white walls, chrome fixtures, perfect symmetry. Nothing out of place. Nothing that looked like her.
A candle stayed unlit.
She told herself she was too tired to cook, that she’d order in later, but she didn’t. She just sat there, watching the reflection of the TV on the glass table, until the wine went warm and the city outside went quiet.
Five
Tilly had spent the morning pretending not to hear Savannah’s name echo around the newsroom. Everyone was still talking about her housing story, the clicks, the shares, the line she delivered that had half the city cheering and the other half squirming.
Tilly didn’t join in. They had work to do, cables to coil, batteries to check, and if they focused hard enough, maybe they could tune out the laughter spilling from the edit bays.
By the time lunch rolled around, they dropped their tray across from Jamie in the breakroom, the plastic rattling loud enough to spill half the fries.
Jamie didn’t even flinch. “So, I’m guessing it’s not the food.”
Tilly glared at their fries like they had done something wrong. “She’s unbearable.”
Jamie glanced up, fork hovering over her salad. “Savannah?”
“Who else? She struts around like she reinvented journalism because one clip went viral. She’s been here less than a week, and suddenly we’re all her production assistants.”
Jamie leaned her chin on her hand, half-smiling. “You two didn’t exactly start off easy.”
“She doesn’t trust anyone to do their job,” Tilly said, stabbing a fry. “Micromanages every frame. She told me to keep it tight during the stand-up. Like I’ve never shot a package before.”
“Maybe she just wanted a different angle.”
“She wantedherangle. There’s a difference.”
Jamie set her fork down. “She’s new, Til. Probably trying too hard. You were like that when I met you.”
Tilly looked up. “I was not.”
Jamie raised a brow. “You practically wrestled the tripod out of my hands because you thought I was framing too wide.”
“That’s because you were framing too wide.”
Jamie laughed. “My point stands.”
Tilly sighed, pushing food around the tray. “She’s just loud. All the time. She talks like she’s already got the piece cut in her head, and the rest of us are there to catch up.”
“Confidence bothers you,” Jamie said.
