The newsroom was louder when they got back, a ripple of energy rolling through the desks the way it always did before the ten o’clock. Savannah headed for her workspace, but two producers near the printer were whispering just loud enough for the words to carry.
“I’m telling you, Aimee’s watching the new girl like a hawk.”
“Of course she is. We don’t need another transfer who flames out in three months.”
“She came from Providence, right?”
“Yeah. Big talk, small market. We’ll see.”
Savannah kept her expression flat, set her bag on her desk, and pretended she didn’t hear a word. She’d joined enough newsrooms to know no one meant harm — not really. But they were watching. Measuring. Waiting to see if she belonged here.
Across the room, Aimee stepped out of her glass office, scanning the bullpen with the cool efficiency of someone who missed nothing. Savannah straightened automatically, defaulting to camera-ready.
Aimee didn’t look her way. She didn’t need to.
Savannah tucked a flyaway strand of hair behind her ear, lifted her chin a fraction, and sat down like the room wasn’t humming with judgment.
She’d prove herself. She always did.
But God — she hated the part where everyone waited to see if she would.
Three
By Thursday, Tilly Franklin knew they hated Savannah Wells’ style.
Not her reporting, exactly. Savannah was sharp, confident, and knew how to find the soundbite and make it sing. But she worked like she was still an MMJ, fast, precise, controlling every detail as if no one else existed on the crew. It made collaboration feel like a fight for space.
Tilly wasn’t used to that. They’d spent years reading their reporters’ rhythms, adjusting quietly behind the camera so everything looked effortless on air. Jamie had been the best at that balance — trusted them completely, never hovered. Savannah? She hovered.
They were shooting a follow-up piece in Charlestown, something about a stalled housing project. Savannah wanted a particular shot of the cranes, “low angle, wide frame, skyline in the background.” Tilly framed it their way anyway, tighter, cleaner, better for the lead.
Savannah noticed. “That’s not the angle I asked for.”
Tilly didn’t look up from the viewfinder. “It’s the one that works.”
Savannah stepped closer, voice even but cold. “For who?”
Tilly pressed record. “The viewer.”
Savannah exhaled, visibly reining herself in. “It’s my story, Franklin. My call.”
Tilly finally lowered the camera. “No,” they said, calm but sharp. “It’s our story.”
The words landed heavier than either of them expected. For a second, Savannah looked like she might argue, but the wind whipped her hair across her face, breaking the tension. She turned away, adjusting her jacket, her voice clipped when she spoke again. “Fine. Just get it steady.”
Tilly did. The lens stayed trained on the site, steady as their heartbeat, even as Savannah’s reflection flickered in the viewfinder — impatient, frustrated, and something else they couldn’t quite name.
The last of the daylight had started to drain from the sky, washing Charlestown in gray. Traffic hummed on the bridge above, and the skeletal outline of the construction site glowed orange under a single security light. Tilly adjusted their frame, tracking a gust of wind that sent a loose tarp snapping across the fencing.
They were just about to call it when a pickup truck turned down the service road and rolled toward the site entrance. The door readDalton Development Group.
Savannah’s eyes lit up. “That’s them.”
“Yeah,” Tilly said slowly, “and we’re done.”
Savannah was already moving. “Not if they’re here.”
Tilly followed with the camera, swearing under their breath as she approached the truck. A man in a high-vis jacket climbed out, frowning when he saw her mic. Savannah was already mid-question.
