Chapter 2 Trouble At Work

The message went through, and the response popped up right away. "You're actually going through with it?"

"Yes," Alina replied.

"You're certain this is what you want?"

Alina typed back. "Being stuck in a half-hearted relationship is like standing in place while everything else moves forward. Some people get used to it. I can't."

"Fair point. Rhett really is a jerk sometimes."

"It was an arranged marriage. No need to make it more than it was."

With that final message, Alina set her phone aside and slipped under the covers.

But sleep didn't come easy.

The air in the room still carried traces of Rhett's shower gel—dark, musky, rich.

It was a scent that once made her feel safe. But tonight, it clung to her like a ghost.

The next morning, when Alina came down for breakfast, Rhett was nowhere in sight.

The housekeeper, placing a plate of food carefully on the table, said with caution, "Mr. Yates left earlier this morning."

Alina's fingers brushed the rim of her glass. "Got it."

The housekeeper had served the Clarke family for many years and had watched Alina grow up. She hesitated before speaking again. "He took his suitcase with him."

Alina gave a small nod. "Thanks for the information."

The housekeeper shifted uncomfortably. "Mrs. Yates… did something happen between you and Mr. Yates?"

Alina looked up, her face calm. She wasn't hiding anything. "We're getting a divorce."

The housekeeper froze, clearly shocked. She opened her mouth as if to ask something but held back. After a pause, she carefully asked, "Was it his decision? Did he find out about… the Clarke family situation?"

Alina's voice remained steady. "It was my decision. He doesn't know."

The scandal surrounding the Clarke family hadn't gone public yet. Alec Clarke—her grandfather—was still trying to contain the damage. Rhett couldn't have heard about it.

The housekeeper stared for a second longer, lips pressed together, and was about to ask more. But Alina downed the last of her milk, answered a phone call, and left the house, giving the housekeeper no chance to probe further.

She drove straight to the office.

While she was driving, her assistant gave an update on the interview situation. "The interviewee's image tanked before we even got started. Some misconduct—his own secretary leaked it. One of the top ten entrepreneurs, now crashing down like a stack of cards."

Alina asked sharply, "Do we have someone else lined up?"

The assistant paused. "No backup yet."

Alina's tone dropped. "Didn't I make it clear? Every feature interview should have a backup."

The assistant went silent, sensing her mood.

After a moment, Alina said, "I'll be in the office in thirty minutes. Start reaching out to heads of other companies now. Anyone who can slot in quickly."

"Got it."

Alina added, "And one more thing—just be straightforward on the calls. Don't try to sugarcoat it. Those execs' assistants are sharp. They'll figure out we're scrambling the moment they glance at our release timeline."

"Understood."

The call ended. Alina rubbed her temples.

It really never rains—it pours.

When she stepped into the office, the tension was obvious. The department of journalists buzzed with frantic voices, ringing phones, and people pacing between desks.

The staff had already tossed the old draft. All the hours spent on that now felt wasted.

As soon as they saw Alina, the staff all greeted her respectfully.

She nodded. "Any luck getting someone to fill the slot?"

No one answered.

Noticing the silence, Alina could already guess how things stood. She set her handbag down on a nearby desk, gave a quiet nod for them to carry on, and walked out.

Minutes later, she stepped into the editor-in-chief's office.

Carl Simpson, the editor-in-chief, was in his early forties and had built a reputation for demanding perfection. He valued clean execution over personal excuses.

After Alina explained what happened, his face darkened. "You're telling me this now? When the issue's practically locked?"

When something went wrong, responsibility needed to be taken.

She didn't shift the blame. "It was my mistake."

Carl shook his head. "It's not just about blame. The question is—how do we fix this?"

She had already thought of that. She just needed Carl on board. "What if we move up Zayne Sutton's interview to this issue?"

Carl didn't respond at first. He stared at her, thinking. Then, he picked up the phone and made a call with Alina still in the room.

The person on the other end must have agreed, because Carl's expression lifted. "Really? Perfect. Next Wednesday, then."

He ended the call and gave his desk a light tap. "We'll use Zayne's interview this round. That means we have an empty spot where his was originally planned. You'll prep for an interview with Mr. Yates to fill that."

The name hit her like a slap. Her eyes twitched. "Which Mr. Yates?"

Carl looked at her like it should've been obvious. "Rhett Yates. The Yates Group."

Alina couldn't find her voice.