I ask, suddenly concerned, “Are you implying some of my colleagues will be let go if I don’t stay?”

I’m gripping the armrests as I wait for an answer.

Tick, tock, tick, tock . . .

“Well, yes. Everyone would likely be let go,” Mrs. Clark responds, looking pained as I stiffen in my seat. “We’ve tried to secure some positions but the buyer has been very firm. Rachel, please consider staying at Edge. We can tell the new owner would be very interested in growing your career, and your colleagues would be able to remain.”

And kaboom.

Ka-fucking-boom.

“Mrs. Clark!” I gasp from the blow, then shake my head, stupefied. “I have a very powerful reason for leaving. I beg you not to allow my colleagues to be fired. Some of them have been here through every lean time, working hard to see the magazine through. Everyone depends on their salaries.”

Xavier Clark cocks his head at my plea. “It’s not me doing or not doing anything. It’s the buyer’s demands. I would urge you to consider staying at Edge, then, Miss Livingston.”

He pauses and takes a long look at me.

“I personally will offer you a year’s salary as a bonus if you do. You have to understand,” he leans forward, suddenly looking older, tired. “This is our one chance to see a dime back of the life savings we’ve put into the business. This is a new start for Edge, and could be a solid future for both you and your colleagues. Think about it.”

“Mr. and Mrs. Clark, what’s going on here is absolute . . .” I struggle to find a word, but I’m so outraged, I can only think of a thousand colorful ones to describe this. “This is blackmail.”

Mr. Clark reels back a little, stiffly. “No, Rachel. This is business,” he says. “And I hope we have a businesswoman in you.” He nods to Helen, and we stand up when he does. “This must be settled by next Monday for our buyer. Try to help Miss Livingston see the win-win in this circumstance—for her and everyone else—Helen?” he asks.

“I’m sorry, Rachel,” Helen says when we’re out of earshot. For the first time her features are genuinely etched with concern as we walk back to the elevators. “I was afraid this was coming.”

I fist my hands at my sides, outraged, impotent, and so damned angry I want to yell even though I try to keep my voice down. “I made a promise that I’m keeping, Helen.”

“Oh, pfft. Don’t be so innocent. People break promises every day, Rachel.”

“Not this promise—not me.”

We step off the elevators. My insides are roiling with anxiety and frustration as I go and sit down at my computer and watch Helen head into her office.

The newsroom makes its usual noise, the keyboards, the chatter, the phones, every one of my colleagues working as usual, and I wonder how many will be here by the time Noel Saint is through. Nobody here knows they’re hanging on to a lifeline—one I’m holding right now.

Instinctively I pull out my phone and look for my lifeline.

I look at the name in my most recent text—SIN—and I want to tell him. I desperately want to tell him that I’m still leaving, that I’m keeping my promise, that I love having his trust again, but that my friends are at stake. But if I tell him about this, what will he do?

Tonight we’re supposed to go to a fund-raiser. We’re supposed to spend the weekend together after. I could tell him, but I’m not sure that it wouldn’t be falling into some sort of trap Noel Saint has set up to goad Malcolm into retaliating.

I lower my phone and find myself looking at Edge with new eyes.

Edge, which gave me my start. Gave me some kind of voice, a chance to reach people, a story that I wanted that broke my heart, but that led me to love. After everything, for the first time I’m truly realizing that Edge and I are done.

I won’t stay here, a sitting duck. I won’t be a pawn. I won’t be bullied. I love my colleagues and this place, but I can’t be responsible for absolutely everything. The Clarks are selling for personal reasons, and I have to act in my own best interests too.

I won’t break my fucking boyfriend’s heart again. I do have truth and loyalty, and a pair of green eyes owns both.

I find myself walking to Helen’s door that afternoon, knocking three times,

“Yes, Rachel?”

I hand out the paper in my hand.

“And that’s . . . ?”

“My two weeks’ notice.”

SIN AT THE DOOR

When I text, Hey Sin. I’m having a tough week. Is it ok if I skip the benefit? he calls me in record time.