Violette Ellis returned to work the day after her leave of absence expired. With New Year’s fast approaching, the office was a whirlwind of activity, and out of unspoken courtesy, no one mentioned the stalker incident that had recently sent her into hiding.

Marilyn Stone was back at her desk as well, offering Violette a curt, professional nod as they passed.

During the lunch break, both women were summoned to Director Campbell’s office. The Director had approved their proposal: the station would issue a formal, hard-hitting statement to serve as a warning to others. As for the stalker currently in custody, they were committed to pursuing the case to its bitter end, publicly documenting every detail of the legal proceedings through the station’s official channels.

Public opinion was currently trending in their favor, and the Director intended to capitalize on it.

Once the logistics were settled, the Director turned his gaze to Violette. "The Tour finishes in two days. Consider your reporting duties there finished. You’re done."

Marilyn offered a thin, tight-lipped smile. "You really do have a streak of stubbornness, don't you?"

"Understood," Violette replied, giving Marilyn a brief, grounding pat on the shoulder.

The afternoon was a blur of deadlines. Marilyn had to pre-record the evening news and headed to makeup, while Violette made her way to the studio to dub a short documentary. They parted ways at the corridor.

Marilyn’s assistant hurried over, her eyes darting past Marilyn’s shoulder to watch Violette disappear down the hall before whispering, "Marilyn, are you feeling okay after everything?"

"I'm perfectly fine," Marilyn said, striding ahead with purpose.

"It’s just… it feels so unfair that you ended up taking the heat for her. Did she even have the decency to apologize?"

Marilyn narrowed her eyes. "How do you know she didn't?"

"Oh—is that right? I just thought, since she’s been so cold lately, I assumed—"

"Focus on your work. Stop speculating."

"Right, sorry."

The assistant fell silent, trailing behind her. Marilyn glanced back. Violette was nearly out of sight, her silhouette slim and fragile against the harsh glare of the corridor’s overhead lights. She was undeniably beautiful and sharp, a formidable rival for the station's spotlight.

The sense of urgency Marilyn felt had peaked when Violette had arrived, quickly outshining her during the training period to become the lead anchor of the news division.

In this business, they were constantly navigating a minefield of power dynamics. Every field assignment felt like an endurance test, often ending in forced social obligations. Back then, Marilyn had been ruthless, leveraging her status as the face of the evening news to secure sponsorships at endless corporate dinners.

Violette, on the other hand, had the advantage of a father in the local tourism bureau. As long as she didn't trip up, her path to the top was practically paved.

The memory of that specific night surfaced again. It was after the local Economic Forum. Marilyn had been interviewing a group of young entrepreneurs, including a man named Roland Hayes. She had worked with Hayes before; he was in his early thirties and had recently inherited his family’s personal care and cosmetics empire. He’d made vague promises about corporate sponsorships that had yielded nothing but hot air.

When Hayes invited her to dinner to "discuss the sponsorship details," Marilyn accepted.

She was smart enough to insist on picking the venue. When she arrived, she found only Hayes waiting in the private room.

"I thought you said there were others from your company?" Marilyn asked, scanning the room.

"The decision-making power rests with me. That’s enough, isn't it?" Hayes offered a practiced, gentlemanly smile. "Don't worry, Marilyn. I’m already pushing the paperwork through."

The vast private room felt unnervingly empty. Hayes moved to sit right next to her, claiming it was too difficult to shout across the oversized round table. The conversation shifted from business to his personal life. He complained about the pressure to marry, hinting that if he found someone "part of the family," investments would be a simple matter.

Marilyn saw right through the veiled proposition. "That’s very generous of you, Mr. Hayes."

"I like you," Hayes said, stripping away the pretense. "You’re smart, capable, and driven. A woman who stays focused on her career isn't a headache after marriage."

The way he phrased it felt like a slap. *A headache?* She wasn't an item to be acquired.

"Mr. Hayes, you aren't looking for a wife. You’re looking for a business merger."

"Isn't marriage just the ultimate merger?" He reached out, his hand resting on the back of her chair, looming over her. "You have a good job, and my father wouldn't mind a beautiful, sharp woman as a daughter-in-law. You give me a child, I give you money, and we live our own lives. It’s a win-win, isn't it?"

His eyes were locked on her midsection.

Marilyn shot to her feet, every shred of professional patience incinerated. "You’ve mistaken me for someone else."

She slammed the door of the private room and marched toward the exit. Hayes caught up in a few strides, his fingers digging into her wrist. "Are you sure you don't want to reconsider?"

"I’m sure. Let go."

"Don't you want that sponsorship?"

"No."

"Marilyn, you’re only resisting because you haven't tried it," he chuckled, pulling her closer in a half-embrace. His other hand began to wander toward her waist. "Let’s just see how we get along tonight. You might change your mind. It’s a lot of fun."

*Fun, my foot.*

Marilyn’s instinct was to avoid a scene, but as she struggled to pull away, he only tightened his grip, trapping her.

*Crash.*

The sound of shattering ceramic echoed through the hall. Marilyn gasped. The man holding her was suddenly drenched in a foul-smelling mess. Remnants of a spicy beef stew and a creamy cabbage dish slid down his crisp white shirt, leaving a chaotic, jagged stain of red and grease. The server nearby froze in horror, trembling.

"Sir, I—I am so, so sorry!"

A girl in a face mask stepped forward, shielding the server. She held a plastic tray in one hand, her knuckles splashed with a few droplets of broth. "I tripped. Take it up with me."

Marilyn’s heart hammered against her ribs.

*That voice…*

She looked at the girl’s eyes—bright, piercing, and unmistakably familiar. She had spent weeks treating this woman like an enemy, so how could she not recognize her?

*Violette Ellis? What was she doing here?*

Hayes’s mask of a gentleman finally cracked. "Are you insane?" He raised his hand, looking ready to strike. Violette didn't flinch. She raised a perfectly manicured eyebrow.

"Oh? Aren't you the heir to that personal care company? I’ve seen you in the news. What a coincidence! Imagine the headlines: 'Local CEO Caught Harassing Women in Public'."

"What are you recording?" Hayes snapped.

"The whole thing," Violette said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "I was just sitting at the next table, minding my own business."

She held up her phone. A video of the altercation was clearly visible on the screen.

Hayes’s face went white. "Delete it."

"No."

Veins pulsed on his forehead. "Name your price."

"You want to negotiate in the middle of a hallway with people watching?"

The corridor was filling with onlookers, their pace slowing as they noticed the commotion. Hayes cursed under his breath, waving a dismissive hand. "Get out of here."

As the staff scrambled to clean the mess, Marilyn took a few steps away before hesitating. She saw Violette, her hand behind her back, make a shooing motion. Reluctantly, Marilyn walked away.

Ten minutes later, Violette tagged Marilyn in the station’s internal group chat.

Marilyn added her and sent a quick message: *Where are you?*

*The parking lot.*

The ping of a notification echoed in the quiet space. Marilyn turned to see Violette waiting under a streetlamp, waving. "Hey, Marilyn."

Marilyn climbed into her car, scanning the area for any sign of trouble. "What were you doing there?"

"Family dinner. What about you?"

If not for the timely intervention, Marilyn would have thought it was sarcasm. "Looking for sponsorships," she replied, her tone sharp. "I failed."

"Oh," Violette rubbed the bridge of her nose and pulled off her mask. "I didn't realize the pressure on anchors was that intense."

It wasn't that way for everyone—only for those with no money, no background, and no choice but to grind it out alone.

Marilyn glared at her. "You wouldn't know anything about that."

"Marilyn, I got into this station on my own merit, without any help," Violette said, her voice as clear as a stream. "So yes, I have my own share of worries, too."

Marilyn felt a prick of embarrassment. She changed the subject. "Are you alright after that scene?"

"I’m fine. People in his position are terrified of losing face. He wouldn't dare make a scene. In fact, he even gave me some hush money."

Marilyn blinked. "You actually took it?"

"I didn't want to, but if I didn't take it, my previous outburst would look suspicious. He would have realized we were together. I asked for cash to avoid a paper trail." Violette pulled a few bills from her pocket and grinned. "Dinner’s on me, Marilyn?"

That night, Marilyn found herself sitting at a street-side food stall with Violette. Violette was complaining about the math: "I didn't get enough, I had to pay an extra eighty out of my own pocket!"

Marilyn went to reach for her purse, but Violette pressed her hand down. The skin of her wrist was soft and cool.

"I ordered my favorites. Don't worry about it."

"You always call me 'Marilyn' with such a strange tone, like you're mocking me," Marilyn noted.

"I think I am," Violette admitted.

They sat under the flickering lights, eating dishes that cooled from steaming to congealed. They talked about office politics, deliberately avoiding the night’s events.

"Tomorrow," Marilyn began.

"I’m out on location," Violette interrupted, not looking up. "I won't be at the station."

"About tonight—"

"Marilyn, do you think I have a loose tongue?"

"I didn't mean it like that."

After a while, Violette broke the silence. "You’re the victim. Even if someone found out, no one would blame you. But that’s not why I’m keeping quiet. Marilyn, I have boundaries."

"Some things are beyond your control, regardless of who is the victim."

"I know," Violette said. "If there’s any gossip at the station, you can blame me."

It was as close to a promise as she could give. Marilyn didn't press it.

When she arrived at work the next morning, the office was quiet. A week passed. Then two. Aside from Roland Hayes appearing a few times under various pretexts, nothing happened.

Marilyn knew why he was there. He wasn't there to offend her; he was there because he’d realized the girl who dumped the soup on him was her colleague. He was looking for evidence.

Hayes never spoke of it, and Marilyn continued to play the part of the oblivious rival.

The only close call happened in the lobby, when Hayes spotted Violette. He paused, his eyes narrowing as he scanned her face. Violette’s features were striking—her eyes alone were unforgettable. He seemed to recognize her from that night, but the passage of time had blurred the details.

He stopped an employee—someone other than Marilyn—and asked about her.

"Oh, that’s Violette. She’s in the news department," the staff member replied.

"Is she close with Marilyn Stone?"

"Not a chance," the staff member whispered. "They’re both gunning for the lead anchor spot. They can’t stand each other. You ever see two people fighting over the same piece of meat and call them best friends?"

Hayes nodded, satisfied, and turned away.