The editorial department of the magazine was lit by one desk lamp after another, everyone immersed in the constant clatter of keyboards, with the urgency of a deadline lingering even in the air.

Susan Clark only felt her dazed state dissipate as she finished the last part of today’s article, finally accepting the fact that “the man who tried to hit on her last night was actually the little uncle of the mistress, and today he held a grudge and rejected her own attempt to strike up a conversation.”

He really does hold grudges.

Unaware, Susan Clark’s lips curved into a strange arc. She stared intently at the screen, her fingers flying across the keyboard, muttering under her breath, looking as if inspiration was pouring out of her.

However—

“All the banks’ wealth management companies are expected to enter new financing plans next year. The Banking and Insurance Regulatory Commission urges scumbags to hurry up and die, have their bones ground to ashes and used as fertilizer, while mistresses suffer irregular periods, acne all over their faces, and get athlete’s foot that infects two at a time.”

“What?” Nancy Cole, sitting at the next workstation, squinted and leaned halfway over, glanced at her screen, and asked, “What are you writing?”

Susan Clark snapped back to reality, blinked, glanced at the screen, and calmly deleted that line.

“Nothing.”

She closed her laptop, looked up at the glow outside the window, and fell into deep thought.

After finishing the summit article that afternoon, Susan Clark didn’t go home after work, but stayed in the office to write the interview outline for Ian Shaw.

Unlucky in love, she had to be successful at work. Susan Clark was determined to produce a stunning article to impress Ethan Turner, so that Ethan Turner wouldn’t keep thinking she was a pitiful mess just because she’d had a breakup.

Susan Clark was not only vengeful, but also very proud.

In the blink of an eye, it was Friday. Susan Clark took her voice recorder and notebook and headed to the headquarters of Mingyu Bank.

Like other office buildings, the reception on the first floor of Mingyu’s headquarters required visitors to register their identity.

This office building had a good orientation, with sunlight streaming in, shining on the smiling faces of the three formally dressed men and women at the reception desk, bringing a touch of warmth to the otherwise cold building.

A security guard stood to the side, glanced at the press card hanging from Susan Clark’s neck, and tried to sound casual as he said, “Are all the reporters at your magazine this pretty?”

Susan Clark just smiled in response to the compliment.

But the moment she picked up the pen, her eyes flashed.

Lily Hughes?

Why was Lily Hughes’s name on the registration sheet?

Although the name was common, it probably wasn’t a namesake, since the purpose of visit column said “interview.”

Speaking of Lily Hughes, she and Susan Clark had been out of sync since Susan Clark’s first day at the magazine, and over the past two years, they’d often competed for sources.

So when Susan Clark saw Lily Hughes’s name on the registration sheet, and noticed the visit time was exactly ten o’clock this morning, she suddenly had a bad feeling.

Susan Clark immediately ran toward the elevators.

In the elevator, time seemed to slow down. Although Susan Clark stood straight, her hands unconsciously clenched into fists, and her heart was in her throat.

Half a minute later, the elevator arrived. With a “ding,” Susan Clark’s calm was pierced. She looked up to see Stephen Brooks passing by in the corridor.

“Secretary Brooks!” Susan Clark called out as she quickly stepped out of the elevator. “I’m Susan Clark, a reporter from Financial Weekly. I have an appointment with the president’s office for a feature interview at 3:30 this afternoon.”

Stephen Brooks frowned slightly, looking puzzled. “Didn’t you have something come up?”

At that, the last bit of hope in Susan Clark’s heart vanished.

Sure enough, Lily Hughes had swooped in.

As expected, Stephen Brooks continued, “Your colleague has already finished the interview.”

Susan Clark’s mind went blank.

Stephen Brooks glanced at his watch and added, “She came this morning, but President Shaw happened to be available.”

Susan Clark: “……”

If curse words could be censored, the “beep beep” in her mind would be loud enough to disturb the neighbors.

But what could she do?

Ian Shaw had agreed to an interview with Financial Weekly, and wouldn’t care which reporter showed up, nor would he take responsibility for their internal disputes.

And the article had to be published. At most, the editor-in-chief would say Lily Hughes was out of line, but there was no way they’d pull Ian Shaw’s feature over some so-called “morality.”

Susan Clark nodded, gritted her teeth, and forced a stiff smile.

“Sorry, it was a miscommunication on our end.”

Of course, someone as shrewd as Stephen Brooks could see through the situation, but it was better to avoid trouble, so he just nodded along with Susan Clark’s words. “Sorry to have made you come all this way.”

“No—” Susan Clark’s voice suddenly stopped, the word “trouble” left unsaid, as she stared blankly ahead.

Ten meters away from her.

The doors to the president’s office slid open automatically. The six assistants and secretaries at the desks outside all stood up, and a young woman in professional attire, who was crossing the corridor with a stack of files, immediately stepped aside.

In the spotlight, a man walked out at a leisurely pace, his expression calm, silent yet commanding everyone’s attention.