Chapter 1
Lillian Hayes stared at her computer screen like it had personally offended her.
She was already three sips into her disappointment when the newsroom lights flickered on too bright for her taste. Veritas Investigations wasn’t much to look at. It was just another open-concept graveyard of burnt-out idealists trying to resurrect the truth. The kind of place where the air smelled like stale coffee, printer toner, and unpaid overtime.
She sat in the far corner, flanked by overstuffed corkboards and the carcass of a once-functional fax machine. It was the closest thing she had to privacy. Her desk looked like it belonged to someone halfway through a breakdown—post-it notes in aggressive colours, crime scene photos from older stories curling at the edges, and a cactus Maya swore was dead but refused to throw out.
Fifteen tabs were open across her dual monitors, fourteen useless, and one, a leaked court memo, barely relevant. The headlines pouring out of her competitors were louder than ever. The Globe and Mail was drooling over some hedge fund’s new greenwashing initiative. The Toronto Star had pivoted into performative hand-wringing about transit fare hikes. And CBC had gone full personality cult, writing think-pieces on anchor haircuts like the future of journalism depended on it.
It was barely 9:15 a.m., and already she hated everyone, and hated all of it.
She reached for her coffee; burnt, no cream, no sugar, as bitter as her mood, and grimaced. Cold. Of course.
“Plotting your resignation or world domination?” a familiar voice asked.
She didn’t need to look up to know Maya King had arrived. Lillian could recognise her best friend’s voice anywhere; it was always ten seconds away from saying something HR would flag. Maya dropped into the chair beside her, kicking off her heels like this wasn’t a workplace but her living room. Her dark brown tight curls were gathered in a pineapple bun, her gold hoops swung with every movement, and her lipstick was the same lethal red she wore to funerals and first dates.
“Neither,” Lillian said flatly. “Just considering the logistics of faking my death in the financial district.”
Maya leaned forward, eyeing her with faux concern. “Do I get to pick the body double? Because if we’re doing this, I want someone tall enough to sell the lie. No shade, but five-foot-four is barely a threat.”
Lillian arched a brow. “I’m five-six. With boots.”
Maya made a non-committal noise, already eyeing the screen. “Why do you have a tab open for National Post? That’s like dumpster-diving for news.”
“Morbid curiosity. I wanted to see if they could still spell ‘ethics.’”
“Mm. Bold assumption.”
The newsroom buzzed with the usual theatre of chaos. Clacking keyboards, half-mumbled curse words, and the occasional too-loud phone call from a reporter who thought volume equalled credibility. Interns scampered like underpaid rats. Somewhere near the kitchenette, someone was cursing out a broken Keurig.
Veritas Investigations prided itself on not being mainstream. It wasn’t The Globe. It didn’t get invited to press junkets or sip champagne at TIFF galas. What it had was bite, and a shrinking budget. But Lillian stayed because no other newsroom in Toronto let her say the things that needed to be said. Here, journalism was a bloodsport, not a brand.
Maya peered at the spreadsheet on her screen. “What’s today’s obsession?”
“White collar crime, foreign shell companies, maybe the death of hope.”
Maya whistled. “Jesus. Go off, Marxist Barbie.”
Lillian allowed herself the ghost of a smirk. “Tell me you found something better.”
“I found a guy who claims his condo developer is laundering cartel money through drywall invoices.”
“Oh, that’s adorable.”
“Right?” Maya rolled her eyes. “Told him to send documents or never speak again.”
Before Lillian could respond, Frank Dawson materialised like a bureaucratic poltergeist. His tie was crooked, his hair combed with what looked like a butter knife, and his expression could strip paint off a wall. He looked like a man who used to care once, maybe when Print meant something. Now, he was just another overworked editor in a cheap suit, carrying a Manila envelope like it contained either a Pulitzer or a warrant.
“Hayes. King. Conference room. Now.”
Lillian blinked. “Wow, no warm-up. Not even a good morning?”
Frank tossed the envelope onto her desk with a thunk. It skidded to a stop on top of her keyboard with a fat slap of paper. “You’ll like this one.”
Maya raised a brow. “Is it murder?”
“Worse,” Frank said, deadpan. “It’s rich people.”
The name printed on the first page of the folder made Lillian’s stomach drop.
Gabriel Knight.
She stared at it like it might catch fire. Even Maya paused mid-sip.
“Knight Enterprises?” Maya asked, and her voice lowered now, serious. “The Gabriel Knight?”
Frank nodded, already walking toward the glass-walled conference room. “Get moving. I want your claws in this before The Globe grows a spine.”
They followed.
The conference room was always too cold, like the AC was permanently set to ‘corporate vengeance.’ Frank leaned against the table, arms crossed, eyes on Lillian.
“We’ve got a leak from someone in regulatory. No name yet, but the docs are clean. Shell companies. Disappearing funds. Holdings Knight’s never disclosed. Cayman Islands. Singapore. Places that spell tax avoidance with a smile.”
Maya frowned. “Hasn’t The Star tried to go at him before?”
Frank snorted. “Please. The Star flinched when Knight bought out half of Union Station’s redevelopment zone. Everyone’s scared of him. Even the City’s too cozy to dig deep.”
“And you want us to be martyrs?” Lillian asked.
“I want you to be thorough,” Frank corrected. “He owns three downtown towers, has a wedding on the cover of Hello! Canada, and a billion-dollar telecom merger in motion. The man’s practically untouchable.”
Lillian tilted her head. “Then why come to us?”
Frank gave her a thin smile. “Because you don’t care about getting invited to charity galas. And because if this goes south, I’d rather you take the fall than one of our interns.”
Charming.
Maya cracked her knuckles. “What are the odds this is just smoke?”
Frank shrugged. “Fifty-fifty. But even if it’s nothing, the public interest is there. His net worth’s doubled in three years, and no one’s asked how.”
Lillian opened the file. The contents were sparse—transaction trails, corporate registration documents, redacted emails. But she didn’t need a full picture to know it stank. This wasn’t sloppy accounting. This was the kind of calculated obfuscation you only saw when someone was hiding something, or someone.
She glanced at Maya. “Thoughts?”
“I think we’re either about to break the biggest story of the year… or get sued into oblivion.”
“Same difference.”
Frank clapped his hands. “That’s the spirit. I want a source in the next forty-eight. And for God’s sake, don’t get caught breaking any laws. Again. If he sneezes, I want to know what brand of tissue he used.”
As he left, Maya turned to her, arching a brow. “So… how do you feel about shadowing a billionaire with a God complex and ten law firms on speed dial?”
Lillian leaned back in her seat, arms folded across her blazer. She wasn’t flashy. Black trousers. Soft navy blouse. Thick, brown curls pinned back in a loose bun that said “don’t bother.” Her face was all angular lines and sharper eyes. People often mistook her for younger than twenty-nine—until she spoke. Then they got it.
“I’ve danced with worse devils,” she said. “But this one smells like roses and litigation.”
Maya grinned. “And here I thought your type was emotionally unavailable writers.”
“Knight’s worse. He’s available. Publicly engaged. Polished within an inch of his reputation.”
She flipped through the last page—an engagement announcement in Toronto Life. Gabriel Knight, heir to a media-tech empire, poised to merge with Orion Communications and walk down the aisle with Vivienne Laurent, the PR darling of Bay Street. The photo looked like a stock image for wealth porn. Knight in a tailored navy suit, Vivienne in ivory silk, both laughing like people with airtight NDAs.
Maya tilted her head. “What are you thinking?”
“I’m thinking no one looks that perfect unless they’re hiding something.”
She stood, file in hand, the bulk of it strangely light.
“Let’s see what Mr. Knight does when the cameras aren’t rolling.”
