A Deal With The Devil

Elizabeth’s POV

A devil doesn’t always have horns. Sometimes, they rock Balmain suits and leave behind bloody headlines.

And my headline began the day I won the ‘Reporter of the Year Award’.

Rhythmic claps erupted across the office auditorium. I wore my lucky white coat and the same skirt reserved for special occasions. Everything ironed to perfection. After all, it was a special day. One that broke the routine of my 9 to 5 life.

“Now, let’s call on stage this year’s Reporter of the Year.” The host of tonight’s event, aka my manager, announced it while looking straight at me.

They informed me beforehand that I would receive an award. Yet they had already handed out every one of them. All except the infamous Reporter of the Year. For a reporter, it was like winning an Oscar.

‘Surely I’m not winning that?’

‘Right?’

I pinched my skin, locking my thoughts in my memory vault. A year of countless all-nighters, analyzing evidence, writing reports, chasing approvals.

‘Have my efforts finally paid off?’

My manager’s next words broke me out of my memory space and into the real world.

“Please welcome Miss Elizabeth Walker.”

And there it was.

I won. I finally won, Papa. ‘Guess we’re having barbecue and beer tonight.’

I fixed my name tag near my chest. My pride and joy. I looked ahead and walked toward the stage, a perfect smile stitched across my face—the same one I had practiced since the day I appeared on live broadcast.

Journalism needs professionalism. And I am a damn good professional.

I shook hands with two people whose names I had already forgotten in my excitement. All that mattered now was getting my hands on that shiny thing. I shook hands with my manager, and he handed me the trophy. It carried enough weight, reminding me of all the burdens I had shouldered over the past year.

‘Well deserved, if I say so myself.’

I looked towards the crowd, their eyes hungry for my comment. I fixed the microphone and obliged.

“Good evening, friends, fellow rivals, and those unknown faces without whom this wouldn’t have been possible. First, a heartfelt thank you to everyone, especially my dad, who couldn’t be here today. Without his support, I wouldn’t be standing here before all of you. Before I conclude, I’d like to share one of my favourite quotes. A quote I had learnt to live by.”

I took a deliberate pause.

“In a world where lies travel faster than the truth, journalists don’t just chase stories. We chase the truth. Thank You.”

The crowd erupted in claps and cheers loud enough to tell me I had delivered.

But the trophy and their fake cheers felt like nothing more than an appetizer to my hunger. The night was young, and I was craving dessert. Not the kind you’re thinking of.

“I am not done yet,” I spoke into the mic, cutting through all the jealous background noise. A large screen stood behind me, with a video waiting to be played.

“I prepared a small gift for the CEO of NovaGrid Labs and our Editor-in-Chief, Mr. Oliver Grant. Hope you both enjoy.” I added before pressing play.

Silence struck the crowd as they watched patiently.

The video displayed a series of documents and pieces of evidence. Among them was footage of Mr. Harrison Whitmore, CEO of NovaGrid Labs, meeting with Oliver Grant. The former was seen sliding a suitcase full of cash across the table to him.

Next came a series of documents detailing NovaGrid’s illegal activities and how they had funneled funds while their entire operation was a fraud.

The company was in the market for creating game-changing drugs that promised miracle cures. Or so they claimed. They released a drug onto the market, claiming it could cure every form of cancer. The documents showed that 60% of the patients who took the drug had died. But NovaGrid didn’t want people finding out. So, they made the patients disappear, fabricated reports, and got rid of all those involved to keep everything silent. They even bribed major news agencies to ensure none of it ever saw the light of day. And one of them just happened to be my editor-in-chief.

The silence turned into bursts of anger, and soon chaos ensued.

“My, my, Mr. Whitmore, you really are a piece of shit. Don’t forget to hire a good lawyer. You’re going to need one. Or, better yet, give me a call. I can represent you.” I chuckled, looking toward that man—or filth, as I liked to call him.

His eyes twitched, his fists tightened. I sensed an insult coming. Gradually, I allowed it.

“You fucking bitch. I will kill you!” he screamed, lunging at me with his fists. Sadly, the police tackled him down and arrested him.

I walked down the stage while my editor-in-chief shouted at me in handcuffs. I paid no heed. My hunger was gone, and my job here was done.

I reached my car and rushed home.

‘Now let’s celebrate with Dad.’

A gentle smile appeared on my face. Not the one I practised. I knew in my heart my papa would be proud.

Few minutes of driving passed by in seconds.

I walked up to my apartment. To my surprise, the door was already unlocked.

Something didn’t feel right. Everything was too quiet. I rushed inside, calling out for my dad, before my eyes fell on a trail of blood leading to my bedroom. I grabbed a kitchen knife and slowly pushed the door open.

That’s when it hit me.

My papa… lay against the wall. Blood stretched across the floor, painting everything red. My heart felt an aching pain as if someone had punctured holes in it.

‘You’re again pranking me. Nice try.’

I rushed to him and held him in my arms. Streaks of blood coated my white coat and my hands. His body felt cold, lifeless, lacking his usual smile.

This was not the tomorrow’s headlines I wanted to read.