My Anti-hero Fairy System-Chapter 58. Editor-in-chief

"And who are you, exactly?" Cara asked, stepping back and straightening her coat.

The man gasped theatrically, his hand flying to his chest in exaggerated disbelief. "Seriously? You don’t remember me?" His effeminate mannerisms and animated hand gestures immediately put Cara at ease. At least he wasn’t about to flirt with her—thank the stars for small mercies.

Reading his surface thoughts, Cara quickly picked up the key details she needed. His name was Tristan Walker, a colleague she had worked alongside during her internship at The Hemridge Globe. They’d started as interns together, but unlike her, he had secured a permanent journalist position while she was... well, dead.

"Oh, Tristan! Sorry, I forgot," Cara said, forcing a sheepish smile. "In my defence, I lost some memories when I came back to life, so... yeah."

Tristan’s eyes widened with a mixture of amazement and curiosity. "I get it—I mean, I don’t get it because this is so wild, but I’m trying to understand. You’re literally the first person I’ve ever spoken to who, y’know, died and came back. How are you doing? You look... well, amazing, considering."

"I’m taking it one day at a time," Cara replied, brushing off his awe. "And you? I’m guessing you got the job since... you know, I was out of the picture?"

Tristan hesitated, glancing at the floor before meeting her gaze. "Yeah, I did. I hope that’s not, uh, weird for you?"

Cara chuckled, shaking her head. "Not at all. Me dying shouldn’t mean everything shuts down. If anything, I’m glad a friend got to move up. That’s fantastic. Besides," she added with a wry smile, "there’s a good chance I won’t be working here anymore."

Relief washed over Tristan’s face, and his shoulders visibly relaxed. "Thank you. I knew you’d be cool about it. So, are you here to get your old job back?"

"I’m here to see Mr. Diaz and figure out what happens next," Cara said.

"Well, if you ask me, Hernan would be crazy to let you go. You’re one of the best investigative journalists I’ve ever seen. And trust me, Hernan knows talent when he sees it," Tristan said with a reassuring smile.

Cara suppressed the urge to cringe. His overly familiar tone when referring to their boss didn’t sit right with her.

[Why is he on a first-name basis with the editor-in-chief?]

’Yeah, that’s odd,’ she thought, her mental voice laced with suspicion.

Without missing a beat, Cara delved into Tristan’s thoughts again. What she found made her stomach twist. Tristan and Hernan were... involved. Very involved, like they have been doing the horizontal tango for quite some time.

[I knew something was off,] the voice in her head remarked.

’It’s even worse because Hernan’s married,’ Cara thought grimly. Cara had already researched Hernan online and found out that he had a wife and three kids.

[So their relationship is definitely a secret.]

Cara kept her expression neutral as the elevator dinged, announcing their arrival at the top floor. The doors slid open, and she stepped out, waving briefly at Tristan.

"Well, I’ll see you around," Tristan called after her, heading off in the opposite direction.

Cara turned slightly and gave him a polite nod. "Yeah, me too," she said, her tone carefully indifferent, already filing away the new information for potential use later..

As Tristan disappeared down the hallway, Cara gathered herself and refocused her thoughts. Following the receptionist’s directions, she soon arrived at a large wooden door with a polished plaque that read, "The Office of the Editor-in-Chief." Taking a steadying breath, she knocked firmly.

From inside, a deep baritone voice called out, "Who is it?"

"It’s Cara Bolton, sir," she replied.

There was a brief pause, then, "Cara, come in."

Pushing the door open, Cara stepped into the office. The space exuded power and prestige, with floor-to-ceiling glass walls that offered a breathtaking view of the city skyline. The room was tastefully minimalist, with a mahogany desk dominating the center. Hernan Diaz sat behind it, his white suit jacket unbuttoned over a crisp long-sleeve shirt. His hazel eyes locked onto her, sharp and calculating, as if trying to read her every thought.

"Cara," Hernan said, a faint smile curling his lips. "Welcome back to the land of the living. I was wondering when you’d walk through that door."

"I would have come sooner," Cara began, her tone even, "but I’ve been busy trying to recover—myself and my memories."

Hernan raised a hand to stop her mid-sentence. "Please, have a seat," he said, gesturing toward the chair opposite him.

Cara settled into the seat, her posture composed but alert. Hernan leaned back slightly, still scrutinizing her. "So, you were saying?"

"I’m still recovering," Cara continued, her voice calm but purposeful. "Physically, mentally... and piecing together the fragments of my memory."

"That’s good to hear," Hernan said, his voice softening slightly. "How’s your family coping with all this?"

Cara didn’t miss the faux concern in his tone. Reading his mind, she knew he was more interested in why she was here than in her well-being. She kept her expression neutral. "They’re doing fine," she said briskly. Then, leaning forward slightly, she added, "Sir, would you mind if I get straight to the point?"

Hernan smirked, his fingers tapping lightly on the desk. "You were always a straight shooter. Go on. What brings you here?"

"Do I still have a job here?" Cara asked bluntly. "And what’s the status of the piece I was writing before... everything happened?"

Hernan’s smile grew tighter. "It’s good you asked those two questions because, in a way, their answers are connected. We had to scrap the piece you were working on. You... Well, you died. We couldn’t just keep it on hold indefinitely, so we moved on. And as for your position, it was tied to that project. Without it, the permanent position was, unfortunately, given to someone else."

Cara nodded, absorbing the blow without flinching. "I understand," she said evenly. Then her voice sharpened. "That brings me to my next question: why were we arguing in the diner’s driveway on the day I was killed?"

The question hit Hernan like a bolt of lightning. His composed demeanor faltered, his mind immediately racing for an explanation. Cara, reading his thoughts, saw him scrambling to piece together a convincing lie. Instead, he opted for deflection.

"I thought they said you died of an overdose?" he said, his tone feigning disbelief.

Cara’s eyes narrowed, her voice unwavering. "Do you really believe that nonsense?" she shot back. "Come on, sir. Don’t deflect. Why were we arguing that day?"

The confidence in her tone visibly unsettled Hernan. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together on the desk. His mind tried to spin a convincing lie.