Filthy Headlines by Cassie Mint
One
Sasha
One month earlier
The press pool is crammed. I squeeze my way between the narrow rows of chairs, tripping over leather satchels and stepping around abandoned takeout coffee cups. Most of the reporters here are men, and twice my age too. Pushing through in front of me, my editor Simon blends in perfectly: with his soft brown blazer and mane of shoulder-length salt and pepper hair, he’s everything I’m not.
Older.
Male.
Successful.
I’m working on that last one.
“Come along, Sarah.”
That rich British accent would probably be more fun if he’d remember my name. But after a full month in the newsroom, setting up my desk and trying to prove my worth in my new job, Simon has still only learned the first letter.
“It’s Sasha, sir.”
I hop awkwardly over another reporter’s outstretched legs, shooting him the side-eye. What, he couldn’t even try to let me through? The man stares back at me, his face somehow bored and aggressive at the same time. And you can see the exact moment he registers that I’m not exactly like all the other reporters here.
I’m young—fresh faced and eager, straight out of college.
And I’m undeniably female, with my blonde hair braided back in a bun.
The man smiles broadly and moves his legs, the gesture coming way too late.
“Thanks,” I say flatly, pushing along the row after Simon.
The man’s eyes follow me, hot and itchy on my back. And this is everything I feared when I chose a career in journalism. Male-dominated—that’s the word for it, right? Thinly veiled code for: You’re not welcome. And: We’re gonna make this hard on you.
Screw ‘em. If these men can’t see past a pencil skirt, they’ve got no business writing the news.
Simon stops at the first two available seats, bending down to brush a scrunched up ball of paper off my chair. He smiles at me too, as we lower into our chairs—a quick tug at the corners of his mouth before he’s back to business.
He’snot so bad. Not a sexist jerk, anyway, even if he can’t remember my name. Which almost makes it harder, because now I care what he thinks. I want to impress him so badly, it keeps me up at night. Simon is exactly the kind of mentor I’ve dreamed of since college.
Rigorous in his research. An unstoppable reporter. When he gets hold of a story, he never lets go.
I’m going to be like that. And this press conference—this marks my first chance. My first big assignment.
It all comes down to Grant Keller.
We’re here a few minutes early, never mind that the room is already crammed as full as a sardine tin, so I take a moment to flip through my notes. Grant Keller’s latest launch is his third major project in as many years—each a bigger success than the last. Property, media, tech—you name it. He’s done it, and he made it look easy.
Now investors look at him with dollar signs in their eyes; well-dressed women in fancy bars all around the city are sizing him up for a ring. He’s the Midas man—everything he touches turns to gold—and yet when he steps into the room, a vicious ripple runs through the press pool.
Reporters freaking hate Grant Keller. And not just reporters, either.
He’s prickly. No—he’s an asshole.
And there’s something suspicious about him. I know it.
Simon knows it too. That’s why we’re both here, instead of a lone junior reporter sent to record the announcement. That’s why he keeps darting me quick smiles, paying more attention to me than he’s done all week.
My editor pulled me into his office before 8am this morning, and gave me my first assignment. I’m going undercover. Working for Grant Keller.
I lean closer now, my arm brushing against Simon’s blazer. The press pool is a sea of scowls and angry mutters as the man we’re all here to see strides to the podium.
“Isn’t this risky? What if he recognizes me?”
Simon stifles a laugh and shakes his head. He points at the front of the room with his pen, his notebook balanced on his crossed legs.
“You see that man?”
“Yes.” Well, duh.
“He’s not looking at us, Sarah. Not as people. Grant Keller hates reporters—when he looks out at us, he sees a pack of braying wolves.”
I chew on my lip. “And he won’t be surprised to find a braying wolf turn up to work as his assistant?”
Simon shrugs and straightens up. “I daresay he won’t notice you at all.”
Ouch. Okay, that shouldn’t sting. The whole point of going undercover is that I can fly under the radar. But even in this crowded room, with way too many hungry eyes on my back, it doesn’t feel great to hear your boss call you forgettable.
I clear my throat. “Good. That’s good. And it’s Sasha, sir.”
“What?” Simon frowns at me, confused. Then the murmurs die down, and we turn forward.
Grant Keller stands at the podium, scanning the crowd with open distaste, one hand pushed loosely into his pants pocket. Dressed in a dark tailored suit and crisp white shirt, his collar open at the throat, he looks more like Clark Kent than any of these reporters. Thick dark hair. A square jaw. The swell of sculpted muscle under his suit.
Grant’s pale gray eyes are cold enough to freeze us to our seats, and yet everyone else seems used to it. They bristle, they grumble quietly, but no one else seems to hold their breath.
I do. Something about that cold, empty gaze… my heart skitters in my chest, tripping over its own beat. When his eyes pass over me, scanning quickly over my cream blouse and laminated press pass, I duck my chin, staring so hard at the notebook in my lap that the letters blur. And when his gaze roves on, I slump back in my chair.
I feel weak. Flushed. Like I’ve run five miles, not sat still for ten minutes.
“There,” Simon murmurs. “You see? He didn’t even blink at you. There’s no risk of recognition.”
“If I get caught at his office…”
Simon raps his pen against his notebook. “If you are unable to perform this assignment, there are plenty who will.”
“No! I can do it.” The words tumble out, tinged with panic. “I promise. I’ll find whatever Grant Keller is hiding.”
The man in question clears his throat, and silence spreads through the room. When he speaks, his voice is deep: a smooth baritone. It doesn’t match his frosty glare.
“Keller Enterprises is delighted to announce the launch of our latest initiative—an AI tool the likes of which the world has never seen…”
He doesn’t sound delighted. Someone should tell his speechwriter. Grant Keller sounds curt. Like this is all a huge drag.
“No oversight.” Simon mutters under his breath as he scribbles notes. Does he know he’s doing that? Or is it for my benefit? “Risks to jobs. Not regulated by the law.”
I hurry to keep up, dashing off my own notes, turning page after page in my notebook. For a man who clearly hates press conferences, Grant Keller is an excellent speaker. Clear and confident. Not rushing or tripping over his words. But after five pages of notes, I see why all the journalists hate him.
He’s not giving us anything. Nothing that really matters. Everything he’s said, we could get off the official project website—and I already did, before we left The Courier’s office this morning.
When he opens the floor to questions, it’s no better. Grant Keller dodges every question they ask, only ever giving the sparest crumbs of information. It’s almost impressive—he gives just enough that it was worth us coming here, but not enough for a good story. It’s all too polished. There’s no angle.
Simon gusts out a breath. “I loathe this man,” he murmurs as the last questions are wrapped up. “Grant Keller thinks he’s above scrutiny.”
I watch the man at the podium closely. Is that what’s going on? From where I’m sitting, it’s more like this conference is a chess game, and Grant Keller is the master. He’ll walk out of this room with everything he wants—publicity for his project; a public statement he can refer people to; another screw you to the press—and everyone else will leave with scraps.
We’ll resent him, sure. We’ll try even harder to bring him down; to find the skeletons in the closet that a man like Grant Keller must surely have.
I mean, you don’t become a billionaire by thirty five without getting your hands dirty. Grant Keller is hiding something.
But whatever it is, we haven’t found it yet. No one has. And whoever breaks that story—their career will be made.
It’s going to be me. As I watch the icy cold billionaire step down from the podium, striding from the room without a word of thanks, I feel the certainty in my bones.
None of these reporters have broken him yet.
But I will.
