I glance up from drafting a proposal to rehab some rich brat’s image after her fifth DUI this year. Just another productive, wholesome day at the office.
Vicky’s grinning at her screen like she won the lottery, Super Bowl, and a date with Idris Elba all at once. She’s been acting strange for hours—deliriously happy.
“Has she been doing coke in the bathroom again?” I ask.
Kayla snickers. “Coke or cock, you think?”
After a few years in PR, I’ve seen truly wild antics. And 90 percent of them are just Vicky.
The reception phone rings, and Abigail’s sudden intake of breath makes my ears prick up. What now?
In a voice rivaling a Disney princess on helium, she chirps, “Send her straight up!” She actually fist-pumps the air after hanging up.
I glance at Kayla.
“So we have a new client then,” she muses. “That explains Vicky.”
“Seems like it,” I reply lightly.
Vicky’s door flies open with a bang. She emerges, eyes wild, and charges toward reception. “Hold my calls!” she barks over her shoulder, zooming past.
The elevator dings, and through the blurry divider I glimpse a parade of tailored suits. Maybe Vicky organized a reverse harem of Wall Street guys.
I take a big gulp from my lukewarm soda can, craning my neck for a better look.
Before I can speculate, Brooke strides over. “Drop everything, we have Willow Madison in the boardroom. I need you to assist me.”
I choke, spraying Diet Coke across my keyboard. Brooke looks appalled.
“THE Willow Madison, Miss America?” I rasp.
“No, the Willow Madison who runs a sock folding service in Kentucky,” Brooke snarks. “Of coursethat Willow! Now come on.”
I’m rooted in place, unable to move. The last thing I want is a front row seat to the Willow Madison Reputation Rescue Tour. I don’t need the sordid details from the woman herself.
Brooke grabs my arm, propelling me up. I dig my heels in reflexively, still processing this bombshell.
“She’s using us for damage control?” I sputter.
Why am I being so weird? It’s fine.
“Now’s not the time for questions. Grab your laptop and move!”
She drags me away from the safe haven of my desk. I desperately look around for an escape route. I could always just quit on the spot. Or pretend to faint dramatically and hope my acting rivals Scarlett Johansson’s.
“What the fuck is wrong with you?” Brooke hisses as I lag behind. “Did you day-drink or something?”
“My stomach’s upset suddenly,” I lie.
“Suck it up ’til later,” she snaps. She whips back around, her dress straining against her backside as she storms on like a woman on a mission—one I desperately want no part of.
I trail, pulse thundering, gripped by irrational dread. This week’s been a series of nerve-racking moments, and it doesn’t take much to tip me over the edge. Any reminder of my sins sends me spiraling lately. And in a way, Willow is a glaring neon sign.
Brooke pushes open the door. Inside, there are suits everywhere, Senator Madison’s weathered face, Willow looking every bit the untouchable beauty . . .
But then my eyes land on someone in the far corner, and my body locks up.
No.
