1
“I’m sorry, Char, but there’s nothing I can do.” Frederick sighs, running a hand through his silver-streaked hair like that’ll magically conjure a solution. “The network just isn’t thrilled with the content you’ve been bringing in these past few months.”
I flinch.Char.
Four years at this network, and my boss still can’t be bothered to use my real name. It's alwaysChar do this,Char get that. NeverCharlotte. I’ve corrected him more times than I can count, but it’s like talking to drywall.
“Frederick,” I say, keeping my voice even, “there has to be something you can do.”
He leans back in his leather chair, the creak louder than it should be in the too-quiet office.
“Unless you land the story of the century, your days are numbered.” His gaze softens, pitying. “Look. I get it. You came out here with stars in your eyes. But not everyone makes it.”
I was making it until my ex torpedoed everything. Kurt stole my idea, my pitch, even my interview contacts, andhanded it over to Frederick like it was his own. Now he’s got an office with a view and a promotion I should’ve earned. Not only that, but he took our cat when he moved out of my apartment. I miss Fluffy more than him, if I’m being honest.
To add insult to injury, if I get fired, I’ll have to walk past that smug little corner suite on my way out.
“Take the weekend,” Frederick adds, offering a smile that’s supposed to look encouraging but only feels final. “Maybe inspiration will strike.”
We both know it won’t. My last idea wasthestory of the century. One-in-a-million. Which is exactly why Kurt’s betrayal still feels like a knife between the ribs.
And like some kind of sick cosmic joke, he walks by the office just then, laughing about something with Jenny, his new favorite accessory. I don’t know what’s worse. Seeing them together, or knowing the only reason Kurt’s liked around here, is because he stole my future.
“I’ll see you Monday,” I say, even though we both know that’s far from guaranteed.
I leave Frederick’s office without another word, turning in the opposite direction of Kurt and his smug, thieving face. My heels click too loudly on the polished floors as I make my way back to my cubicle—the little four-walled kingdom of the overlooked.
There’s a photo pinned to my corkboard that catches my attention. Me and Kurt, arms slung around each other at the last holiday party, all teeth and champagne and lies. I yank it down with a sharp tug. The pushpin clatters to the desk. The photo flutters into the trash without ceremony. Right where it belongs.
Tish, my cubicle-mate and unofficial emotional support person, pops her head over the flimsy divider between us.Her hair is in a messy topknot and there’s a half-eaten protein bar in one hand.
“How’d it go?” she asks. “Didn’t hear any sobbing, so I’m guessing not catastrophic?”
I snort. “I don’t cry.”
“Ever?” She raises a skeptical eyebrow. “Damn. They make ‘em strong in Ohio.”
“Oklahoma,” I correct automatically.
“Even tougher,” she says with a smirk, disappearing back into her side of the cubicle.
A moment later, Tish is standing in my cubicle, hands planted on her curvy hips like she’s about to stage an intervention.
“So,” she says, eyes blazing with determination that I’m definitely not feeling, “what are we going to do?”
I lean back in my chair and gesture vaguely at the ceiling tiles. “Pray for a miracle, I guess.”
“Fuck waiting on miracles.” She says it like a war cry. “Women like us make our own destinies.”
I arch a brow. “And how does one do that?”
She plops into the extra swivel chair beside me, mimicking my lean with a dramatic sigh.
“No idea,” she says. “But doesn’t it sound badass?”
“It does,” I admit, a reluctant smile tugging at the corner of my mouth.
Tish snaps her fingers. “Exactly. What we need is inspiration. And it’s Friday night. There’s a whole city out there just waiting to hand us the next big story.” She jumps to her feet like she’s been struck by genius. “Come on. We’re getting drinks, and then we’re going to figure this out.”
