Maya squints. “Is this the one with the ferret?”
“No, that was the magician. This one had a food truck and commitment issues. Anyway, point is—I’m connected.”
“You’readjacentto connected,” I say, swiping a stray hair from my face. “There’s a difference.”
“Semantics.” He waves me off. “The point is, we’re in.”
Maya sets her drink down, eyes narrowed. “Okay but like—in in?”
Jeremy nods solemnly. “Look, word is, Cross is lookingto expand his brand beyond the clothing line and the hair serum that made him a household name with the ‘hot dad’ demographic. Think luxury lifestyle. Think private island resort. Think... legacy-level branding.”
The Crossfire invitation is still glowing on Jeremy’s phone screen when I glance back at it.
“Play it right,” Jeremy says, “and this could be your main-stage moment, Ro. Use this gift of an opportunity to get in front of Cross and work your magic.”
I blink. Yeah, I’ve lost a few lately—Vanguard, my momentum, even a little faith in myself.
This could be the shift though. The moment it all turns.
I don’t know if I’m ready. But I know I want it. And if Asher Cross is really shopping for agencies, then I’m not just going.
I’m going all in.
And this time I’m not walking out empty-handed.
CHAPTER 3
30% ALCOHOL, 70% RAGE
NOLAN
Three hours later,I’m slouched over the bar at Jack’s—a hole-in-the-wall dive that reeks of cigarette smoke and stale beer. The lighting’s dim and jaundiced, the world around me blurred like the brand new memories I’m now trying to erase.
The bar’s sticky under my forearms, scarred with initials and God knows what. I stare into the amber depths of my glass as though it might give me answers. But after three of them, I still have none.
My gaze drags to my phone, cracked and scraped from its violent introduction to the elevator wall. It lies facedown now, silent and useless—like me.
Rishi slides onto the stool beside me, throws a finger in the air to flag the bartender. I texted him about an hour ago, told him about the whole mess.
“Thanks for coming,” I rasp.
“Wouldn’t miss it.”
That’s Rishi in a nutshell, loyal to the bone and weirdly intuitive about my stress levels. He’s been showing up since the beginning.
First week on the job, I blew a key slide in front of Thatcher. He covered for me like it was nothing, then bought me a beer like I’d earned it. He’s talked me out of three rage-fueled email drafts, one questionable haircut, and a doomed office romance—well, hetriedon that last one.
Rishi’s the guy who drags me out when I need a drink and drags me back when I need reality. The one who sees what I don’t say. Who pushes when I need it. Who shuts up and sits beside me when I need that more.
We’ve weathered firings, mergers, heartbreaks, and too many client dinners where the egos were massive and the appetizers microscopic.
He’s not just my teammate.
He’s my tether.
Rishi looks me over. “Jesus, did you get hit by a truck full of misery and regret?”
“Close,” I mutter. “It was a Benz. Driven by my girlfriend. Into Jackson’s lap.”
