Vivienne Cole, you can't fall apart. You've got a job to keep, medical bills to pay, and a serialized novel waiting for you to write.
I stood, smoothed out my thrift-store blazer—already faded from too many washes—took a deep breath, pushed through the coffee shop door, and plunged headfirst into Washington's blinding sunlight and brutal reality.
Back at Urban Style magazine's office, that familiar suffocating oppression hit me instantly.
I was officially an "assistant editor" at this third-rate fashion rag, but in reality, I was the office's free nanny and errand girl.
"Vivienne! Finally decided to come back?" The moment I stepped through the glass door, Lily from reception rushed over in her heels and shoved a thick stack of files into my arms. "Copier three's jammed again—go fix it! And Jessica's latte—absolutely no whole milk, she's cutting carbs. Go downstairs and get her a new one!"
"Jammed copiers are maintenance's problem, and I'm not a delivery service." I tried to sidestep her.
But reality taught me my place fast. Lily crossed her arms and rolled her eyes dramatically. "Oh, please, who jetted off to Vegas to party and dumped all her work on everyone else? The editor said the second you're back, go straight to his office. He doesn't look happy. Better pray you've still got a job."
I froze.
The editor. Gary Henderson.
Just thinking about that man made my stomach turn with visceral disgust. Gary was a fortyish, balding, pot-bellied sleazewhose expensive shirts couldn't hide his gut. He was always using "mentoring young talent" as cover, eyeing the office's young female employees with a sticky, deeply uncomfortable gaze.
And thanks to my attention-grabbing curves, I'd become his long-term target of choice. If it weren't for the meager paycheck that barely kept my mother and me afloat, I swear I would've thrown scalding coffee in his greasy face long ago.
I took a deep breath, forced on an impeccable corporate smile, and walked toward the spacious office at the end of the hall, files in hand.
Knock knock.
"Come in." Gary's nasal, sticky voice penetrated the door.
I pushed it open, keeping near the entrance—safe escape distance.
"You wanted to see me, sir."
Gary sat behind his massive mahogany desk. He looked up, and those murky eyes immediately locked onto my chest, straining against my fitted blouse like a radar, before slowly crawling up to my face.
"Ah, Vivienne, my dear girl. You're finally back." Gary stood, rounded the desk, and waddled toward me on his stubby legs. The stench that surrounded him—overnight coffee, cheap mints, and bottom-shelf cologne—made me want to hold my breath.
"Heard you had fun in Vegas?" He stopped in front of me, closer than normal social distance allowed.
"I was just gathering material. Research for my novel." I instinctively stepped back, my voice tight.
Gary let out a grating chuckle, full of dismissive contempt. "Novel? Vivienne, I keep telling you, focus on real work. What can those internet fantasy romances do for you? Stick with me, build a career in this industry—that's how you get ahead."
As he spoke, he reached out his sweaty, liver-spotted hand and patted my shoulder without warning. His hand didn't leave immediately. Instead, it lingered with nauseating stickiness for several seconds.
Every hair on my body stood on end. My muscles tensed to the breaking point, and a voice in my brain screamed. Throw him! Stomp his ribs with your heels!
But I clenched my jaw, swallowed the nausea churning in my stomach, and stiffly turned, shaking off his hand.
"Sir, what's the assignment?" I asked coldly, my gaze sharp.
Gary seemed annoyed I'd evaded his touch. He withdrew his hand, rubbed his fingers together, then walked to his desk and picked up a gold-embossed, luxurious heavy envelope, holding it out to me.
"I've been thinking about you, Vivienne. Always looking to give you the best opportunities, groom you for chief editor." Gary put on his magnanimous facade, like some generous philanthropist. "So I pulled every string I had to get you this. This is next week's hottest event in all of Washington—hell, all of high society."
I frowned and took the envelope, looking down.
On it, in ornate script, two names.
Derek Volkov & Chloe Vanguard
