Meet Scarlett Striker, a bold and quirky journalist for the Seattle Times. She's fun, confident, sassy, and just the right amount of weird. Scarlett is determined to rise to the top, no matter what it takes.
When her boss offers a golden opportunity...
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The week zipped by in a blur, and before I knew it, Wednesday had arrived—two days since Elizabeth started her new job.
Today, my boss grilled me about the story I'm supposed to be working on. I gave her my best "I'm totally on it" face and said I was headed over to check things out. The truth? I was just using it as an excuse to bring Elizabeth some Panera Bread for lunch. Priorities, right?
I got her my usual go-to: a "Pick Two" combo with that heavenly broccoli cheddar soup and a Frontega chicken panini, plus a side of French baguette that's practically calling her name. She'll love it—I mean, who wouldn't? I even thought ahead and grabbed a bottle of Pepsi instead of the soda at Panera, because melted ice? Hard pass.
Following Elizabeth's covert instructions, I sneak in through the back entrance, feeling a little like a spy on a lunch mission. As I stroll up to the reception desk, I flash my brightest, most disarming smile. The receptionist—a guy with "I might be in the wrong job" vibes—mirrors it back at me. Success.
"May I help you?" he asks, all polite and professional.
"Yes, I'm here to see Elizabeth Casana. Scarlett Striker, at your service," I reply, adding a playful wink that makes him arch an eyebrow as he picks up the phone. I can feel his eyes scanning me up and down as if he's trying to figure out if I'm legit or just here to cause some trouble. I like to keep people guessing.
"Hi Elizabeth, it's Harry. There's a Scarlett Striker here to see you." He keeps his gaze locked on me, probably wondering if that's my real name or a stage name. After a beat, he hangs up and gives me a grin like we've just shared some inside joke.
"You're good to go. Take that elevator over there up to the thirtieth floor. When you get out, go left, not right. Oh, and here's your visitor's pass."
"Why can't I go right?" I ask, narrowing my eyes in mock suspicion.
He smirks, raising an eyebrow like I've just asked the golden question. "You ask a lot of questions."
"Actually, I just asked the one," I counter with a grin. Do I really give off a reporter vibe?
"You'll end up on Mr. Wilson's side of the floor, and trust me, you don't want that," he says with a knowing nod.
"Got it," I say, flashing him a thumbs-up before heading over to the guarded elevator. Truth be told, elevators kind of freak me out, but I'm not about to show it. I scan my card and press the button, trying to ignore the guards' watchful eyes boring into me. Here's hoping this elevator ride is smooth—both literally and figuratively.
As I step into the elevator, I'm immediately struck by how luxurious it is. This thing looks expensive as hell. The entire wall is made of windows, and I know I'm going to have a full-blown panic attack when we're thirty stories up in the air.
