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 ballroom thrummed with the low hum of chatter, the clinking of crystal glasses, and the gentle strains of jazz floating through the air. It was another one of those company galas—where appearances mattered more than anything else. Unfortunately, appearances were the last thing I cared about tonight. My weeks had been a relentless downward spiral: Chris and I barely exchanging a glance, let alone a word, after that moment. A moment I couldn't stop replaying in my mind, no matter how much I hated myself for it.
I stood on the outskirts of the room, gripping a champagne flute I had no intention of drinking from. My gaze swept the crowd, only to land—predictably—on Rebecca. She was draped in a stunningly obnoxious crimson gown that screamed for attention, her perfectly manicured hand resting possessively on Chris's arm as she leaned in to whisper something. Whatever she said earned one of his polite, distant smiles. The kind of smile that didn't touch his eyes but still somehow made my chest ache.
"Penny for your thoughts, though I'm guessing they're worth much more," came Tom's voice, light and teasing. He appeared at my side, effortlessly balancing a plate of hors d'oeuvres in one hand and a wine glass in the other.
Setting the glass on a nearby table, he arched an eyebrow. "You look like someone at a funeral. A very chic funeral, mind you."
He sets his glass down on the table wedged between us as I turned to him, grateful for the distraction. "Finally," I mutter, my voice carrying the tiniest hint of relief. "I was starting to think you ditched me."
Tom gasps dramatically, clutching his invisible pearls. "Ditch you? At this fluorescent nightmare disguised as a gala? Never. Without you, I'd have to endure these soulless conversations alone."
I roll my eyes but couldn't stop a small smile from tugging at my lips. "Thanks, Tom. Your loyalty means the world."
"Of course, boo," he says with a wink, popping a mini quiche into his mouth. "But seriously, what's got you standing here looking like the brooding antihero of some corporate romance novel?" His eyes followed mine across the room, landing on the crimson-clad Rebecca and her unyielding proximity to Chris. "Oh. That."
