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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I take a moment to straighten myself in the mirror, trying to make my face look less puffy and red. No use. I still look like I've been hit by an emotional hurricane. God, I'm a mess.
Once I deem myself somewhat presentable, I head toward the coat check near the entrance of the venue. Just as I reach the front, I realize—my clutch. I left it back at the table. Groaning under my breath, I turn around and walk back toward the event, keeping my head low to avoid anyone's gaze. The last thing I need is someone asking if I'm okay.
"Elizabeth!" Tom's voice cuts through the noise. I glance up to see him weaving through the crowd toward me, holding my clutch in his hands, the light blue fabric a perfect match to my dress.
"You left this just lying around, loca," Tom says, handing it to me with a raised eyebrow. He's grinning, but I can tell he's curious—and concerned.
"Thank you," I say, exhaling in relief as I clutch it tightly.
Tom studies me for a beat, and I worry he's noticing my red-rimmed eyes. "Not to pry, but your phone's been ringing like crazy. So much that I had to silence it before these corporate bigwigs started throwing passive-aggressive fits," he says, his tone light but probing.
I furrow my brows, taking the clutch from him. Who could be calling me so incessantly?
"I don't know what happened between you and Chris," Tom continues, leaning in slightly, "but he was all like, 'Get Elizabeth her purse' and 'Turn off the damn phone.' Honestly, he's a mess. Mr. Cool and Collected has officially left the building."
I roll my eyes, though Chris being in a mood isn't exactly news. He becomes an impossible diva when he's upset. Ignoring Tom's commentary, I pull out my phone and freeze. Missed calls—several—from both my mom and my aunt.
My stomach drops. What could possibly be wrong?
Before I can even process, my mom's name pops up on the screen again. I quickly step to the side, pressing myself against the wall for some semblance of privacy as I answer. Tom, ever curious, trails behind me.
"Hello?" I say, trying to keep my voice steady.
"Elizabeth, por fin [finally]!" my mother's voice bursts through the line, frazzled and breathless.
"Qué pasó [what happened]?" I ask, my voice tight with worry.
"Es Scarlett," she says, and my heart slams against my ribs. There's a pause, and I hold my breath. "Estuvo en un accidente o algo [she was in an accident or something]. La policía llamó a tu tía, llámala [the police called your aunt, call her]."
"What?" I whisper, my mind racing. My father—what if he hurt her? What if she's... no. I can't even think it.
I mumble something to my mom about calling her back and hang up, immediately dialing Scarlett's number. The phone rings, and with each second, my anxiety spikes higher.
