I never craved covering politics or news of the day. No, thank you when it comes to wars, murders, or Washington shenanigans. Business, however, always intrigued me, in part because I have a mind for numbers and a head for strategy, but also because I’ve always believed business is more than a profit-and-loss report. It’s a story. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. And the good ones have twists.

They have zigzags you don’t see coming.

Raising my index finger, I touch my right earlobe then my left. Both are bare today. No triple hoop earrings, nor my kitschy black spider studs either. I’m in the costume of professional reporter Sabrina Granger, with a knee-length black skirt and a short-sleeved white blouse. Two-inch pumps complete the basic, timeless look.

Lois Lane has nothing on me.

I step into a pie section of the door and swish into a lobby with marble floors so polished I swear I can see up my skirt.

But I don’t self-perv.

With my chin high, I stride to the security desk and show my ID to a man in a navy suit. He places a call, checking with the receptionist, I presume, at Up Next.

He nods at me, giving a yes.

I nearly bounce in my shoes. I’m being admitted into a club I’ve always wanted to join.

Once the guard checks me in, I paste my name tag sticker onto my shirt and head to the nineteenth floor. Soon, the elevator doors whoosh open into the cool, air-conditioned offices of Up Next, showing off walls lined with framed magazine covers from over the years, introspective faces of artists and business leaders taken by some of the best-known shutterbugs in the world, as well as iconic images of New York and photos that capture flashpoints in history and culture.

The magazine itself is powered by ads for expensive watches, sophisticated colognes, tailored suits, boats, homes in the Hamptons, and more. Thanks to those advertisers, the offices are opulent. It’s like this magazine doesn’t know that journalism has changed in the last decade, that the internet, social media, and real-time news has upended all our work.

The receptionist whisks me to Mr. Galloway’s office in the corner, where he waves me in.

Gray-haired and weathered, but dapper in a Ted Danson way, he wears charcoal slacks, a white shirt, and a yellow tie. His tailored suit jacket is slung over his leather chair. He stands and heads around a massive mahogany desk to greet me. We shake hands, and he gestures to a soft leather couch with ornate arms after we exchange hellos.

His office screams money and considering my paper laid me off because ad dollars were way down, I can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief that somehow Up Next is largely immune to the seismic changes roiling journalism.

Mr. Galloway parks himself in a burgundy chair, rubs his hands together, and says, “Let’s get straight to business.”

“Yes, let’s,” I say, loving that he’s efficient. That’s a good sign in my field.