“Unfortunately, no.” Richard shakes his handsome head.

“Hold on. You seriously mean you want me to start from scratch? How am I supposed to attract advertisers with no published articles?”

“That’s why I needed someone with the creative, editorial potential, but also with the marketing experience. I’m sure you made plenty of contacts while working at Évoque. There must be some fashion influencer or big beauty blogger you can get on board.”

I wrinkle my nose; this last part stinks even more. “Wait, are you offering me a position as Fashion Editor or Beauty Editor?”

Richard blinks. “Isn’t it the same thing?”

I sag in my chair, a tiny pain starting in my chest. “You expect me to run an entire women’s magazine on my own, and with no budget?”

Richard’s mouth twitches at the corners again. “You would have complete creative independence.”

I grimace. “How wonderful.”

He fixes those impossibly gorgeous mocha-brown eyes on me. “And you get to keep a five percent commission on all advertisements sold as part of your compensation package.”

The tightening in my chest worsens. Am I having a panic attack? Pay on commission are ugly enough words to unleash a panicked reaction. “Which translates into you offering me an intern-base salary, am I right?”

“I’m afraid we won’t be able to match your previous compensation.” Richard takes out a bundle of papers from a drawer and inches it toward me. “This is our standard contract.”

I stare at the small—in all senses—numbers printed on the white paper. Yep, exactly the amount of my first paycheck after college. The pressure in my chest increases and I begin to feel lightheaded.

“But as I said,” Richard resumes his pitch, “you’d get complete freedom on what to publish and state-of-the-art tech support.” The handsome bastard smiles at me, giving me time to digest the news.

What choice do I have? A college graduate’s pay that just about covers my half of the rent and food is better than no salary at all. At least until I can find another job.

Or maybe I should wait and see what else is out there on the job market. After all, I was let go only two days ago. If I’m careful on what I spend, I could survive on my severance check for a couple of months. That’s when two nasty little words invade my brain: student loans.

No, I can’t afford a single day with no income. And I’d rather be homeless than ask my parents for help.

Feeling like a trapped animal, I stare at Richard and ask, “Where do I sign?”

Four

Never Believe Gossip

Offices have a distinct and constant background noise. Especially open-space offices. The clacking of other people’s keyboards, the clicking, the shuffling of paper, and the hum of whispered conversations. The background clatter is there, always. So much so, that a sudden silence is deafening.

I jerk my head up from the computer screen. I was right—everyone has stopped working. All my colleagues’ heads are turned in one direction. Their expressions range from shell-shocked to mildly interested to unadulterated worship—this last one seems to befall the male population in particular. I follow the stares to the main entrance where silhouetted against the threshold is none else than Saskia Landon.