Mia smiled at her, all warm bonhomie. “Hello, my name is Mia Briscoe. I’m a journalist with the Guardian. I don’t have an appointment, but I’ve just come from an interview with Alex Harrington and he really wanted me to meet his best friend, Mr. Harper. Is he free to give me a few minutes?”

Mrs. Irene Wallaby eyed the pretty young woman with the long streaked blond hair loose and shiny around her face, a loose curl here and there, and silently complimented her hairdresser. She noted her face was dominated by intriguing blue-green eyes, high cheekbones, and a lovely mouth that looked like she’d just added a bit more rose lipstick in the women’s room. She was tall, which made the slouchy black Hugo Boss jacket, black pants, white shirt, and black stiletto boots look very stylish. Add the lovely smile, not to mention the deferential tone of voice, and Irene decided she would let her into the inner sanctum. She said easily, “I believe you may be in luck, Ms. Briscoe. Mr. Harper just concluded a meeting, probably taking a Mountain Dew break until the next one, which, in fact, never seem to stop.” She picked up the phone, turned, and spoke quietly. She turned back, smiling. “He’s pleased you’re here, Ms. Briscoe, and agrees to see you.” She looked down at her iWatch. “You’ll have ten minutes.”

“That’s perfect. Thank you, Ms. Wallaby.” When Mrs. Wallaby stood up, she reminded Mia of her own mother, a high school counselor, always well dressed and utterly self-assured. She walked Mia down a gray-carpeted corridor with closed doors on each side and a series of enlarged photos of New York City in the nineteen twenties. Mia wished she had time to browse, but Mrs. Wallaby tapped on a set of beautifully carved ebony double doors, opened them, and stepped aside. Mia walked past her and stopped in her tracks. It wasn’t the large office with glass windows and the city spread out below that made her suck in her breath, because Kent Harper was the big boss, after all, it was the incredible display of gaming paraphernalia and posters of game characters that covered the white walls. Because of Serena, Mia recognized the large poster of the tough, patch-over-his-eye warrior from Metal Gear. She didn’t remember what his name was, or who the other characters on the walls were, but they were all iconic game heroes. Between the posters, gaming artifacts—swords, knives, and elaborate helmets—were beautifully displayed on specially-made shelves.

She saw only one warrior woman, with huge breasts, legs encased in bright red thigh-high boots, a skimpy black crotch-hugging sort of bikini, a vicious curved sword gripped in her hand. Mia remembered how that sort of blatant sexism had burned Serena.