New York Billionaires Series

“Dot them faster,” she says, and then she’s gone in a breeze of sensibly heeled shoes and determination. I watch her disappearing form, the queen of this office, the master of the story beats. She must keep the next day’s edition of the newspaper in her head at all times. Moving stories around, editing, polishing, pushing and pulling to put together the best edition every single time.

Just being near her makes me a better journalist.

“Dot them faster,” Declan mutters by my side, but there’s reluctant admiration in his voice too. It’s hard not to have any for Booker, even if she can be mean and harsh when needs be.

I’ve lived at the office for the past few days. With less staff than usual, but with the same printing requirements and story beats to fulfill, the newspaper is struggling.

And every single person knows who to blame.

Well, maybe not, I amend, watching as Tom Wesley walks through the investigative floor. There is little love lost between the staff and the Globe ‘s editor-in-chief.

He catches me looking and I quickly focus on my computer screen. The Decker story. It’s an interesting one, and my fingers ache to write the article myself instead of just researching it for one of the senior journalists.

From the corner of my eye, I watch him come closer. Damn. Where Booker is stern but encouraging, Wesley’s voice is syrupy with falseness.

“Audrey,” he says.Property © 2024 N0(v)elDrama.Org.

I meet eyes that hold no humor, despite the smile on his face. “Mr. Wesley.”

He leans against the edge of my desk and crosses his arms over his chest. “Quite a performance last week. In front of our new CEO and owner, no less.”

The all-hands meeting. I wet my lips, keeping my hands clasped tight on my lap. “I felt we were owed answers, sir.”

His smile widens and a shiver runs down my spine. “How fitting, for a junior investigative reporter.”

“Uhm, yes.”

Wesley’s eyes shift to my screen, evidence of my research. “Well, good luck, Audrey. I hope the new owner looks as favorably on your… spirit, as I do.”

My lips part in shock, but not a single word comes out. Wesley knocks twice on my desk and saunters off without another word.

Declan meets my eyes, and for the first time, there’s no competition in them. No I-told-you-so, either. “If the CEO cares about investigative journalism,” he says, “then he appreciated your questions.”

“Thank you,” I say.

He nods solemnly, like we’ve just brokered peace between two warring nations, and returns to his work with frenzied typing.

I spend the rest of the night working, fighting against the deadline. The story is good. But it’s not great, and I want to impress Booker. I want her to turn me from someone junior into someone, well, not senior, but someone with a long-term permanent contract and preferably a little pay raise.

I want her to read the article and be impressed.

Perhaps that’s not a reasonable goal to set for myself, but damn it, I was always the one who got As in J-school. I worked overtime at the school newspaper, I did every extra assignment, I aimed for valedictorian.

So I’m not about to stop a lifetime of overachieving when I’m finally in a place where it’ll be rewarded.

“Spitfire,” Booker says.

I startle in my seat. “God, sorry. Yes?”

She gives a half-crooked smile. “It’s late. What are you still doing here?”

“Working on the Decker story.”

“That piece is no more than seven-hundred-and-fifty words.”

“I know, but that doesn’t make it less important.”

A snort. “You’re so young.”

I discreetly shut the screen to my laptop. “Thank you?”

Booker looks over her shoulder at the near-empty newsroom. Declan had left an hour ago, too. “You love this job, don’t you?”

“It’s all I’ve ever wanted to do,” I say honestly.

“I can tell. Look, tonight is the Reporters’ Ball. Have you heard about it?”

“Yes, absolutely,” I say. “It’s the biggest event of the year for journalists in the city. It’s where-”

“I know what it is,” Booker says with an uncharacteristic smile. “I’ve been a few times, and was planning to go tonight before my sitter cancelled.”

“Oh, I’m sorry about that.”

She shrugs. “After one ball you’ve been to them all. Want to go in my place, Spitfire?”

I stare at her. “To… the Reporters’ Ball?”

“Yes.” She looks at her watch. “The doors open in an hour and a half, so if you’re interested, I suggest you head home right away.”

“I’m interested,” I say. “Definitely.”

“I suspected you would be,” Booker says. “I’ll send you the e-vite. And Spitfire?”

“You’re a good enough writer, so learn when to stop polishing.”

“Thank you. Will do.”

Booker gives me another nod and strides off, leaving me spinning in my chair. Metaphorically, despite the fact that it does spin. The Reporters’ Ball in an hour and a half. And she thinks I’m a good enough writer!

I make it back to my tiny room in Queens in time to have a shower in the bathroom I share with the student across the hall. My hair is a lost cause of curls, and I pin most of it up, only bothering to style the tendrils that fall around my face.

I have no idea how they dress at the Reporters’ Ball. I know it’s black tie, though, and there is decidedly nothing in my wardrobe that looks black-tie appropriate. It’s also early fall and the evenings are chilly.

My office attire wardrobe I’d so painstakingly and expensively put together over the past year and a half had not included a beautiful floor length dress.

Hesitatingly, I pull out my old prom dress. It had been an impulse decision to bring it with me to New York. As if I’ll ever need a gown, I’d thought, but just in case I do…

It’s black and long, with see-through lining over my shoulders. I’d thought it was the coolest thing ever nearly a decade ago. It could work if I pair it with the sling-back heels I sometimes wear to the office. When I look in the mirror, I look just how I feel. Bewildered, excited, nervous, adrenaline pumping through my veins, with a flush to my cheeks.