9. Jules
CHAPTER 9
Jules
The moment I step through the glass doors into the office, every head swivels in my direction. Which is bad. Anxiety slams into me, tightening its grip around my chest. It’s like senior year all over again. Except without the neon-colored braces or unfortunate perm.
My pulse pounds in my ears, each step slower than the last as I try to make sense of the sudden attention. And then it happens—they break out in applause. Clapping and cheering and...What. The. Hell?
Panic surges through me like a tidal wave. I speed up, desperate to reach the relative safety of my cubicle and Anabelle, Felix, and Scoop. “What’s going on?”
Anabelle’s face is lit up like Christmas morning. “You’re viral!” she squeals, practically bouncing in her seat.
The commotion dies down as Felix shoots me a glare, half teasing, half envious. “Ten thousand likes, bitch?”
What’s he talking about? My brain struggles to keep up. “There must be some mistake. ”
“Oh, there’s a mistake all right. And here I thought you were low-key when you’re the queen of trending. Ten. Thousand.” He scoffs. “I busted my ass for weeks and barely scraped one thousand.” He blows a kiss dripping with drama. “Hate you, love you.”
Scoop leans back, arms crossed, a satisfied smirk on his face. “Well done, kid.”
“What exactly is going viral?” I ask, my voice barely a whisper. Do I even want to know?
They turn their screens toward me, and my world stops.
Get Up Close and Personal with the Iron Man of Manhattan.
My stomach drops. No. No, no, no.
My article—the one I thought was just a fictional exercise for Mr. Richards—is plastered across every monitor. The headline is bold, glaring, and 100 percent published.
Online.
For the freaking world to see.
My heart slams into overdrive. “This cannot be happening.”
I scramble to read it, my heart racing, praying— begging —this is some kind of sick joke. But no, it’s all there. My words. My thoughts. My name, or rather Sydney Sun’s name, plastered right at the top.
“I can’t believe you know Brian Bishop,” Anabelle says, practically bouncing with excitement.
“Huh?” I snap my head up, confusion swirling. “You know Brian Bishop? ”
“Duh,” Anabelle replies with an eye roll that screams ‘get with the program.’ You know what? I don’t want to know.
Suddenly, several pings cut through the air. “What’s that?” I ask, feeling like I’ve just stepped into a minefield.
“Likes,” Felix says with a smirk, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
“Oh, my God.” Panic surges through me, propelling me out of my chair and straight to Mr. Richards’s office.
Having lost every last shred of my mind, I burst through the door without knocking, adrenaline in high gear. “What the hell, Mr. Richards?”
He looks up, completely unfazed, even with a sandwich in his hands. A slow smile spreads across his face. “Great job, Sydney.”
“No,” I snap, my weak attempt at firmness dying on the vine. “It’s not a great job. It’s fiction. You have to pull it back. Now.”
He leans back in his chair, completely at ease. “Too late, kid. It’s already out there.”
“But you said it wasn’t real!” My hands ball into fists at my sides, trembling as I try to keep it together.
He shrugs, infuriatingly casual. “Yeah, I lied. But hey, speaking of lies, is anything in there completely made up? Like, totally fabricated? Because the last thing you need is a lawsuit.”
He takes another bite of his sandwich, as if he just tossed a grenade at me. The room tilts, spinning wildly out of control. Lawsuit? Seriously? Why the hell would I get sued?
Oh, right, I know why. Because I wrote the damn thing, and my name is all over it.
I’m on the verge of hyperventilating, mentally replaying every word, every detail. Did I lie? No. But exaggerate? Well, yeah, that’s another story.
Maybe I did embellish a bit on his herculean muscle tone—broad shoulders, chiseled chest, washboard abs. But news flash: It’s not like I’ve seen the man in ten years. How the hell would I know what he looks like now?
“I don’t think so,” is all I manage to choke out.
Mr. Richards waves it off like it’s no big deal. “Then you’ve got nothing to worry about. Oh, and your next assignment is in your inbox.”
“My next...assignment? Like an actual journalist piece, or should I keep churning out Harlequin novels?” I throw in a half-hearted fist bump for effect.
He shrugs, utterly unfazed. “You said you do human interest.”
I stare at him, too stunned to even argue. “Can’t you just tell me what it is?”
With a blatant disregard for manners, self-respect, or good hygiene, he picks something out of his teeth with a paperclip. “Nope.”
Frustration bubbles up, but I know when I’m outmatched. I’ve got two choices: quit on the spot or stomp back to my desk and at least see what this so-called assignment is.
He’s about to take another bite of his sandwich when he looks up, clearly annoyed. “You’re still here?”
Argh .
Frazzled and doing my best to ignore the curious glances from my coworkers, I make my way back to my desk. As promised, the email is sitting there, taunting me. I open it with a mix of dread and a solid dose of what the actual fuck .
Assignment: The Secret Lives of Billionaires
Dumbfounded, I gape at the screen.
Billionaires? What do I know about billionaires? Maybe I’ll catch one grabbing a mocha frap at Starbucks. Or wedged uncomfortably close to me on the subway. Because, aside from knowing they exist—thanks in part to my Harry Potter obsession—I’m totally out of my depth.
My phone buzzes, jolting me out of my daze. The name TayTay flashes on the screen, paired with a photo of her, mime-like and dramatically mimicking pick up the phone .
I answer, trying to sound normal with my heart lodged in my throat. “Hey, Tay.”
“Okay, I only have a second, so don’t hate me.”
“Hate you?”
“My flight got delayed, and I know I said I’d be back today...”
Translation: she hooked up with some guy and is now measuring his cock to see if he’s true husband material.
Brimming with excitement, Taylor’s going on and on, speed-talking a mile a minute, while I’m barely catching half of it. “So, I should be back soon...”
And I should be listening. I really should. But my eyes fly to a new email that just landed in my inbox.
“Taylor, I have to go.”
“Wait! Can you cover one more shift for me? Please?”
“Sure,” I mutter, still reeling. “When?”
“Tonight. Salvatore’s. Thanks, girl. You’re the best!” She hangs up before I can even respond because...well, shit.
Between my insane assignment and Taylor’s relentless pursuit of dick, I guess I’ll be spending the evening scouting for billionaires while serving pappardelle al ragu and asking if they want extra breadsticks.
Could this day get any worse?
Oh, right. It can. And it just did.
Because the email staring me down is from the last person I ever expected to hear from. Ever.
Brian fucking Bishop.
My finger hovers over the screen, my heart pounding like a war drum, before I finally gather the nerve to open it.
Four words, straightforward and to the point.
We need to talk.