Chapter 1 #2
“Morning, Hallie,” came a voice from the desk beside mine.
It was Janelle, one of the other junior writers, typing furiously with one hand and balancing a blueberry muffin in the other.
Her oversized glasses slipped down her nose as she glanced at me.
“Tell me you saw Anthea’s heels today. God, I want to be her. ”
I laughed, setting my coffee down. “I haven’t yet. But I can imagine. I swear she floats instead of walks.”
Janelle leaned closer, lowering her voice. “Okay but real talk—did you see the job board this morning? Everyone’s buzzing about Victoria’s position opening up.”
I nodded slowly, the glow of my computer screen reflecting in my eyes. “Yeah. I was thinking of applying.”
Janelle froze mid-bite, muffin halfway to her mouth. “No. Way. Hallie! That’s huge! Wait—do we celebrate this with lunch, drinks, or those cupcakes from that bakery in Chelsea?”
“Maybe all three? But only if I work up enough courage to submit it.”
She grinned. “You’ve got this. You’re basically the only one in here who could write a review that makes me want to lick my screen.”
I smiled at her, the nerves in my stomach calming just a little.
I had an article to finish—something I’d overheard this weekend from an heiress discussing an exclusive club in Hell’s Kitchen—but I kept glancing toward the top corner of my screen, where the company’s internal job board icon glowed like a neon sign.
Maybe Roxie and Janelle are right. Maybe I am just as qualified as the next person. What’s the worst that can happen? They say “no”?
Without a second thought, I logged onto the job board and pulled up my updated résumé. I moved to this city for college to chase my dreams. How was I ever going to reach them if I never took chances?
Victoria’s open position was sitting at the top of the list as the newest opening and before I could change my mind, I clicked into it and applied.
Taped to my computer screen sat a picture of my family.
I traced my fingers across my mother’s soft smile, then my father’s sun-worn face, and finally my younger sister, grinning wide on her wedding day.
They hadn’t understood my enthrallment with New York when I first told them of my dream of moving to the city—they all still lived in the small town in Ohio I’d grown up in, just down the street from each other.
To them, life was a quiet neighborhood where everyone knew your name, and Friday nights were reserved for potlucks or high school football games.
But I craved the unfamiliar. The kaleidoscope of languages on the subway. The pulse of yellow cabs and flickering crosswalks. The smell of halal carts and roasted peanuts wafting through every other block. I wanted more than comfort—I wanted color. Energy. Flavor.
They might not have understood my new life, but they were still proud.
My very first published column in Sophisticate —a two-paragraph “Overheard in NYC” piece about a woman breaking up with her boyfriend over a taco truck order—was framed in my parents’ living room, right next to my sister’s ultrasound picture. That’s how much it mattered.
And now … maybe this next step could be even bigger.
Still buzzing from the decision, I clicked over to my current column draft.
Deadline looming, lunch forgotten, I chewed nervously on a pen cap and reread the opening paragraph.
Last week’s piece had gone unexpectedly viral—and by viral, I mean our traffic spiked just over 3,000 more clicks than usual.
But in digital publishing? That was basically a cultural moment.
I had been on my way to pick up a coffee last Wednesday morning when I overheard this twenty-something corporate girl talking to her friend outside the coffee shop near my apartment, while they sipped on their matcha lattes.
“I just go to Whiskey Locker; you know, the bar on West 55th Street? Down in the Financial District?”
Her friend nodded enthusiastically, dressed head to toe in Lululemon. They were clearly on their way to a Pilates class or coming from it.
“And I wait for any guy in a vest and a button up to ask me out. Financial analyst, investment banker, you know, I’m not picky.
” The girl flipped her perfectly highlighted blonde hair over her shoulder.
“Sure, they all have been fuckboys so far, but eventually one of these finance bros has got to stick around long enough to buy me a Birkin …”
After the “Overheard” article went live, our Sophisticate notifications had lit up.
@nycchronicles: I heard this exact convo outside Devocio in FiDi. She was serious as hell. But I can’t blame her. Those finance guys are HOT! #OverheardinNYC
@financebrosanonymous: Whiskey Locker is where careers go to thrive, and dignity goes to die LOL
@lululemonwarrior: Was she telling the truth? Asking for a friend.
Even Anthea Sparks herself had reposted it to her story. I’d nearly passed out when I saw that notification come across my phone. That was the moment I felt it. Not just excitement—recognition.
For a few glorious hours, I had floated through the newsroom like I was wearing invisible heels, three inches taller.
I wasn’t just the girl scribbling snarky eavesdroppings into my notes app.
I was seen. I was heard. And not just by the audience of Sophisticate readers scrolling through columns during their lunch breaks, but by the woman who had built the entire damn empire.
I felt like I had finally cracked the glass ceiling of irrelevance.
People in the office smiled a little longer when they passed my desk. Someone had even scribbled “future Pulitzer winner?” on a Post-it and stuck it to my monitor. I left it there. A little tacky, a little ironic, but still—not entirely impossible now.
It wasn’t just the clicks, though I checked the analytics way too many times. It was the comments, the reblogs, the DMs from friends I hadn’t heard from since college:
This is hilarious, Hal. More please.
You’re basically Carrie Bradshaw now.
Remember me when you’re famous.
I went as far as to order an overpriced cappuccino just to sit outside the same coffee shop, wondering if lightning might strike twice.
I even brought a notebook, pretending to look busy while hoping someone nearby would say something column-worthy again.
No such luck. Which left me with an old note I’d overheard at a workout class that didn’t feel nearly as punchy for my next article.
Before I had time to analyse it further, Anthea Sparks, my boss and editor-in-chief of Sophisticate , walked past my desk.
She was wearing Carolina Herrera and sporting Gucci platform sling-backs that were yet to even hit the runway.
She was the definition of “boss bitch” in the very best way and had turned Sophisticate from just another women’s magazine into one that shaped every aspect of female culture.
As she passed me, I barely caught the words, “Hallie, do you have a minute?”
“Oh, yes. Right, absolutely.” Anthea was already sweeping into her office as I quickly closed my laptop and hurried after her.
My heart was pounding. This was the first time she’d ever specifically called me into her office.
It wasn’t like my boss didn’t know who I was, but I assumed I’d always been just another face in the crowd.
Maybe this was the moment that would change everything—or the moment I’d screwed up entirely.
Anthea’s office overlooked Manhattan, as if she were a queen surveying her kingdom.
The skyline was framed in the background, the sun highlighting the opulence of my surroundings.
It was the perfect blend of luxury and industry.
She covered her walls with the pages of Sophisticate ’s next edition.
Anthea’s bold handwriting covered each page in sticky notes, detailing her thoughts on the tiniest points.
A Peloton bike sat propped in the corner of her office and a clothing rack filled with the pieces the magazine was planning on covering in various articles was overflowing near her back wall.
I stood for a moment in the doorway, unsure if I should sit or wait for her to acknowledge me. Her assistant, a woman with impeccable style and a clipboard permanently attached to her side, rushed by carrying a cup of coffee.
“This isn’t hot enough,” Anthea told her as she took a sip, causing all the blood to drain from her assistant’s face. Anthea glanced up, her icy green eyes narrowing as she sent a signal, dismissing her assistant.
Anthea didn’t acknowledge me, her fingers still tapping out an urgent message on her phone, as if she hadn’t just invited me to her office. I could feel the pressure building, the soft hum of the air conditioning filling the otherwise silent room.
I used the moment to survey Anthea’s office, the perfect décor, the plush velvet couch, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with countless binders, the sleek coffee table covered in glossy Sophisticate magazines.
A wave of envy washed over me. Was this what success looked like?
I wondered if I’d ever make it to a point where I was calling the shots like she did.
I swallowed, trying to suppress the knot in my throat.
This was Anthea Sparks. This was the person who made Sophisticate what it was today.
And here I was, just another writer hoping to get noticed.
That was if I made it out of this conversation with a job.
Because who the hell knew why she’d called me in here.
Finally, Anthea put her phone down and looked at me. She didn’t smile, didn’t offer a pleasantry. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, her expression unreadable.
“I wanted to talk to you about your ‘Overheard in NYC’ column from last week,” Anthea said, cutting right to the chase. She wasn’t a woman that afforded herself the luxury of wasting time.