Chapter 2
HAIRNETS AND HIGH STAKES
RORIE
Laughter ripples through the breeze, braided with conversation and the thrum of bass from overhead speakers.
String lights twinkle with a soft glow across the rooftop terrace, catching on the polished rims of cocktail glasses and the edges of mirrored tabletops.
The city sprawls beyond the railing, a restless, glittering beast of breathing heat, buzzing light, and the occasional wail of distant sirens.
Its towering buildings pulse with summer’s energy, as if the skyline itself is raising a toast to the season.
I’m perched at a high-top table, one ankle hooked behind the chair leg, posture loose in a way that looks breezy but is tightly managed.
My jacket is draped over the back of my chair. Even though I’ve loosened my bun, and ditched the button-down for the tank underneath, my lipstick is fresh.
On the outside, I look composed, but every inch of me is frayed beneath the surface. Still, I slap on my best mask and nod along.
Jeremy’s mid-story, laughing so hard he nearly spills his drink, mimicking the world’s worst date from his hook up app, Romance Roulette. He’s got messy hair, black-rimmed glasses, and a smirk sharp enough to draw blood.
He’s one half of my ride or die work besties and the one who travels with dry shampoo, a portable phone charger, and enough audacity to tell off your toxic ex and fix your eyeliner in the same breath.
“So then I said, ‘Sir, if your idea of foreplay involves a Groupon and two-for-one mozzarella sticks, I’m calling an Uber.’”
Maya, the other half, props her chin in her hand, elbow braced on the table. She idly taps her nails against the surface, each click a punctuation of calm competence while listening.
Then her gaze slides to me. She catches the far-off look I’m wearing and nudges me with her knee under the table. “Stop thinking about Vanguard.”
“Easier said than done.”
“I heard it was brutal,” Jeremy adds, his tone softening just enough to sting.
“Brutal doesn’t even begin to cover it.” I take a sip of my martini. The chilled vodka slides down my throat, briny with a tang of olives and a whisper of citrus, but it might as well be water for all the good it does.
“Who said it was brutal?” Maya asks.
“Laurel,” Jeremy replies hesitantly.
I exhale, my grip tightening around the stem of my glass.
Laurel is my boss and mentor. And she’s way too gracious.
She once shared dreams with my mother back in a dorm room with cheap wine and endless ambition.
Laurel rose through the ranks, and my mom wrote stories that changed people.
Until she traded deadlines for bedtime stories.
Now Laurel writes my checks. And sometimes, I wonder if she’s only doing to it to keep a promise to the friend she buried rather than investing in that friend’s daughter and her potential.
That’s what cuts the deepest.
“I needed that win. Vanguard was supposed to be the rebound. My redemption. The clean slate.” I fall back against the seat, cross my arms. “Instead, it was just another door slammed in my face. It’s been months since I landed a client that mattered.
The little ones keep the lights on. But no headlines. No momentum.”
Maya’s voice cuts in. “So… who landed Vanguard?”
I uncross my arms, swirl my drink. “Big Stream.”
“Shut up.” She straightens. “Again?”
“Yep.”
“I don’t get it. How do they keep edging you out?”
“Because apparently,” I deadpan, “they give amazing head in pitch meetings.”
Maya raises an eyebrow. “Better than you?”
Jeremy nearly snorts rosé out his nose. “Honestly? If true, then I respect the hustle.”
“Wow. You’re both fired from friendship. I don’t get on my knees for a contract.”
Jeremy holds up a hand. “That’s fair. But I don’t think competitive dick sucking is why they’re winning.”
My brows knit together. “What do you mean?”
He shrugs. “I heard a little something from someone at Vanguard.”
I pause, glass halfway to my lips. “What kind of something?”
“They undercut your rates.” Jeremy waits a few seconds before delivering the next blow. “By thirty percent.”
I gape at him. “They what?”
“Took a loss to win,” he says, grim. “Locked the deal. Made sure you never had a shot.”
Maya’s expression ices over. “That’s shady as fuck.”
It clicks.
I thought I was losing because I wasn’t good enough. Brilliant enough. Creative enough. Or ruthless enough. But it was never about talent.
It was about leverage.
Power.
Control.
Greed.
Corporate fuckery in its finest form.
“That’s not just winning,” Maya mutters. “That’s clearing the goddamn board.”
“Those fucksticks!” I hiss, slamming back the rest of my martini. “I’d flip this table if I wasn’t emotionally fragile and wearing four-inch heels.”
Jeremy claps once, delighted. “There she is. Rage looks so good on you.”
“Agreed,” Maya says, already snatching three shots off a passing tray. She plants them in the center of the table then lifts hers high. “Let’s toast to Rageful Rorie.”
Jeremy and I grab the other two shots.
Maya says, “May their coffee always be lukewarm and their Wi-Fi unstable.”
We clink.
We drink.
Jeremy’s eyes glitter. “Okay. Cards on the table. What are you gonna do about it?”
I laugh once—low, bitter, honest. And then I fire back, “I don’t know—what can I do? Big Stream is the monster with the big swinging dick in this industry. We’re the ones getting railed from behind with no warm up, because that’s the cost of a seat at the damn table.”
“That mental image gave me whiplash and a semi.” Jeremy shifts in his seat. “Now I’m horny and probably going to hook up with either Groupon Guy or the bartender.”
Maya doesn’t miss a beat. “Go with the bartender. Groupon Guy called his podcast ‘redefining masculinity through kettlebells and crypto.’”
Jeremy makes a face. “Right. Bartender it is.” He wiggles a little. “Anyway. I have a surprise that might make you feel better.”
I arch a brow. “This better not involve tequila and hairnets again.”
“Oh, it absolutely does.”
“No! Did we not learn our lesson after the churro stand incident?”
“Worth it. That launch event was epic. Plus, I got a Yelp shoutout.”
And because I can’t help myself—because this is Jeremy—I say:
“We got banned from the entire food truck district. Laurel is still holding a grudge about that one.”
“Well, technically, I wasn’t on the clock when I climbed onto the counter and tried to demonstrate the ‘sensual art’ of churro dough extrusion.”
Maya groans. “You yelled ‘watch this, it’s going to change your life’ and then dumped an entire vat of cinnamon sugar down your pants.”
“And yet,” Jeremy says proudly, “I still served fifty of their customers and got a five-star review for ‘passion and flair.’”
“From your mom,” I mutter.
“She stands by it.”
Maya and I laugh because how can you not?
“Anyhoo.” Jeremy slides his phone across the table, the screen glowing with an invitation. I read it.
“Okay, maybe not the hairnets this time,” he adds,” but definitely the tequila.” His grin wide. Too wide. That’s never good.
“The Asher Cross?” Maya asks.
“And we’re VIP, baby,” Jeremy says, visually vibrating with glee.
“How?” I say, skeptical. Very skeptical.
Jeremy straightens his posture. “I may have… loosely dated his second assistant’s ex-roommate’s cousin. Briefly. For like… three weeks. Maybe two.”
Maya squints. “Is this the one with the ferret?”
“No, that was the magician. This one had a food truck and commitment issues. Anyway, point is—I’m connected.”
“You’re adjacent to connected,” I say, swiping a stray hair from my face. “There’s a difference.”
“Semantics.” He waves me off. “The point is, we’re in.”
Maya sets her drink down, eyes narrowed. “Okay but like—in in?”
Jeremy nods solemnly. “Look, word is, Cross is looking to expand his brand beyond the clothing line and the hair serum that made him a household name with the ‘hot dad’ demographic. Think luxury lifestyle. Think private island resort. Think... legacy-level branding.”
The Crossfire invitation is still glowing on Jeremy’s phone screen when I glance back at it.
“Play it right,” Jeremy says, “and this could be your main-stage moment, Ro. Use this gift of an opportunity to get in front of Cross and work your magic.”
I blink. Yeah, I’ve lost a few lately—Vanguard, my momentum, even a little faith in myself.
This could be the shift though. The moment it all turns.
I don’t know if I’m ready. But I know I want it. And if Asher Cross is really shopping for agencies, then I’m not just going.
I’m going all in.
And this time I’m not walking out empty-handed.