splurge I couldn’t afford. Living in LA, the vast majority of my business casual came from H&M—between my wardrobe, my studio apartment in Culver City, and my ramen noodle budget, I was strapped for cash. Our clients in Beverly Hills said volumes with nothing more than a lingering, silent glance up the length of my body regardless of the fact that I merely filled coffee orders and answered phones.
For a full year, I scrimped and saved, shelling away birthday money from my parents, housesitting, dog walking—any side hustle I could get my hands on. And then I drove my little black Honda Civic to Rodeo Drive, walked into Armani, and bought a white pantsuit that cost almost four months of rent.
That suit, I was convinced, would be my ticket, the fulcrum of my success. I believed so wholly that if I had that suit, I could do anything, achieve everything. I could walk into Archer Events with my head high and back straight, feel their eyes on me as I passed. They would believe I was competent, capable. Someone to be respected.
And I’d manifested my destiny the day I walked into Caroline Archer’s office in my Armani suit and landed my dream job.
Wonder still struck me in unexpected moments, like today, as I walked through the glass doors of Archer’s offices, which resided on the forty-fifth floor of a towering building in Midtown. Shades of pink and creams colored every wall, set off by touches of gold and the occasional pop of navy. The offices were feminine and classic, somehow both soothing and crisp, welcoming and elegant, rich and luxurious.
The front desk was an opaline tiled affair with Caroline’s logo—a silhouette of the Greek goddess Artemis, crescent bow drawn taut, her eyes on the sky—shining and gold on its front. Two receptionists sat behind in matching navy suits, headsets on and smiles in place.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Parker,” Juliet said, standing. “Ms. Lane requested you come straight to her office.”
I stifled a sigh, locked it painfully in my lungs against its will. With a thin smile, I thanked her.
Her dark eyes were full of apology.
Everyone seemed to know of the ritual mistreatment Addison Lane bestowed on me—everyone except for Caroline, who I could see in her office at the back of the building through the wall of glass bracketed by velvet curtains of palest pink. Beyond her stretched the city in layers, visible only in slats and rows of windows, towering in slivers granted by the maze of streets. I turned for the glass houses lining the galley of interns and assistants, the offices of the coordinators, including my own small space adjacent to Addison’s. A dozen senior coordinators worked at Archer, and I had been yoked to the worst of them all. Addison Lane had a reputation for being ambitious and self-serving, her motto something akin to, Whatever it takes.
My blood pressure rose with every beat of my heart as I made my way toward her office, seeing her long before I cared to. She sat behind her desk, elbow on her armrest, hand closed gently, elegantly in the air next to her face. Her hair was black as pitch, pulled into a ponytail, sleek and inky. She was a jackal of ancient Egypt, her skin fair, the rest of her dark—dark dress, dark hair, dark eyes, dark heart. Blood-red lips, wide and humorless, were the feature to note after the bottomless depths of her eyes, then the line of her jaw, the soft point of her chin. She was sharp angles and contempt, fueled by arrogance and superiority.
In short, she was the devil, Anubis reborn in a wedding planner, and my goddamn boss.
For now.
I didn’t bother pretending to smile when I walked into my space and stowed my things. Addison watched me coolly from the other side of the glass partition, nothing moving but her eyes as she tracked me.
“I’m sending Lila to approve it,” she said, her eyes on me but her face tilted toward the phone on her desk, “and if it’s not right, I expect you to make it right.”
“Of course, Ms. Lane,” the man on the other end said with a nervous edge to his voice.
Without a word of parting, her hand fell to disconnect him.
“What am I approving?” I asked shortly.
“Menu changes for the Hilton engagement party. You have enough events at the Skylight building to work it into your schedule, don’t you?”
It was a challenge, not a request.
“Of course,” I said, not afforded