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Chapter One

Ashton

T he moment the clock strikes two in the afternoon, Blane Pieters’ door swings open.

The entire floor goes silent. Fingers hover above keyboards, music is paused, chatter dies.

We know something big is coming, his door has been closed for months now as he’s held meeting after meeting with too many faces to count.

A nervous energy fills the office as everyone impatiently waits for our Chief Editor to speak.

He steps a few feet out and into the open space where everyone sits.

It’s an open concept office, a few long communal tables spread out near the floor to ceiling windows allowing for collaboration.

North of the suite, just outside the strip of offices, are our individual desks.

It’s important that everyone has a space to call their own, but mingling is highly encouraged.

It keeps us writers in check, making sure we’re not being too narrow-minded.

Blane halts before my desk, peering down at me for a brief second, those sapphire blue eyes glow with power and importance.

The sun from the floor to ceiling windows behind us provides a spotlight on him as if he needs it to call for our attention.

Though, he doesn’t need it, every single person in this room – male or female – seeks him out any chance they get.

The silence in the office is palpable. I can’t help glancing over at my co-worker, Justina, eyeing her reaction.

She smiles at Blane, sitting back in her chair, and crossing her legs.

I’ve always suspected something between her and the boss, but it might just be my overactive imagination and deep disdain for women like her.

And by women like her, I mean manipulative, conniving, conceited, and just downright vicious when it comes to what she wants.

It doesn’t help that we’re constantly pitted against one another, both fighting for top journalist. The only difference between her and me is that she’s willing to get dirty.

The sound of Blane’s throat clearing forces my eyes to his.

“I’m sure there have been rumors bouncing around this office about the many visitors we’ve had over the last couple months. Rest assured that Musical Genius is not closing, nor have we sold. Quite the opposite actually.

“These last few months I have been working closely with managers of a variety of artists to create a new project that we are calling the Genius Tours. A select few journalists here will be hired on for this project which will entail a very intimate understanding of the assigned artist. This means following the entire tour, sitting with them backstage, sleeping on their tour bus, memorizing their day to day. The Genius Tours will be a mini documentary with insight to these artists that no one else has, not even their damn parents.”

A quiet buzzing starts behind me, the excitement and adrenaline zipping from one person to the next. The opportunity to work on a project this large and this intense is once in a lifetime. It’s a no-brainer.

“There will be some artists that you all know well, like Taylor Swift, Billie Eilish, and Bruno Mars. There will also be some artists that the general population isn’t familiar with.

We have ten artists total so far, which means we only have ten spots to fill.

If you are interested, send me a calendar invite for tomorrow. My office will be open all day.”

The chatter gets even louder now, but Blane is finished speaking and has already made his way back into his office. I turn to Jake, my favorite colleague.

“Are you signing up?” I ask him, my heart pounding inside my chest.

The thought of traveling around the world for six months with strangers is terrifying, but the opportunity to get to know an artist inside and out is not something I can turn down. My parents are going to kill me.

“Hell no! I just moved in with my boyfriend. I think he would be devastated if I left him for six months.” He pouts. “What about you?”

“I have to.”

“I mean, no you don’t have to-”

“I can’t pass this up! Especially if Justina is doing it. She’s already stolen enough from me; I can’t let her steal this too.” I school my face, refusing to let her affect me again.

Our senior year of college, Justina and I applied for an internship with Musical Genius.

As two aspiring writers with a love for anything music, naturally we fell into all the same classes.

I wouldn’t say we ever forged a friendship, but we definitely partnered together quite frequently for group assignments.

When I showed up for my interview, it wasn’t a total shock that she sat there in the reception area outside of Blane’s office.

“What a small world.” I say, pinching my lips as I walk over to the familiar face.

“Ash!” Justina’s eyes jump to mine in surprise .

I always found Justina Sampson a little too loud in every way possible.

Her clothes were always too bright, her makeup always too thick, her voice a few decibels too high.

Even now, her neon pink power suit with her cream silk blouse and heels to match.

Her dark hair falls around her shoulders in barrel curls as if she had a blow out for this occasion.

She looks like she’s ready to deliver a segment of a recent shooting in Chicago on ABC7 Eyewitness News.

Except, this is an interview for an unpaid internship. ..

I sit next to her, feeling inferior with my grey skinny slacks, emerald top, and ballet flats.

I definitely overthought what to wear, like I do for every occasion, and it has yet to pay off.

With the summer heat, I opted to wear my blonde hair in a bun on the top of my head and minimal makeup.

When I looked in the mirror this morning, I thought modest and professional.

Sure, Justina exudes confidence, but I wear mine on the inside.

Plopping down in the chair next to her, I can’t help but notice her piece sitting on top of her portfolio that rests in her lap. I peer over, catching the title, my body stiffening.

“What is that?” I point to her article.

Immediately, she shoves it back into her portfolio, but it’s too late. I already know what it is.

“We agreed we weren’t going to submit anything that we’ve worked on together. You can’t use that piece!” My voice raises an octave higher and I can feel my face heat with anger.

“Ash, we both know I did most of the work.” She scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“Excuse me?!” I shriek, dumbfounded by her audacity.

For our semester final, we were to partner up and write a persuasive essay where we both have to agree that the celebrity of our choosing is the best at what they do.

It seemed simple enough, but the class was incredibly competitive.

We chose Lana Del Rey, an artist that has wavered between infamous and a nobody, yet completely underrated.

This piece was submitted into our school’s Festival of Arts and won best persuasive essay.

We started off strong, getting together every day to brainstorm and strategize how we wanted our essay to come off, but before we could even get through the introduction, she was swept away by some guy that gave her googly eyes in the library.

Over the course of the two weeks it took to write this essay, she checked in on occasion offering her opinions, but never wrote a single word.

I wasn’t the vindictive type and with all group projects, there’s always one person that takes the majority of the workload, so I sucked it up.

I placed her name at the top of the essay – underneath mine of course – and submitted it.

Knowing that it won an award was all the credit I really needed.

That is until I find the piece sitting in Justina’s lap to use for her personal gain.

“You’re acting like I stole your work. My name is on this piece too, unless you’ve forgotten.”

Before I can get another word in, the receptionist calls her over to meet with the Chief Editor. Justina doesn’t look back at me, just flicks her hair past her shoulder and walks away.

I sit there with my jaw dropped to the floor at the audacity.

There’s no doubt that the article I wrote for this internship will land me a position, but I can’t help feeling the rage simmering inside of me.

I tolerated Justina throughout college, but I’m done.

She started something and I intend to fight with everything I have.

She’s going to have to pull herself out of her lazy habits and actually start showing some effort because there’s no way in hell I will let her steal from me again.

“Better get at it then.” Jake laughs, knowing my need to be better than her.

As I block time on Blane’s calendar, Justina struts over, standing between our desks. She leans back, resting against Jake’s, blocking his view from me.

“This project screams Ashton Crawford. I assume you’re trying for a spot?” She smirks as if she knows me too well.

“Wouldn’t pass it up.” I lean back in my chair, inviting her to say what she came here to say.

When we both secured a permanent position with Musical Genius last year, we took two very different paths.

Though we both write for our Company’s blog, Inside Genius , we couldn’t be more opposite in our work.

I strive to be ethical in how I get my information, I’m trustworthy to all my sources, and refuse to cover pieces that shed any negativity on the artists I interview.

Justina on the other hand is ruthless. She has an obsession with digging up dirt, airing dirty laundry, and twisting words.

Not to mention her love for creating click bait.

She is everything I despise in a journalist, growing her popularity with her lack of boundaries and juicy gossip.

Our unspoken rivalry is like a battle between good and evil, and she is definitely the beloved villain.

I cross my arms waiting.