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Chapter Two

Ashton

I hardly sleep more than a couple hours before the Friday morning sun begins to cast its glow on the city. I’m already awake, but at least it’s now an acceptable time to get out of bed and ready for work.

I apply a couple coats of mascara, some blush for color, and brush through my hair to loosen my curls.

I considered stepping it up a notch, but it just didn’t seem authentic and if I strived to be anything, it’s myself.

The part where I struggle is deciding what to wear.

I’ve always overthought my outfits, but it’s important to make a good impression.

I need something that exudes confidence, capability, and professionalism.

I’ve only met with Blane two other times.

First, interviewing for my internship and second, interviewing for a permanent position with the Company.

I toss my blonde waves over my shoulders as I make my way to my roommate. Sam’s sprawled across the couch, her light brown hair in a knot on the top of her head, wearing a black crop top and her sweatpants rolled down on her sharp hips. Even a mess, she’s still beautiful .

“What do you think?” I ask, holding up a grey dress.

She shakes her head, “No. That screams 1990’s secretary.”

I roll my eyes, running back to my room, coming back with another outfit. She eyes it carefully, “Too bland.”

“Sam! I have to leave in ten minutes!” I growl.

“I’m just being honest.” She shrugs.

I panic, sifting through my closet. I yank my Taylor Swift T-shirt off a hanger, grab my black pencil skirt, with a three-quarter sleeve black blazer.

“This?” I hold the pieces up for Sam.

She looks, contemplating. “Yeah, that could work. It’s bold and screams I want Taylor Swift.”

With my roommate's approval, I slip the T-shirt over my head, careful not to ruin my makeup and shimmy my way into the pencil skirt. I wait to slip into the blazer, already sweating from nerves.

“Yep, that’s the one.” Sam reassures me.

“Thank you!” I hug her from her spot on the couch and rush for the door, shoving my feet into my converse.

“Good luck, Ash.” Sam calls to me before I can slam the door shut.

I shout my thanks, almost stumbling down the stairs of our apartment building.

It’s only four blocks to the office, but the human traffic in this area is terrible.

I hold my bag close to my body, my blazer hanging on my forearm, and bulldoze my way through the sea of swarming bodies.

If you’ve lived in the city long enough, you also learn the art of J-walking.

It’s like the human version of Frogger but with real cars, bikes, and people.

I make it into our suite at the same time I always do, 7:55, and slam my bag onto my desk. I need a few minutes to recover from my journey before I can slide my blazer on. The August heat is brutal.

I power up my laptop, eager to pull up my talking points for my meeting with Blane later today. I’ve already memorized them, but it’s hard to focus on anything else with my anxiety at an all-time high. I’m so hyper fixated on my computer, I barely notice the iced coffee placed on my desk.

“Ehem!”

Startled, I find Jake staring at me, bewildered.

“Oh my God, I didn’t even see you there!” I place my hand over my chest, feeling my heart thrash around.

“Whatchya reading?” He asks.

I pick up the coffee, taking a sip. “I’m reviewing my notes for later today. I need to get on this project.”

He nods, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen you fail at anything. You got this.”

I smile, “Thanks. Oh, and thank you for the coffee.”

“You’re buying the next one.” He laughs, easing himself into his chair.

I grimace, realizing he’s bought me coffee the last four Fridays.

“I think I owe you more than just one.”

Jake dismisses me with a wave, his focus already deep into his emails for the day. Friday is the day of deadlines. Everything needs to be submitted before the end of the day, but I always submit a day early and use today to figure out my next piece.

The energy in the office is always chaotic on Fridays, everyone types away furiously, fixing those last-minute mistakes, adding conclusions, desperate to get their work in on time. I prefer not to rush on the last day of the workweek.

I can’t help but notice Justina walking through the doors, her heels clicking against the tiles. Even though we’re the same age, she looks almost ten years older. She’s at least a half a foot taller than me, dresses like she’s the most important person in the room, and reeks of dominance .

She catches my eyes and smirks, dropping her bags on her desk noisily before walking over.

“Cute outfit!” Justina points to my Taylor Swift shirt, an undertone of condescension at the word cute. “If I had to guess, I would say you’re hoping to get Taylor Swift as an assignment.”

“I’d take anybody, but she would definitely be a bonus.” I mumble, forcing a response from my lips.

“I’ve heard there are some no names thrown in the mix.” She eyes me wondering how I feel about that.

“Blane mentioned that yesterday when he said there will be artists we haven’t heard of.”

“He did, but he didn’t mention that these no-names are like local pub bands. You know how hard it is to convince a large population to buy into a niche genre? The audience will be minimal for sure.”

“Where are you getting this information? We just found out about this project yesterday and somehow you have all this insight.” I accuse.

It’s been a rumor for quite some time that Justina and Blane have a thing . I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s true and all these tidbits of information she’s sharing on a project that’s been concealed for months just seems fishy.

“Open your ears, Ash. People haven’t stopped talking about this project. I didn’t say any of it was true.” She deflects.

I nod, pursing my lips. I’m sure it wouldn’t be hard to find out what’s been going on between her and the boss, but my imagination is so much more fun.

“Anyway, I hope you get the artist you want.” She smiles, flicking her dark hair off her shoulder as she walks away.

“She’s definitely sleeping with Blane.” Jake mutters under his breath.

“I heard her dad is one of the largest music producers in the industry. I bet she name drops every chance she gets.” Marcy adds, shaking her head.

My eyebrows shoot up my forehead as I turn behind me to face her.

“What?” She shrugs.

“I didn’t think you were the gossiping type. Just surprised is all.” I try to fight my smile.

Marcy is in her early fifties, with a disinterest in fashion and the concept of makeup but can surprise the hell out of you with her knowledge of the industry.

“Eh, not really gossip if it’s true.” She waves me off.

“Who’s her father?” I ask, shuffling through all the producers I know, none with the last name Sampson.

“Jarrod Bleaker.” She whispers loud enough for me and Jake.

My eyes widen, “No way! How do you know that’s actually her dad? What if she’s lying?”

“He’s acknowledged it in a couple interviews. He never married so Justina took her mother’s maiden name.” She explains.

I nod. Suddenly, things were adding up. I glance over at Justina, watching her engage in an intense conversation with another co-worker.

I never felt intimidated by her seeing as she stole my work to get this job, but suddenly I feel uneasy.

Her dad has power and if she name drops like Marcy said, I’m not just competing with Justina, I’m competing with Jarrod Bleaker and that’s not really a competition at all. Not one I can ever win.

Shaking off this new information, I try to focus on finding another topic for my next article, filling the hour before my meeting with Blane. My attention is pulled at the faintest knock on the other side of the office. Looking up I find Justina standing in front of Blane’s door fixing her hair.

"Great.” I huff.

The last thing I want is to be considered after she’s already left her mark.

“Ten bucks she comes out with sex hair.” Jake bets.

“Ten bucks she comes out with blowjob lips.” I counter.

“What the hell are blowjob lips?” He scrunches his face.

“I don’t know, puffy, lip gloss smeared everywhere, maybe a little dribble on her chest.” I explain.

“Ew! Okay, bet.” He holds his hand out and I shake it.

Jake rolls in his chair back over to his desk, pretending not to watch Blane’s door like I am. It’s nearly an hour later, four minutes past my scheduled meeting time with him, that Justina finally walks out. Jake and I both pop our heads up, inspecting her.

Other than a few strands of hair out of place, which she fixes immediately and a lack of her lip gloss – which she was wearing when she walked in – we can't really decipher who wins the bet.

Marcy laughs. “I guess you both lost.”

“I don’t know, I’d argue that her hair wasn’t as perfect as it was going in.” He persuades.

“Okay, perfect? Really?” I scoff.

He shrugs as I push myself to stand.

“Wish me luck.” I call back to both Jake and Marcy.

They send me off with reassurance as I make my way to Blane’s office, my gaze fixed on Justina. I can’t help staring at her lips, wondering if they look different than before she went in there. She probably thinks I’m in love with her.

Passing her feels like slow motion, the corner of her mouth tugs up in a conceited smirk as we brush shoulders. Two young talented women fighting for the number one spot in the Company, and I intend to be it.

I knock on Blane’s door; his burley voice orders me to enter. I find the Henry Cavill look-a-like sitting behind his mahogany desk, the skyline of Chicago and Lake Michigan his backdrop.

If being the boss isn’t intimidating enough, his looks can bring you to your knees. He smiles, his white teeth stunning against golden skin. His slicked back dark hair and perfectly trimmed scruff brightens his blue eyes that glitter like the water outside his windows.

I slide my palms down my shirt to dry the sweat and walk into his office, taking the seat in front of him on the other side of his desk.