She’s not just an assistant, though, is she?

Friend, then. Like it or not, fight it all she might, Madeleine had been a friend to her at times.

A friend?

Elena pushed away her irritating inner voice. She was one of the most formidable media moguls in the world. She did not have time for derailing thoughts like this.

“Can we go any faster?” she growled at the driver.

“Not without breaking a few traffic laws, ma’am.”

“Then break them. I want to be far from here as soon as possible.”

Far from the memory of Madeleine walking away.

“Sure thing. Oh and it’s a shame about losing your assistant. She was about the nicest person you could ever meet. Don’t think she contained an ounce of bullshit, if you’ll pardon my French.”

“Just drive.” Elena closed her eyes.

CHAPTER 23

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

Maddie had always assumed the day she’d dreamt of as a little girl would dawn resplendent with sunshine, fluffy clouds, and an awesome inner soundtrack of angelic harp music. Instead, the moment after waking to the knowledge her world exclusive would be on the newsstands today, her thudding head made itself known.

She leaned over to check the time on her phone and discovered a missed call from Natalii. It had been left at five in the morning. Her stomach lurched.

Who calls at five unless they hate something?

Maddie sat up and called voicemail to hear the message Natalii had left.

“Madeleine! Maman is delighted by your story. And I also. But especially her. She says ‘Vous nous avez fait justice. Un triomphe’. Now then, today it is her big parade. At the Australian Fashion Week? You will join us, oui? Come backstage. She insists. You must not refuse! Oui? Oui! She has it all arranged. I have emailed all that you need to find us. Au revoir!”

Maddie grinned. Well, it sounded as if Véronique thought she’d “done her justice”. And calling her story a triumph was an awesome start to the day. Her knotted stomach loosened a little, and she gave it a consoling pat. She rose, began her morning routine, and made breakfast.

When she returned to her bedroom an hour later, she found her phone now full of missed calls and texts. Maddie listened to them in astonishment. Fashion Police wanted to interview her about Australian Fashion Week. What did Maddie know about fashion? What a joke. E! Online left a breathless message as well, overusing the words incredible, awesome, and “Oh. My. God”. The editor of Elle wanted to “seriously discuss” her future. Vogue, CQ, and Vanity Fair wanted her to call back at her earliest convenience. CNN wanted to talk about Véronique outside the designer’s show in a live cross.

Um, live cross? Over Maddie’s dead body. She’d probably stutter, blush, and forget her own name. How had any of the media even obtained her phone number? Was Felicity wreaking some divine revenge by handing it out to everyone? At that thought, she punched in the chief of staff’s number.

“Ugh. You!” Maddie heard, by way of greeting.

“Hello, Felicity.”

“What do you want? My life is utter, eyeball-bleeding chaos thanks to you! Again! That article appears, and now every two-bit blogger with a fashion bent thinks I can be buttered up to give them your details!”

“Uh, about that—I have a whole bunch of people who got my number. I was wondering if maybe…”

“What?” came the waspish reply.

“Um, maybe it’s revenge for having to walk Oscar for an hour in a gale or whatever…”

An irate hiss sounded in her ear.

“You don’t honestly think I walked that ridiculous excuse of a dog for an hour? That would be cruel and unusual punishment. For us both! I found a nice, warm cafe with a covered area for dogs and gave him a doggucino and caught up on my emails over a coffee. Are you completely deranged?”

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Besides, if I wanted revenge, there are other, far more diabolical ways. Like, if you think the media having your phone number is terrible, imagine them camped out at your front door.”

“You wouldn’t!”

“Try me!”

“Felicity!” The panic leaked out of her voice.

“Oh, don’t worry,” Felicity said with a long-suffering sigh, “you’re apparently a protected species. Elena has threatened to fire anyone who imparts your personal details to the media.”

“She what? Why?”

“Of course I asked her at once. ‘Please Elena, explain in detail your mysterious inner workings so that we may all understand’. Honestly.”

“Oh, yeah. Right.”

There was a pause. “It was good, by the way,” Felicity said, her tone quiet.

“Huh?”

“Keep up. Your article. I read it this morning. It was… Well, it was far better than I expected.”

Maddie laughed at how pained she sounded admitting that. “Thanks, Felicity.”

She sniffed. “I hate you for it, but it was exceptional. Okay? Oh! Have you seen the ads yet?”

“Ads? Uh, no.” Maddie’s heart rate surged.

Felicity snorted. “Well, then, you’ll be in for a surprise…” Murmuring interrupted her. “Damn. Elena needs the Harborside Times contract ready in ten minutes—”

“Felicity? What ads?”

The call was already ended. Maddie sighed and slapped the phone on her breakfast table. Immediately, it began to ring again. And again. Not recognising the incoming numbers, she let the calls go to voicemail. Her fifteen minutes of fame were going to take some getting used to.

After breakfast, she bought a copy of Style Sydney from her neighbourhood newsstand, then went home, curled up in bed and went over it again. She was awed at how beautiful her story looked in the glossy publication. As she turned each page and studied the attention to detail within those stunning layouts, it was clear Elena really was an artist who drew out the best from her team. What on earth she was doing wasting her talents on corporate takeovers was beyond Maddie. This was real art.

She sighed as a familiar surge of longing went through her. She was ridiculous. It had only been three days since she’d last seen her. With a huff of annoyance at herself, Maddie grabbed her phone and went through the rest of her new messages.

They ranged from some respectable magazines and newspapers to a few tawdry interview requests promising to pay her if she coughed up a scoop on her relationship with “the French chick you screwed to get that big interview”. She ground her teeth.

Maddie spent about an hour returning the calls of the publications she’d heard of and looking up the ones she hadn’t. Then she did some cleaning to clear her head, as she contemplated their offers. Did she really want to work for Vogue, CQ, or Elle? Writing more fashion? She barely liked it now. Nope, she was fairly sure she didn’t want a job in an industry so shallow it guilted women into impossible ideals, while lacking its sole key benefit—working with Elena Bartell.