Felicity’s mouth falls open, but she can’t think of a single thing to say.

“Look, I know those men,” Elena continues, meeting Felicity’s gaze in the mirror. Her expression is intense and knowing but, for once, not mocking. “They’ll never let you into their boys’ club. You’ll never be a partner there. No matter how many hoops you jump through, no matter how impressive your CV, or how you straighten out your Midwest vowels.”

She noticed that? Her lessons with Mrs. Allsop have been coming along well, sanitizing any hint of Felicity’s unflattering origins, which she prefers not to dwell on. In truth, she borders perilously close to sounding like Julie Andrews these days if she doesn’t watch herself. Spit bloody spot.

Wait, never be a partner? Her head snaps up.

Elena almost smiles. “Sore point?” She waves at Felicity’s fingers as she leaves.

Startled, Felicity looks down. Lipstick has snapped off in her hand—a crime scene of crimson debris spread across skin and sink.

Felicity sighs. She glances over to Elena’s card, in two minds about whether to bin it or frame it.

Twenty-Nine

The fourth time Felicity sees Elena, she’s twenty-nine, still not a partner—a fact which grates constantly given how close she is to her personal deadline—and the jury is out on her sexuality.

She’s been having dreams for which she’s hard-pressed to find a heterosexual explanation. That’s not to say she isn’t still interested in men. She is. But she can’t tally that up next to muddled, erotic meanderings involving dark hair and blue eyes belonging to high-cheekboned faces that aren’t rough in the least.

Could just be the stress.

Probably all it is.

Tonight Felicity’s at a glamorous but oddball LA event to launch some blog for Hollywood movers and shakers. A blog, for heaven’s sake. But due to the powerful, triple A-list guest list, it’s been purloined as the must-attend networking extravaganza for anyone associated with the print, social media, or entertainment industry. So that includes herself, her boss, and several lawyer colleagues who handle takeovers and mergers for newspapers all over the US.

Hank has dragged his team here tonight in the quest to win over a normally reclusive online news CEO’s multi-million-dollar legal business. Even from halfway across the room, Felicity can already tell he’s going to crash and burn so badly.

It’s a white-themed ball, and the organizers apparently have no qualms about making their guests snow-blind. At least the men in white tuxes look sublime, especially the one who’s just sauntered in as though auditioning to play a Hollywood prince. So much jaw.

Felicity’s dormant-of-late hormones give a little purr of approval. There. Still firmly heterosexual, thank you very much. She almost sags in relief.

Tonight Felicity’s wearing her favorite gown, a floor-length cream de la Renta that cost her six months’ salary and only just lets her breathe. It’s a good thing she lives on a perpetual carb-free diet. With her pinned-up, long blond hair and teardrop pearl earrings, she’s well aware she looks more than acceptable—at least if her useless boss’s speculative gazes are any indication.

Her teeth grind. Why the hell is Hank still her boss? She’s saved his pitiful ass more times than she can count, and he never acknowledges her aside from empty promises to make it up to her come promotion time.

Every single time he says those words, she tries to believe in him. Needs to. Christ, she’s like a slot machine addict, too frightened to walk away from the machine she’s invested so much in, in case it’s about to pay out the jackpot a minute later.

Felicity thinks back to the embossed pearl business card stuck to her fridge back home in her Manhattan apartment. Every now and then, when she’s at her lowest, Felicity reminds herself of the time a publishing goddess saw her worth.

She straightens. Well, maybe Hank could shock her completely and do the right thing soon. The company is due to pick a new partner this year. So maybe he’ll…

Felicity throws back a gulp of dry martini. Sure he will. She’s being a fool most likely, but she is committed to seeing her “law partner by thirty” plan through.

She needs air. And a cigarette. Even though she’s quit.

The first hotel balcony she comes to involves a jungle’s worth of potted trees and a glimpse of two women she can’t make out too well in a steamy clinch. Typical for a publishing ball—add alcohol to uptight, stressed-out media types trying too hard to dominate in their field, and they’re bound to get smashed and fuck in dark corners.

The next balcony is quieter, only one inhabitant. It’s likely a fellow smoker, so Felicity enters and closes the French doors behind her. Her cigarette is lit, and she’s halfway to the railing when she realizes who she’s joining. She freezes, eyes wide, just as Elena Bartell turns to eye her.

A stunning black organza flowing gown greets Felicity, and it shimmers with the movement. The dress highlights Elena’s jet-black hair and brings out shadows under her cheekbones, giving her the look of a classy European model. The deep vee of her cleavage is…well…as hard to miss as it is spectacular.

“Sorry to intrude. I’ll go.” Felicity’s mouth is suddenly dry. She’s not sure how she feels about her sexuality jury being out again.

“It’s fine, Ms. Simmons. You stay.” Elena glances at Felicity’s lit cigarette, and her lips press together. “I’ll go.”

“No.” Felicity says quickly. She stubs out her cigarette. “I’m trying to quit anyway. It’s a cheater’s way to stress relief.”

“Hmm.” Elena’s amused gaze fixes on her. “You need a hobby then, if your job is stressful enough to drive you to an early grave. And by hobby, I mean more than just elocution lessons.”

Felicity doesn’t bother to deny the lessons. “I’m going to be a partner soon.” Does she sound confident? She hopes so. “No time for hobbies.”

“Sure you are.” Elena’s voice is pure cynical drawl.

“Well you don’t have any hobbies,” Felicity retorts, irritated at being mocked. It’s just a guess of course, but how could Elena fit any in between building up her media empire and smashing any tawdry little rags she deems unworthy?

“Is that so?” Elena cocks her head. “For all you know, I could be the drummer in an indie band.”

It takes Felicity a full minute to register the joke for what it is because her brain has just fritzed at the mere idea of Elena Bartell doing something as lowbrow as that.

Elena laughs. “Your face.” She shakes her head the tiniest amount, then becomes serious. “It’s true; empire building doesn’t leave me much free time. Especially now.”

There’s a gleam in her eyes, something there, something she wants to talk about. Felicity can almost smell it. “What are you working on?” she prods.

“Something…special. International. I’ve been in LA all week talking to a few backers.” Pride and excitement light Elena’s eyes. “My project is going forward at last.”

“Specifically?”

“Why do you want to know?”

Because everything you do is larger than life.You’re astonishing. Ruthless. Powerful. I want to be like you. “Curiosity.”

“Ah.” Elena’s eyes cloud over. “An itch to scratch.” She seems disappointed in the answer.

Regret floods Felicity, and she wonders what she should have said. Before she can think of something else to say, something better, Elena sighs and glances out over the darkened view.

Felicity stares down too. Not much to see. Headlights and taillights of cars and cabs whizzing by in orange and red trails. Lots of bright, flashy, fluorescent signs and tourist lures.

“I came out here for fresh air,” Elena says suddenly. “Well, and to escape the endless sycophants.”

“I don’t think you’ll find much fresh air in LA,” Felicity notes.

“No,” Elena murmurs in agreement. “A tactical error on my part.”

“You don’t make many of them.” Felicity intends her words to sound dry, but they come out awed. She cringes.