A clear, perfect picture forms of one Elena Bartell.

Oh. Oh hell.

Thirty

It’s time. Time Felicity admits some inconvenient truths. One, she’s failed at her plans to be a partner by thirty. Two, she’s galled to find Elena knows Felicity’s firm better than she does. Three, Elena’s sexy as hell, and Felicity can no longer deny it. And four, the big one, Felicity’s now honest enough to acknowledge her bisexuality, at least to herself, although she doesn’t plan on sharing. Ever. It’s no one’s damned business.

There’ve been a few…dalliances…in recent months. Although, lusting for straight women with sharp blue eyes and ebony hair is an absolute no-fly zone. That much Felicity’s damned clear on. She’s careful to have never made that lapse again.

Still, it doesn’t hurt to look. And right now, Felicity’s eyes are fixated on the back of Elena’s head, where the woman is sitting in the front row at a writer’s festival.

Felicity, who’s waiting to hear a feminist historical writer she’s liked ever since the woman did a guest lecture at Felicity’s college, almost face-plants at the sight of Elena. She tunes out the author on stage and wonders why she’s so startled to see Elena here. Felicity never expects to see her business hero outside of boardrooms and industry balls. But why wouldn’t a woman who is in the business of words go to a writer’s festival?

The author on stage is a sandy-haired man with wire glasses and a thoughtful expression. He oozes a sort of rumpled haplessness, like a puppy left out in the rain. He’s handsome in a nonthreatening way.

Felicity would gladly ignore him and head for the next tent to fill in time before her preferred writer turns up, but she’s too puzzled as to why Elena’s interested in this unassuming man to leave.

What possible allure can he have? Elena’s dedicated to power and conquest and success. Not only that but she’s brilliant at it. Yet here she sits, absorbing the words of a mediocre author of a book about toads as a metaphor for modern politics, which became a surprise hit.

Then, he says it: A media mogul joke. Not even a clever one.

The crowd titters.

He follows it up with a cutting dig about corporate media and those who run it, likening them to Medusa, she of the hissing head of snakes. As he does so, he looks directly at Elena.

What on earth? This whiny, mocking little wastrel unfit to tie Elena’s boots clearly means his barbs for her, and he wants everyone watching him to know it. For all Elena’s enemies and rivals, not one has ever had the audacity to imply she hasn’t deserved her success. Well, not for many years now. And this foppish fool dares?

Suddenly, every time Hank has ever dismissed Felicity’s intellect or excellence flashes into mind. Every pitiful, mediocre imbecile who’s ever put her down, used her work without crediting her, or slithered into the jobs she’s earned fills her thoughts. And Felicity’s talents aren’t even close to the blinding brilliance that is Elena Bartell, international media legend. Yet some snickering, third-rate, man-child gets to make fun of her as if he’s even worthy of being in the same universe as her?

Without thinking, Felicity shoots to her feet and strides toward the stage, blasting out a furious diatribe comparing his paltry writing career to that of a go-getting media entrepreneur’s. Just a generic entrepreneur, of course. No one specific.

“In conclusion,” Felicity finishes, voice rising to a lashing snarl, “two-bit hacks wearing unironic plaid don’t get to judge anyone!”

So there.

The crowd’s booing now. Yes, well, he’s the invited guest; she’s a heckler. Fair point.

As a security guard makes his way up the aisle, she makes good her escape. Elbowing her way to the exit amid further boos, her cheeks still burning from her rant, Felicity’s unsure whether it’s wise to look at Elena.

She sneaks a peek anyway. The briefest flash of surprise is the only emotion on Elena’s face before her cool mask swallows it whole.

Outside the writer’s tent, Felicity takes a few deep breaths, bums a cigarette from a passing patron, and considers what she’s done. She’s incredulous. She never makes a scene. Certainly not over something that doesn’t matter to her one bit. Who cares why mundane writers toss grenades at successful businesswomen?

Felicity suddenly stares at her unlit cigarette in confusion. Hasn’t she given up smoking? Apparently not.

“Why, Ms. Simmons, you appear to have offended my husband.”

Felicity’s head snaps up.

Elena is eying her curiously, arms folded.

“Husband?” But wasn’t she on with white-tux man?

“Well, ex-husband. Spencer and I were incompatible for a vast number of reasons. I think you nailed quite a few of them.” Elena smirks. “To think I was beginning to give up on you. Your potential.”

“I…what?”

“Finally speaking your mind? In front of witnesses no less? Standing up for what you believe in? That’s something I need from a chief of staff. And you need a new job. It cannot possibly be fulfilling watching junior, less-talented colleagues stealing your promotions.”

The careless comment burns like acid. Of course Elena would know about that. Felicity’s boss has been offering placating, condescending platitudes to her for weeks since she lost her partnership to an underling while Felicity’s blood slowly boils.

She should have known. Hell, Elena knew. She’s known for years. “Is this your ‘I told you so’?” Felicity asks suspiciously.

“No. It’s my job offer.”

“I’m a lawyer…not anything else.”

“You’d make a better chief of staff. You’re smart, organized, and know the law better than most of my suits.” Elena cocks her head. “Tell me something: Did you keep my business card? Or rip it up in a fit of misplaced loyalty to your mediocre little firm?”

It’s still on Felicity’s fridge door. She’s been thinking about that card a lot lately, to be honest, wondering whether the opportunity to call Elena is long gone. She’d assumed it was, given how Elena had put her in her place last time they’d met.

Felicity doesn’t answer, not willing to let the woman know she matters so much as to have had her card in pride of place on Felicity’s fridge all this time.

Elena apparently doesn’t require a response. “I’m planning a global media revolution.” Her blue eyes are glinting at the prospect. “Want in?”

“Why me?” Felicity croaks in astonishment.

“I see you, Ms. Simmons…Felicity. You’re ready. It’s long overdue, wouldn’t you say?”

Thirty-Six

Felicity sees Elena Bartell daily. And each day, Elena looks at Felicity, challenges her, and tells her, not in so many words, that she’s valuable.

They’re taking over the media world together.

Felicity’s stress levels haven’t improved from her old job, given idiots and incompetence still surround her, but her satisfaction has. Hundreds of lawyers all across the world now have to answer to Felicity if they want to deal with the impenetrable Elena Bartell.

Felicity’s old boss is one of them. She takes a perverse delight in taking Hank’s calls and explaining in detail just how busy Elena is while they’re conquering the world. It’s petty, yes, but Elena did tell Felicity she needs a hobby.

Felicity snorts to herself. She probably needs a better hobby. Maybe she should call Larissa back for another hookup. Or even Tim. Or was it Tom?