I wait outside the chief editor’s office. I glance down at the cover page of my article for the hundredth time but can’t even read a word of it because my hands shake so badly. As much as I try to convince myself it’s just an article and not a life-or-death situation, I can’t calm down. It may not be life-or-death, but I have to get my article through Jeffrey, who’s infamously known as The Shredder among the other interns. Getting an internship at N-Design was practically like winning the lottery since I’ve always dreamed of being a journalist.

Granted, I’ve always dreamed of being a real journalist, not a celebrity gossip columnist. But if I land a job here, it’ll open up all kinds of doors for my future and eventually my dream to write for the New York Times.

All that hope is clutched in my trembling hands. It’s an expose style article on one of the country’s hottest bachelors, Patrick Woods. Writing about him was a risk. A big one. So little is known about him that my expose is admittedly high on speculation and loose on facts. Before getting a job here, I was never the celebrity stalker type, so I had to research Patrick to find out why he was even considered a celebrity--after all, he’s not an actor or a musician or even a politician.

It turns out that he was first made famous when a picture of his criminal mugshot circulated the web and went viral. My breath caught when I saw the image. It showed him glaring toward the camera with dark, almost exotic eyes. His hair was longer than I’d usually prefer, but shaved close on one side and swept to the other in a careless, wild way that seemed to fit him so perfectly. Combined with the beard he wore so well, I couldn’t help myself from staring at the image for a lot longer than I’d like to admit. I understood how it went viral. As a joke, one woman posted a petition to have Patrick pardoned by the president and the document ended up getting nearly a hundred thousand signatures. Another image of his mugshot with the caption, “Guy I’d go to prison for” made the rounds and ended up at the top of several social media sites.

The sad part is that I developed my own little celebrity infatuation with Patrick Woods while I was writing the article. I even feel conflicted on some levels about hoping Jeffrey approves it. On one hand, it’d be the next step toward my goal. On the other? It’d feel dirty. I’d be trying to advance my own career by putting out a gossip column on a man I don’t even know. Worse yet, this is exactly the kind of place my parents warned me I’d end up when I told them I wanted to be a journalist. They never thought I was a good enough writer to make it somewhere reputable, and well, I guess they were right. They’d see my gossip article and roll their eyes at each other, make some snide comment about how disappointing I’ve been as a daughter, and move on with their day.

“Nerves got the best of you, newbie?” asks Leah.

As usual, she looks impeccable in some sort of designer outfit that probably cost more than I’ll make all year--which, as an intern, would technically be true even if she was wearing a plastic bag. Her black hair is straightened to perfection and her lips are glossy and plump. She flashes a smile that has just the smallest, most subtle hint of the pure evil I know lurks behind that pretty face.

“Guess so,” I say. “You trying to get an article through the Jeffinator too?” I ask. It’s a poor attempt at humor, but I can’t help trying to extend some sort of olive branch. Call it a weakness, but I don’t like having enemies. As much as Leah seems to want to turn things between us into some kind of rivalry of the young interns, I’d rather just be friends.

She rolls her eyes dramatically. “Maybe if you had a little more confidence, you would have a real shot in this business, Kelsey.” As if to emphasize what she really means by ‘confidence’, Leah pushes on her bra to make her cleavage even more ridiculously on display before she cuts in front of me and steps into Jeffrey’s office.

I bite down the words of protest that are on the tip of my tongue. I also bite down the urge to grab her stupid, silky hair and yank her backwards for being such a stuck up little--I close my eyes and take in a long, measured breath. The last thing I need right now is to let her get to me. I comfort myself by telling myself the lie that I’ll get her back next time she decides to be so rude, even though I know I probably won’t. Besides, it’s the Christmas season and I’m making my yearly--if temporary--effort to be a better person.

I wait through ten minutes of Leah’s flirty giggles and Jeffrey’s deep laugh. I find it hard to imagine he’s even skimming her article with how much they are talking, but when Leah walks out with a cocky look on her face and gives me an obnoxious wink, I know her dirty tactics worked.

Jeffrey, who is in his late forties, balding, and clearly enjoys the doughnuts he has for breakfast every morning a little too much, is still red-faced and grinning when I come in. His beady, dark eyes take me in from head to toe with a clear, perverted glint. I clear my throat and step toward his desk, trying to look as professional as I possibly can.

I place my article in front of him. His desk is nearly empty except for a single manuscript with Leah’s name on the front. The small trash can beside his desk is stuffed with half-crumpled articles, and I hope desperately that mine won’t be joining them.

He waits, as if expecting me to make a pitch or start unbuttoning my blouse--I can’t tell which.

“It’s kind of an expose,” I say too quietly. I clear my throat again, forcing a little more volume into my voice. “On Patrick Woods.”

Jeffrey raises an eyebrow and glances down at the article for the first time. “Woods?” he asks. “What is it you think you’ve exposed? The man is a fucking enigma.”

“Well--I guess you could call it a speculation piece, too,” I stammer.

Jeffrey actually places a finger on the edge of my article and starts sliding it toward the trash can.

“But I did find some things,” I say quickly.

He pauses.

“I don’t think he’s done with the criminal activity since he got out of prison last year.” I almost cringe when I say it, because it’s a complete hunch. I have absolutely no evidence to back up the claim, and if Jeffrey pushes me on it, I know it’ll be the end of my internship and my short career as a journalist.

“I’m listening,” Jeffrey says.

I mentally scramble for an idea on how to play this out. I had planned to just wait for him to read my article, but he’s clearly not planning on even opening it up. I’ve got to think of something else. And fast.

“I could go undercover,” I say. My mouth is working faster than my brain, and even as the words come out, I already regret them. Undercover? Seriously? Even if Jeffrey goes for it, I really do have a hunch that Patrick isn’t done with his criminal activities, and trying to deceive a man like that would be insanely dangerous.

“Undercover?” asks Jeffrey dryly. “What do you think this is, exactly? We’re a fucking gossip magazine. The best there is, but we’re a gossip magazine at the end of the day.”

“And you have nothing to lose by letting me try. If I fail, I’m just a dumb intern who was trying something reckless. If it works, I get dirt on the man your readers would die to know more about.”

Internally, I’m running around like a chicken with its head cut off, but somehow I’m managing to keep a straight face and project confidence.

“Normally I’d tell you to get out of my office, but it so happens there is the perfect opportunity coming up,” Jeffrey says after a long pause. “I was going to offer it to Leah…”

“I’ll do it,” I blurt.

The perverted look in Jeffrey’s face comes back in an instant, making me regret my eagerness to blindly volunteer. He considers something with pursed lips, then looks at me one more time before sighing. I get the distinct sense that he was about to say something else and decided against it at the last minute. “There’s a party,” he says finally. “A very exclusive party. I have some sources that say Woods will be there. I don’t know much beyond that, but I could get you inside as a waiter. It’d be up to you to make more of it from there.”

I nod my head. “I can do it.”

“If you can’t,” he says gravely. “You’re fucking done here. And if this somehow comes back to bite me in the ass, I’ll blacklist you so fast you won’t even be able to get an internship at a goddamn high school newspaper.”

I tug at the straps of my apron and take one last look in the mirror. I’m wearing a white button-down shirt with long sleeves and black slacks. My hair is pulled back into a bun, and with my glasses added into the mix, I look entirely forgettable. Leah, on the other hand, is leaning against the back wall, wearing the exact same uniform but somehow managing to make it look like some kind of sexy halloween parody version of a waiter. Her boobs are nearly bursting the buttons open and her full ass is Kardashian-like, making even the simple slacks look good.

It doesn’t matter though. It’s not a competition to see who can look better. It’s a competition to see who can use this opportunity to get dirt on Patrick Woods. Plain and simple. I learned earlier today that Jeffrey decided to scrap Leah’s article idea and put her on the same track as mine, much to my annoyance.

Leah comes up behind me and tugs my hair free with a mischievous smile. “You’ll get better tips if you don’t look like a nanny,” she says.

“We’re not getting tips,” I growl, reaching to put my hair back up. “It’s a catered event. And you’re supposed to tie your hair back so it doesn’t get in the food.”

Leah rolls her eyes and runs a hand through her silky hair, which practically glows it’s so glossy. “I don’t shed like a dog in the summer. Unlike some people...”

She walks off, swaying her hips as she does.

Let her treat this like some kind of beauty contest if she wants. It’ll just give me a better chance of actually doing what I came here to do. All around me, the real serving staff are bustling with activity. Hardly anyone has spoken with me since I got here, since part of the way Jeffrey landed Leah and I these positions was lying about our past experience. Thankfully I paid my way through college waiting tables, so even though the catering angle is new to me, I’m not completely out of place in this environment.

We’re in a mansion way out in the countryside. I practically drooled over the views on the way over here. The rolling hills and distant mountains are covered in the first, clean white snows of winter, so all the small towns and hilltop houses looked idyllic and cozy. Then we pulled up to this castle-like mansion that’s surrounded by mountains on all sides and only accessible by a winding road that we took up a narrow mountain path. It wasn’t how I planned to spend Christmas Eve, but once I saw how the entire mansion was decked out with Christmas decor, I knew Christmas Eve home alone with my cat would’ve probably had trouble topping this.

I look out the large windows beside the kitchen and can see a dazzling view of snow-covered evergreens, the statue gardens, and miles upon miles of countryside rolling out in front of me. The windows are framed with holly, dazzling silver ornaments, and red ribbon.

My parents can think what they want about what I’m choosing to do with my life, but it already feels like I’m making the right choice when chasing my dream brings me to a beautiful place like this. There’s a buzz of unbridled excitement in my chest too when I think that this is the closest thing to real, investigative journalism I’ve ever done. Going undercover to some exclusive party to spy on America’s hottest criminal bad boy… It’s not where I thought journalism would take me, but that’s only because I never dared dream this big.

I hear the clatter of the first plates being set out on the expo line by cooks. The wait staff immediately spark into activity, grabbing plates from the expo crew who quickly but carefully check the presentation on each plate and bark out where it is going.

I slide into the line, grabbing the next available pair of plates.

“Seat ten, table four,” barks the man who hands me the plates.

I walk out into the main dining room. The Christmas tree in the center of the room takes full advantage of the extra high ceilings, reaching at least twenty feet into the air. I take everything in with a quick sweep of my eyes and resist the urge to pinch myself. The dining room is full of powerful and intimidating men wearing suits and the arm candy many have brought along, from elegant women with silver hair who have astonishingly extravagant outfits to young, vixen-like models who sit beside their men with perfect posture.

There are close to a dozen tables and a large, polished wood stage, which looks like it would normally be used to elevate a grand piano in the large living space, but right now there’s a podium set up with a microphone. A group of men are gathered on the stage and look like they are preparing to speak, but all my attention locks in on a single point in an instant.

It feels like all the air is sucked out of the room, like my ears are pounding with only the sound of my own heartbeat, like blinders are closing in my vision until only a fraction of the scene in front of me is in a spotlight. But no amount of light could take away the darkness that seems to surround him.

Patrick Woods.

He sits between two of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen, but he’s watching the stage with the darkest, most gorgeous eyes I’ve ever seen. Somehow they’re even more impressive in person. His wild hair is pulled back in an attempt at decorum, but a few strands have already fallen loose to dangle in front of his chiseled, tanned face. Without realizing it, I’ve walked the two plates closer and closer to him, completely forgetting which table and seat I was supposed to bring them to.

My heart stops when Patrick’s eyes flick over to me. He sees me walking toward him with the plates, and he definitely sees that I’m staring at him. The only way to avoid looking like a total creeper is to hope and pray I’m about to set what he ordered in front of him.

“A rack of lamb,” I say through a tight throat as I set the plate in front of him. “And a steak,” I say, but my tone makes the sentence into a question as I place a fat, juicy steak in front of a woman who looks like she eats about one leaf of lettuce per day.

Patrick raises his eyes to mine, where they practically burn straight through me like hot coals. “Are you new?” he asks.

A smart person would apologize, admit the mistake, and try to scurry away while making as little of an impression as possible. After all, my best hope to get anything worth writing about is to keep a low profile and hope I overhear something or see something.

Apparently I’m not a smart person. “I took the plate where I was told to. If this isn’t your food, all you have to do is say so.” I squeeze the words through clenched teeth. I don’t know what it is that set me off so much in his tone, but something about it reminded me of the way my dad always talks down to me, and I’m not about to let a stranger do the same--gorgeous or not.

His face doesn’t betray a hint of emotion while he considers me. The corner of his mouth twitches into the faintest grin I’ve ever seen, but there’s a slight shift in the hardness of his eyes that makes me sure I’m not imagining it. He opens his mouth to speak but a man approaches from behind, interrupting him with a hand on the shoulder. The man leans in and whispers something in Patrick’s ear that darkens Patrick’s features immediately.

Without another word to me, Patrick pushes his chair back, ignoring the two girls who pout and look after him as he follows the man toward a room at the back of the dining area.

I slide his plate to the girl who was on Patrick’s other side. “Here you go, you look like you could use a little meat on your bones.”

I don’t wait to see her reaction, but I hear a surprised gasp from behind me as I rush to follow after Patrick. My heart is trying to pound out of my chest and just about every cautionary voice in my head is asking me what the hell I think I’m doing, but I can’t let an opportunity pass, no matter how big the risk. This might be my only chance to make it, and I’m going to take it.