I push open the glass door embossed with the bold black letters that spell out the name of the magazine, Mirabel. Entering the white and pink space, I nod to the receptionist sitting behind her glossy counter. There is a blue neon sign above her head that flashes out the magazine’s creed.

I dash into the lift just as the doors are closing, but regret it almost instantly. Someone in the lift is wearing a cloying sweet perfume that makes me want to retch. I really hope and pray morning sickness doesn’t become a big thing for me. I get off at the second floor and take the stairs.

As I enter my department, Mary Withers waves me over, calling out, “Morning, Rosa.” When I get closer, she drops her voice to a whisper. “The old dragon wants to see you in her lair right away. I have orders to tell you to go in before you become involved in anything else.”

Willa wants to see me first thing on Monday morning. I try to think what could have gone wrong and come up with nothing. “Hmmm. Do you know what she wants?”

She pulls a sour face. “Damned if I know.”

“Okay. Thanks. I’ll go see her now,” I say and head down the corridor. I really love my job as a fashion writer, and even Willa Smithton, my direct boss and the executive editor of Mirabel, cannot make me love it any less.

I pass my office and hurry next door to hers. I knock on the door. Her office is almost a duplicate of mine, except that it’s twice as large and has two windows in the back rather than just one.

“Enter,” her gravelly voice commands.

I open the door and stand just inside her office. “Mary said you wanted to see me.”

She lifts her head from the papers she is reading and smiles. Willa is a woman of indeterminate age—she could be anything between forty-five and eighty. Nobody has dared ask.

“Well, it seems congratulations are in order.”

Congratulations? What on earth is she talking about? I allow my lips to stretch into a polite smile. “Er, what for?”

She is still smiling but her eyes are glittering. “It seems you have suddenly become the head honcho at our sister magazine in Rome.”

My jaw drops to the floor. “What?” I nearly shout.

“Yes. I received word early this morning. You could be the editor of Mirabel in Rome—that is, if you agree to take the job.”

Suddenly, I feel lightheaded. “I have to sit down,” I croak.

Willa waves towards one of the chairs in front of her desk.

“Thank you.” The word editor swims around in my head as I sink into one of the winged chairs. I stare at her in shock. “Are you sure this is not some mistake or misunderstanding?”

“I don’t make mistakes,” Willa snaps.

“It’s just … Rome! I can’t believe it. It’s … it’s totally unexpected. I mean, editor. How? Why?” I snap my mouth shut. I’m babbling wildly and Willa hates even mild babbling.

Willa’s sharp little eyes regard me expressionlessly. “Yes, I did wonder if it was a mistake, but I spoke to the executive director in our head office in Milan.”

“But Rome though,” I repeat incredulously.

She sighs. “Yes, if you take away the strutting men, the whiny women, and triple parking, I suppose, it is a beautiful city. Lovely fountains.” She pauses. “There’s no doubt you’ll take the position, is there?”

“I’d certainly be a fool not to. Oh, my God, I’ll be living in Rome!”

“If you’re going to work there, you’d better live there too, don’t you think?” she remarks dryly.

“Unless this is some sort of dream?”

“Or a nightmare?”

My eyes widen with surprise.

“Surely, you don’t expect me to celebrate. You’re my best writer.” Her voice is grudging.

“Oh.”

She cracks a reluctant smile. “We’ll all miss you.”

“I’ll miss everyone too,” I say automatically, even though nothing could be further from the truth. Other than Mary, most of my colleagues are extremely competitive. They would quite cheerfully stick a knife in my back if it means getting ahead on the ladder of success.

“You won’t have time. You’ll be too busy putting your own stamp on that magazine.”

“It’s already pretty darned good, I suspect.” I shake my head. “Do you know how all this came about? What happened to the previous editor?”

“That information would fall under the realm of pure gossip.”

“Why me?

“Apparently, Angelo Ricci’s granddaughter is a big fan of yours. She loves your style—the wit and the humor. Reads everything you write.”

“She is?” I gasp. Angelo Ricci is the billionaire owner of Mirabel. His granddaughter is a fan of my work!

“At least that’s what I’ve been told. Once the position opened, she persuaded her grandfather that you were the one for the job.”

“Which one of his granddaughters?” I ask curiously.

“Gina Ricci.”

I shake my head to clear it. I think I’m too stunned to think. Gina Ricci is a beautiful socialite butterfly. I had no idea she even read, let alone my column. “Wow! This is all too much to take in. When am I supposed to start?”

“Next week, from what I understand.”

“Next week! But there’s so much to do.”

“You could always refuse the job,” she says slyly.

“Are you kidding? I’d kill for this job.”

The button on her phone blinks and she waves her hand. “Well, you better get on with your day. I still need that Ten Sex Tips article from you.”

I jump up from my chair. “Thank you, Willa. Thank you. You’ll have the article by tonight.”

I walk straight over to Mary’s desk.

“Will you pinch me, Mary?”

“What?”

“Pinch me,” I order with a laugh.

“Why?”

“I want to know if I’m dreaming.”

“All right,” she says and pinches me hard.

“Ouch,” I yelp and look at her with a surprised, wounded expression.

“There you go. You’re not dreaming, and I’m just a little bit envious about why I’m having to pinch you after you’ve been in the dragon’s lair.”

I grin. “A little?”

“Okay. A lot. Now, what the bleeding fuck happened in there?”