Sabrina

It’s like a movie scene, when the plucky heroine from the Midwest gawks at the brand-new office building in the city, amazed at its size.

That’s understandable since the high-rise in the heart of pulsing midtown is sky-high. New Yorkers scurry past me on Monday afternoon, barking into phones, lugging messenger bags, and hefting huge purses full of everything anyone could possibly need to do battle during a day in the city.

The afternoon sun shines brightly, reflecting off the brushed black and gold skyscraper. I stare at the towering structure. Not because it’s new to me, but because I’ve always wanted to be a part of what’s inside.

A woman in a sharp gray suit pushes on the gleaming revolving door, her heels click-clacking purposefully across the sidewalk as she vacates the power center. She’s a woman on a mission. Of course, she is, if she works here in this sleek, modern castle, home to legions of media outlets, TV networks, ad agencies, and many other businesses that make the media go round.

When I started as a journalist fresh out of college, I imagined working here someday, writing in-depth features, rich narratives full of color and detail, shining a light on the people behind the Standard Oils and Ford Motor Companies of today—the Googles, the YouTubes, the Apples.

I never craved covering politics or news of the day. No, thank you when it comes to wars, murders, or Washington shenanigans. Business, however, always intrigued me, in part because I have a mind for numbers and a head for strategy, but also because I’ve always believed business is more than a profit-and-loss report. It’s a story. It has a beginning, a middle, and an end. And the good ones have twists.

They have zigzags you don’t see coming.

Raising my index finger, I touch my right earlobe then my left. Both are bare today. No triple hoop earrings, nor my kitschy black spider studs either. I’m in the costume of professional reporter Sabrina Granger, with a knee-length black skirt and a short-sleeved white blouse. Two-inch pumps complete the basic, timeless look.

Lois Lane has nothing on me.

I step into a pie section of the door and swish into a lobby with marble floors so polished I swear I can see up my skirt.

But I don’t self-perv.

With my chin high, I stride to the security desk and show my ID to a man in a navy suit. He places a call, checking with the receptionist, I presume, at Up Next.

He nods at me, giving a yes.

I nearly bounce in my shoes. I’m being admitted into a club I’ve always wanted to join.

Once the guard checks me in, I paste my name tag sticker onto my shirt and head to the nineteenth floor. Soon, the elevator doors whoosh open into the cool, air-conditioned offices of Up Next, showing off walls lined with framed magazine covers from over the years, introspective faces of artists and business leaders taken by some of the best-known shutterbugs in the world, as well as iconic images of New York and photos that capture flashpoints in history and culture.

The magazine itself is powered by ads for expensive watches, sophisticated colognes, tailored suits, boats, homes in the Hamptons, and more. Thanks to those advertisers, the offices are opulent. It’s like this magazine doesn’t know that journalism has changed in the last decade, that the internet, social media, and real-time news has upended all our work.

The receptionist whisks me to Mr. Galloway’s office in the corner, where he waves me in.

Gray-haired and weathered, but dapper in a Ted Danson way, he wears charcoal slacks, a white shirt, and a yellow tie. His tailored suit jacket is slung over his leather chair. He stands and heads around a massive mahogany desk to greet me. We shake hands, and he gestures to a soft leather couch with ornate arms after we exchange hellos.

His office screams money and considering my paper laid me off because ad dollars were way down, I can’t help but breathe a sigh of relief that somehow Up Next is largely immune to the seismic changes roiling journalism.

Mr. Galloway parks himself in a burgundy chair, rubs his hands together, and says, “Let’s get straight to business.”

“Yes, let’s,” I say, loving that he’s efficient. That’s a good sign in my field.

“I’ve been watching your work. I’ve been reading your stories recently, and when the paper cut half its staff, I knew it was a chance to nab you for an assignment. I have an important feature I want you to write.”

I smile, nodding deferentially, delighted he’s had his eye on my work. “I can’t wait to hear what you have in mind.”

“We’re expanding our business coverage. That’s what our readers care about. We want to look at the men and women who will become the next generation of business leaders. Who is the next Mark Zuckerberg, Jeff Bezos, Larry Page? That’s what I want to do. To profile the rising stars and give our readers a true sense of who the business leaders of tomorrow will be.”

A burst of excitement whips through me. He’s talking my language. “That’s exactly the type of story I love writing. Something deep, where I can dig into what makes a person tick.”

“That’s what I’m looking for, and that’s why I want you to profile Flynn Parker.”

I smile when he mentions the internet boy wonder. I’ve never met him before, but I know of him, of course. “Mr. Parker has something of the Midas touch, doesn’t he? After selling his first company for a record high valuation and then starting the hottest new tech in home automation, he’s absolutely one to watch. Especially since Haven is poised to be at the forefront of a whole new and exciting sector.”

Mr. Galloway nods, a sage look in his gray eyes telling me he likes my response. “Exactly. Get in there and dive into who he is and what drives him. That’s what I want you to uncover. He’s thought to be the next Zuckerberg. Find out what makes him tick. I want to understand who the next business visionary is.”

I nod enthusiastically as ideas for questions to ask Flynn ping-pong in my head. “I’ve never had the chance to interview him, but I think that can benefit the piece since I’ll come into it with a fresh start. No preconceived notions,” I say, wanting to be frank with Mr. Galloway. Even though I’ve covered a lot of people in business, that doesn’t mean I’ve interviewed everyone in New York yet.

He slashes a hand through the air for emphasis. “That’s what I want. A clean slate. You don’t bring anything to the table about Mr. Parker.”

I arch an eyebrow. “Should I bring something to the table when it comes to him?” I drop my voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are there skeletons in his closet you want me to discover?”

Mr. Galloway chuckles, a deep, scratchy sound. “If he does have any skeletons I would very much like to know about them, but I suspect he’s one of those squeaky-clean people.”

I laugh. “Sometimes they’re the ones with the most to hide.” I fix on a more serious expression. “But regardless, I’m your woman. I’ll find out what excites him, what scares him, what keeps him up at night, and what motivates him to get out of bed in the morning.”

“Exactly. Learn his keys for success. That’s what our readers want to know. And I don’t want those top five points he shares at conferences.” He scoffs derisively. “Get me something fresh. Roll up your sleeves and find the real story behind his success.”

I mime rolling up my sleeves, even though I don’t have any. “Will do.”

Mr. Galloway rises, brushing his hands over his slacks. “My assistant will send you the name of Parker’s PR person, and you can start there to schedule with him. The company is open to the piece, and Parker knows about it, so scheduling won’t be a problem. You should be able to get some good interviews with him. You might need a few meetings.”

“Consider it done.” I stand, shoulder my bag, and shake his hand.

“I’ll need the piece in two weeks.”

“I’ll have it to you on time.”

We firm up the final details, like word count and pay. I suppress a squeal when he tells me the fee—much higher than I expected, much higher than is the industry norm too. It’ll give me breathing room and let me help my brother.

“I’ll have the piece to you in two weeks.”

“Brilliant.” Taking a seat at his desk, he taps his keyboard, presumably to move on to the next item on his list. “And if this works out, we might be able to start covering that sector on a regular basis. You’d be first in line for the beat.”

“That’s great,” I say, reining in a big fat grin.

As I leave, I resist the impulse to run down the magazine’s hallway, smacking the walls as I hoot and holler because, holy smokes, from the party, to the guy, to the gig, my luck is changing.

Once I’m in the elevator, I start my research, googling Flynn Parker, eager to talk to him for the first time. When his picture pops up, a whoa slips from my mouth. Damn, he is fine-looking. Even though I’ve never interviewed him, I’m well aware he’s been named a most eligible bachelor, given his fortune, but I wasn’t aware he was quite this handsome. Now I see another reason he’s earned that title—that face. For the flash of a second, there’s something eerily familiar in the set of his jaw, and his eyes remind me of someone. But then, I can’t get a good look at them since he’s wearing glasses.

Not that it matters—I’m sure I’d remember meeting someone this fine in the flesh.

But who cares if he’s hot? I’m not interested in his looks. I’m interested in his story. Besides, I’m a professional. I’m going to treat this professionally because this is a tremendous opportunity that could lead to an even bigger one. That’s why I won’t let myself think twice about how good-looking he is, even though there’s a soft rap on the door in the back of my brain, telling me I’ve met him. I cycle through parties and conferences, keynotes and events. Surely, I’m remembering seeing him in passing somewhere, or saying hello after a presentation he made. That has to be it.

I shove him out of my mind for the moment. I’ll return to him tonight as I dive into my prep. When I reach the lobby I duck into the restroom, change out of my super-reporter outfit, and slip into something that feels more like me.

The me who met the duke.

Do-it-yourself Sabrina.

Since it’s easier to change here than go home, I tug on a short polka-dot skirt I made and a pair of red ankle boots, tucking my work skirt and pumps into my bag. I leave on the blouse since there’s just something about a cute white blouse that works with nearly any outfit.

As I look in the mirror, I consider my hair, scooping it up. Will he kiss my neck again today? Will he nibble on my earlobe? Grab my hands, steal me down a hallway, and press those lush lips to mine?

I shiver as the delicious memories dance before my eyes.

I’ll say yes. I’ll say yes to whatever he wants to do to me.

I let go of my hair, leaving it down, then clip one side with a small rose-gold barrette with a tiny crown design at the top. I pair them with little crown stud earrings, then I layer tiny pink hoops above them.

My stomach flips nervously. I’m going to see him in person. Without masks and with names. Will we still like each other?

Part of me wishes we could keep up the charade, but another part wants to know him for real.

As I catch the subway to The Dollhouse in Tribeca, my phone lights up with a message—the contact for Mr. Parker. I send her an email as the train rumbles under Manhattan, and when I arrive at the station, her reply lands in my inbox.

Tomorrow, I have my first interview.

A few minutes later, I enter The Dollhouse, grab a stool at the bar, and do a double take when I see Flynn Parker walking toward me.