Lucas stands at the make-shift podium at the front of the board room, a glass of champagne in his hand, and looks out into the small crowd of dedicated staff that have shed literal sweat, blood and tears to put out the first issue of The New York Chronicle.

As publisher, this is his right, but watching him address his employees, I can’t imagine anyone else who would be more perfect to deliver this inspiring and celebratory speech. He is in his element.

I clutch our newspaper to my chest with one hand, and hold up a champagne glass in salute, tears brimming.

Lucas’s eyes catch mine and he grins. “Of course, none of this would have been possible without the hard work of your Editor In Chief,” he says, motioning for me to join him at the front of the room.

I prefer to duck out of the limelight, but I know how important this is—to him, to me, to us. For almost a month, it’s been nose to grind, pushing a team of reporters to dig up real news, not the shit that makes the rag papers like Rubberneckers, but actual human interest pieces. Stories that change lives.

All of the words in this first issue have changed lives.

Lucas’s life.

Mine.

Every person in this room.

And as I stare out at them, their expressions wide-eyed with joy, I feel a sense of fulfillment wash over me. This, this is exactly where I belong too.

Lucas puts his hand on the small of my back. It’s no secret we’re a couple, but displaying our affection publicly still feels odd, like maybe the team will think less of my leadership if we flaunt it. I’m probably being ridiculous, but we’re trying to do things right this time.

I lift my glass high and shout, “We did it!”

A chorus of cheers erupts.

Lucas grabs a fresh bottle of champagne and shakes it, sending fizzy wine all across the boardroom. My white blouse is soaked, and my hair sticks to my forehead and neck. I lean over to whisper in his ear, “I’m going to need a shower now.”

“That can be arranged,” he murmurs in return, without missing a beat.

Tempting. The built-in gym on the top floor of the building features a fully stocked gym, along with showers, a sauna, and two extra-large Jacuzzi tubs. Lucas and I have christened almost every inch of this office—except for that floor. It’s like we’re saving it, the best for last.

“Your employees will miss you at this party,” I say, grinning.

He shrugs. “Or they’ll figure out where we went.” His eyes go cloudy. “We don’t owe anyone any explanations. We own the company, darlin’.”

I tap his nose, playfully, trying to soften the blow of my next words. “I know you like to think that, Lucas. But The New York Chronicle is your business. I’m just riding your coat tails.”

But to what end? My position is high end, certainly the top of the food chain here, but I owned a piece of Rubberneckers. Maybe things didn’t work out, but that doesn’t mean I failed—I built a successful company, and there’s something special that comes with that kind of entrepreneurship.

I don’t expect Lucas to give me a piece of this pie, but I can’t help but wonder what happens when I’m ready to move forward too.

“Only until you become a bestselling author,” he says. “Then you’ll probably buy me out and kick me to the curb.”

“Fat chance.”

I don’t know whose insecurities he’s playing on, mine or his, but it’s funny that he’s pushing me to write fiction when after years of hitching myself to a tabloid magazine that was just one step away from that, I’ve committed to writing articles that are grounded in truth. The kind that make people think, debate, care. Not the kind that make enemies. Or provoke vengeful lawsuits.

“You can’t buy my way into publishing, Lucas.” Suddenly nervous that I’m giving him ideas, I look up at his mischief-filled eyes. “No, seriously, Lucas. I don’t want that. If I’m going to write books it will be because they’re good enough for a publisher not because my boyfriend—”

He plants a kiss on my lip to silence me. “Relax. The last thing I plan on doing is buying a publishing house.” My shoulders sag with relief. He lifts his champagne glass and smiles. “Now get out there and celebrate with your team.”

“What are you going to do?”

His smile is infectious, wicked. My toes curl as read his mind. “First, I’m going to finish off this champagne, and then I’m thinking of heading up for a workout.”

My eyebrow quirks. “Yeah? Care for some company?”

“Darlin’, I thought you’d never ask…”