Page 5 of I'm Looking for a Man in Finance
Even Anthea Sparks herself had reposted it to her story. I’d nearly passed out when I saw that notification come across my phone. That was the moment I felt it. Not just excitement—recognition.
For a few glorious hours, I had floated through the newsroom like I was wearing invisible heels, three inches taller. I wasn’t just the girl scribbling snarky eavesdroppings into my notes app. I was seen. I was heard. And not just by the audience ofSophisticatereaders scrolling through columns during their lunch breaks, but by the woman who had built the entire damn empire.
I felt like I had finally cracked the glass ceiling of irrelevance.
People in the office smiled a little longer when they passed my desk. Someone had even scribbled “future Pulitzer winner?” on a Post-it and stuck it to my monitor. I left it there. A little tacky, a little ironic, but still—notentirelyimpossible now.
It wasn’t just the clicks, though I checked the analytics way too many times. It was the comments, the reblogs, the DMs from friends I hadn’t heard from since college:
This is hilarious, Hal. More please.
You’re basically Carrie Bradshaw now.
Remember me when you’re famous.
I went as far as to order an overpriced cappuccino just to sit outside the same coffee shop, wondering if lightning might strike twice. I even brought a notebook, pretending to look busy while hoping someone nearby would say something column-worthy again. No such luck. Which left me with an old note I’d overheard at a workout class that didn’t feel nearly as punchy for my next article.
Before I had time to analyse it further, Anthea Sparks, my boss and editor-in-chief ofSophisticate, walked past my desk. She was wearing Carolina Herrera and sporting Gucci platform sling-backs that were yet to even hit the runway. She was the definition of “boss bitch” in the very best way and had turnedSophisticatefrom just another women’s magazine into one that shaped every aspect of female culture.
As she passed me, I barely caught the words, “Hallie, do you have a minute?”
“Oh, yes. Right, absolutely.” Anthea was already sweeping into her office as I quickly closed my laptop and hurried after her. My heart was pounding. This was the first time she’d ever specifically called me into her office. It wasn’t like my boss didn’t know who I was, but I assumed I’d always been just another face in the crowd. Maybe this was the moment that would change everything—or the moment I’d screwed up entirely.
Anthea’s office overlooked Manhattan, as if she were a queen surveying her kingdom. The skyline was framed in the background, the sun highlighting the opulence of my surroundings. It was the perfect blend of luxury and industry. She covered her walls with the pages ofSophisticate’s next edition. Anthea’s bold handwriting covered each page in sticky notes, detailing her thoughts on the tiniest points. A Peloton bike sat propped in the corner of her office and a clothing rack filled with the pieces the magazine was planning on covering in various articles was overflowing near her back wall.
I stood for a moment in the doorway, unsure if I should sit or wait for her to acknowledge me. Her assistant, a woman with impeccable style and a clipboard permanently attached to her side, rushed by carrying a cup of coffee.
“This isn’t hot enough,” Anthea told her as she took a sip, causing all the blood to drain from her assistant’s face. Anthea glanced up, her icy green eyes narrowing as she sent a signal, dismissing her assistant.
Anthea didn’t acknowledge me, her fingers still tapping out an urgent message on her phone, as if she hadn’t justinvited me to her office. I could feel the pressure building, the soft hum of the air conditioning filling the otherwise silent room.
I used the moment to survey Anthea’s office, the perfect décor, the plush velvet couch, the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves with countless binders, the sleek coffee table covered in glossySophisticatemagazines. A wave of envy washed over me. Was this what success looked like? I wondered if I’d ever make it to a point where I was calling the shots like she did.
I swallowed, trying to suppress the knot in my throat. This was Anthea Sparks. This was the person who madeSophisticatewhat it was today. And here I was, just another writer hoping to get noticed. That was if I made it out of this conversation with a job. Because who the hell knew why she’d called me in here.
Finally, Anthea put her phone down and looked at me. She didn’t smile, didn’t offer a pleasantry. Instead, she leaned back in her chair, folding her arms across her chest, her expression unreadable.
“I wanted to talk to you about your ‘Overheard in NYC’ column from last week,” Anthea said, cutting right to the chase. She wasn’t a woman that afforded herself the luxury of wasting time.
For a moment, I froze, unsure of what was coming next. Was she going to tell me I’d gone too far? Had she changed her mind after sharing it and thought the article wasn’t toSophisticatestandards, after all?
I had to brace myself for whatever came next. She was the picture of composure, like she had all the time in the world. “And it obviously resonated with a lotof people. So, I was thinking …” She trailed off for a moment, as if letting the words hang in the air, before continuing. “This whole ‘finance guy’ thing. It has some legs to it. I want you to take it further. Let’s call it ‘Love on Wall Street’, where you write a series of articles trying to find a date with the most eligible bachelors on Wall Street.”
My mouth went dry, and I blinked a few times, trying to process what she’d just said. Was she serious?
“Wait, sorry—dating? Finance guys?” I stammered, completely thrown off.
Anthea’s gaze was sharp as ever, unwavering as she observed me. “Yes, that’s what I just said.”
I couldn’t breathe. My mind short-circuited as I processed the idea. Dating for a column? This was a whole new level of personal exposure. I was supposed to go on dates, to share my life, my privacy, for the sake of a story? I hadn’t signed up for this.
But I couldn’t help but wonder if I was overthinking it. I had been scrambling for something, anything, to make an impact—something more than just my “Overheard in NYC” fluff. And this idea? This could blow up. It could make me.
“I … I don’t know …” My voice was small, unsure. My gut tightened at the thought of dating guys I already found distasteful. Wall Street types? They were everything I despised: arrogant, superficial, heartless. And women like me, just a little too smart, a little too ambitious? We were nothing but objects to them.
But then I remembered the application. Being a food critic had always felt out of reach, just a glimmer in thedistance. If I said no to this, I could kiss any chances of getting that position goodbye.
My first instinct was to figure out a way to backtrack out of this conversation and pretend it never happened. Anthea must have seen the look on my face because she narrowed in on the challenge I was presenting her.
