Page 13 of Lost Summer
I stomped my boots on the large mat, cursing the weather gods. Snow tumbled in chaotic spirals from the sky, clinging desperately to my coat. I shivered, my breath curling into the air, feeling my red-numbed cheeks welcoming the warmth of the lobby.
“Morning, Ms Pickering,” came Elliott’s familiar voice. His salt-and-pepper hair looked dusted with frost, matching the collection of snowflakes scattered across his broad shoulders. “It’s like Antarctica out there.”
I chuckled weakly, the sound brittle from the cold still clinging to my throat. “Let’s hope Mrs Charleston’s mood isn’t Siberia.”
His laugh echoed, hearty yet knowing. “Hey, I’m just security,” he added, holding up his hands, a playful glint in his eyes.
I flashed him my identification pass before scanning my finger for entry. The sleek, glass-thin scanner hummed beneathmy touch, and with a soft ping, the double doors parted to reveal the Morning Standard’s chrome-filled lobby. Shiny floors too pristine for worn leather boots reflected the bright lights glaring above while giant fake plants stood beside the reception desk. The air smelled faintly of cleaning products.
The soft babble of the water fountains couldn’t entirely drown out my growling need for caffeine.
“Morning, Molly.” My voice held a note of cheer I didn’t entirely feel. I leaned against the waiting lift and eyed her glossy caramel skin, glowing with a light I could only dream of. “How’s Bobby?”
Molly gave a tired smile and shook her head in exaggerated disbelief. Her blue silk blouse rippled like water in the lights. “Still nursing. I swear, the bags under my eyes have their own postcode. If I don’t get a full night’s sleep soon, Stewart might start putting up missing posters for my sanity.”
She laughed, but her finger traced a line beneath her eye, where exhaustion had stolen some of her shine. I flicked at a stray lock of my eternally frizzy hair, enviously comparing my reflection in the immaculate glass wall to Molly, who oozed effortless elegance, even in the wake of sleepless nights.
“I didn’t know tired could look so good,” I commented truthfully, making her roll her weary eyes.
“Bless you, Adele,” she mumbled. “Hope the wicked witch’s mood has thawed, huh?”
Molly’s signature grin faded as her telephone trilled. She answered like a pro, her voice slipping into a robotic, pleasant tone. “Morning Standard, how may I direct your call?”
I shot her a thumbs-up as the glass lift arrived with a soft ping.
I need a coffee.
Fat chance of that, not until my boss, Evelyn Charleston had given out the orders for the day. It was barely seven-thirty inthe morning, but editors didn’t understand the concept of time. I gazed at the floors of people scurrying around as the lift passed them, taking me to the top floor.
I loved my job, but it was tiresome and hard. There were only so many stories to cover, and it was competitive, to say the least. I plastered a smile on my face as I walked onto my floor, bracing myself for whichever version of my boss I had today.
I steeled my spine when the doors choked out their final metallic click at my destination. This job took everything out of me, but I loved it in a strange, masochistic way.
“Carey.” Evelyn’s voice pierced through the air with the iciness of a glacier. “Coffee. Now.”
I internally groaned, craving an espresso fit for the gods myself.
I turned toward the imposing, glass-clad desk at the centre of the room, where Evelyn sat like a perched hawk, her sharp eyes slicing through emails on her laptop. Her perfectly coiffed dark hair framed her face in tight, glossy waves, and her lips were painted in a cruel shade of red.
Carey, the junior writer standing nervously beside Evelyn, earned a dismissive wave before Evelyn decided to address her. “Go to Starbucks,” she bit out without looking up from her screen.
Carey nodded like someone had snapped their fingers in front of her face. “Espresso, Mrs Charleston?” she asked quickly, voice nearly tripping over itself with eagerness.
Evelyn ignored her, but I nodded subtly at Carey, who sent me a grateful smile before disappearing into the lift behind me.
I brushed past quietly, trying to avoid the full brunt of my boss’s glare.
No such luck.
“The smug bastard atThe Evening Starmanaged to break a story on Elena and Edward’s engagement,” Evelyn said, venomcreeping into her tone. When she shifted in her chair and turned to face me, her eyes gleamed like cut glass. “But—” she smiled, catlike, “—I’ve got tickets to their engagement party tonight. You’re covering the story.”
My heart skipped a full beat.
“Wait…what?Tonight?” I stammered.
Evelyn sighed dramatically as if the weight of my ignorance could crush her. “Yes,tonight. You need to be there by seven. Take Marco. The eye candy might attract some attention—keep the bridesmaids occupied since Edward’s already taken.”
The Dalton-Hart engagement wastheevent of the year. Elena Dalton, socialite and social media darling, was set to wed Edward Hart, the elusive son of billionaire technology mogul Harry Hart. The whole event was shrouded in secrecy—this was the ultimate black-tie gala, and they weren’t sparing a penny. No one had clapped eyes on Edward Hart due to his intense dislike of the media. Rumour had it he liked his privacy far too much, which made everyone wonder why he was marrying someone like Elena, who basked in the spotlight.
