I blink at him. “The Princess Anna? As in, the royal family? As in, the tabloids will rip my face off if I screw this up?”
“That’s the one,” Alex confirms, his smirk firmly in place. “She’s leaving her husband, and it’s the biggest scandal since that thing with Prince Leo and the reality TV star.”
My stomach twists. This is huge. Like, career-changing huge. Also terrifying. Alex is trusting me with this? Me, the woman who still can’t figure out how to properly format an Excel spreadsheet? Something’s fishy.
“Why me?” I ask, narrowing my eyes suspiciously.
Alex shrugs, leaning casually against his desk like he hasn’t just upended my entire day. “Because you’re good, Hollis. And because I know you’ll give me something better than whatever fluff Jenkins would write.”
Jenkins is the kind of old-school journalist who still calls women “sweetheart” in the office and thinks that diversity means letting a woman cover the lifestyle section. He’s been at the BBC longer than I’ve been alive, which, unfortunately, has convinced him that he’s some kind of newsroom deity. He wears tweed jackets that smell faintly of cigar smoke, has a collection of pens he constantly clicks just to irritate people, and refers to female colleagues as “girls,” no matter their actual age or experience.
Once, when I pitched a political piece, he patted my shoulder and said, “Stick to what you know, Hollis—celebrity gossip and shoes.”
I’d fantasized about pouring my coffee over his head for weeks.
Alex, for all his smug arrogance, at least respected my skills. Jenkins? He saw me as just another “ambitious young thing” who needed to be put in her place. And that was exactly why I had to prove him wrong.
“Uh-huh,” I say, still not buying it.
“Plus,” he adds, leaning down so that his face is far too close to mine, his voice dropping to a murmur, “I find it fun to watch you squirm.”
I glare at him, though my face is probably doing its best impression of a ripe tomato. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re adorable when you’re flustered,” he shoots back, straightening up with an infuriatingly smug grin. “Now get to it. You’re meeting with Anna’s legal team tomorrow morning.”
I leave his office in a daze, clutching the folder like it’s made of gold and explosives at the same time. Back at my desk, I flip it open, scanning the details of the case—only to freeze when I spot a name that makes my stomach drop straight to my toes.
Lead attorney: William Darcy.
Of course. Of course it would be him. The universe must be having a laugh at my expense, because obviously the only person more unbearable than Alex Carrington would be assigned to make my life hell.