Derek Volkov and Chloe Vanguard's wedding invitation.
Who?
The moment I saw that name, my brain went blank.
"The Volkov heir marrying an international supermodel! Talk about traffic gold!" Gary salivated beside me, lost in fantasy. "Every top media outlet's killing for an invite. I'm giving you this frontline coverage opportunity—you'll attend as our special assistant reporter. This is a plum assignment."
Gary leaned in again, his heavy breathing hitting the side of my face. He lowered his voice to an oily, suggestive tone. "Perform well, Vivienne. Get me exclusive inside coverage, and I'll never forget your 'hard work' and 'dedication.' I promise, once this story drops, that chief editor position is yours."
I stared at Derek's name on the invitation.
Attend my scumbag ex's wedding? The ex who posted bed photos to humiliate me just last night? Watch him parade around with that stick-figure supermodel mistress in front of every socialite, then play the fool with a recorder asking them, "Are you happy newlyweds"?
This was the world's most vicious, cruel punishment!
I didn't want this goddamn chief editor position! I definitely didn't want to owe this old creepany favors!
"I'm not going." I snapped my head up and threw the invitation back onto Gary's desk, my voice ice-cold. "I can't handle this assignment. Send Jessica or Lily. They're better at socializing."
Gary's smile vanished instantly. His already ugly face darkened, revealing his petty, tyrannical nature.
"This isn't a request, Vivienne! It's an order!" Gary jabbed his finger at me. "I gave you an opportunity, you take it! Who the hell do you think you are? Some minimum-wage, chronically late assistant! If I wasn't covering for you, you'd be gone already! Don't want to go? Fine! March to accounting, collect your final check, and get out! And while you're at it, figure out how you'll pay next month's bills for your crazy mother!"
He'd hit my fatal weak spot.
I stood there, nails nearly breaking skin on my palms, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. I stared at this fat, ugly man who'd backed me into a corner with his power, rage in my eyes nearly burning through reason.
But I finally lowered my head.
"I'll go." I heard myself say in a hoarse, soulless voice.
I picked up the scalding invitation again and turned toward the door.
"That's more like it." Gary immediately resumed his revolting smile. As I gripped the doorknob, he squeezed my shoulder hard again. "Remember, dress pretty. Don't embarrass me."
I forced down my trembling and yanked the door open, rushing out.
The moment the heavy office door closed behind me, I leaned against the wall and shut my eyes. In my mind, I pulled out a sharp scalpel and, stroke by stroke, chopped Gary's perverted hand into pieces three times over.
It didn't make me feel any better.
I carried that invitation and dragged my heavy feet back to the open-plan office.
Sure enough, before I reached my desk, the cliquish "socialite" colleagues zeroed in like vultures on what I held.
"Well, well, look who's back. Our star Vivienne." Jessica leaned against a partition with her perpetual no-ice, no-sugar iced coffee, her Barbie-pink lips curling into a mocking smile. "What've you got there? Some 'special reward' from Gary?"
Brittany sidled over, her sunken eyes—courtesy of chronic dieting—lighting up. "Oh my God! That's a Volkov wedding invitation! Gary gave you this plum assignment? Why you?"
"Why?" Jessica sneered, her brazen gaze raking over my curvy figure, her tone dripping with jealous sarcasm. "Obviously, because she's got the right assets. Gary's an old perv who goes for the busty, ditzy type. She went to Vegas yesterday on 'business,' got wasted at the airport like some homeless person, got photographed and posted on Twitter. With that kind of professionalism, Gary still gives her the invite. Who knows how much 'effort' she put in behind closed doors?"
Brittany covered her mouth with an exaggerated laugh. "Oh, Vivienne, better be careful. Those high-end galas are full of size-zero socialites and supermodels. With your figure, if you bust out of some designer gown, you'll humiliate the whole magazine."
I stopped in the middle of the office.
The snickering, the contemptuous stares—like tiny poisoned needles piercing my skin from all sides.
Two years ago, I probably would've hung my head in shame and fled with red eyes.
