Page 13 of VOGUEish

Amanda’s name had been at the top of the list for Naked Runway’s next editor-in-chief. When he’d confronted her about hiring Isabella during a hiring freeze, she’d laughed and said rules didn’t apply to her. When he’d informed her they applied to everyone, she’d said things that couldn’t be unsaid. He had had no choice but to fire her, and she’d stormed out of his office. The incident had him on edge. That and the electricity that shot through him every time he and Isabella touched. What the hell was that about?

As soon as this meeting ended, he’d have to contact Nonna, the new owner, and fill her in on his dismissal of their key employee. Luckily, she’d understand.

Meanwhile, he had cleanup to do. It sucked that Amanda had publicly blamed Isabella for her marching orders because he couldn’t help Isabella out by correcting the misinformation. Lawyers got litigation-happy when employers spilled their guts on why they had fired an employee. But by not coming to her rescue, her fellow employees would all continue to believe she was at fault.

Perhaps the kindest thing to do would be to terminate her employment. With her resume, she should have no trouble finding employment at another magazine.

“Everyone, this is Isabella Chance. As you know, Amanda hired her as a senior assistant. Things have changed, and now Isabella’s agreed to fill in for Annie, who went home sick. Please make her feel welcome.” He knew the last thing Isabella wanted to do was to face this group, but he was a strong believer in facing your doubters head on.

There were a couple murmured hellos offered to Isabella, but mostly dead air. Not that she seemed to notice.

She was settled on the edge of her seat, her glasses lowered to the tip of her nose, notepad in front of her, and was busy scribbling.

“Isabella?” he prompted.

She glanced up.

He nodded toward those looking expectantly at her. “I just introduced you.”

“Oh. Hello.” She flushed and then quickly returned her attention to her task.

There was something about her subdued profile that reminded him of someone. He couldn’t place who. He forced himself to refocus on the others in the room. “I called this meeting to hear your views on how we can bring Naked Runway into the digital age. I’ll take your information back to the owner.”

Isabella glanced up, briefly studied him, and then wrote something down.

What was she writing?

“Why would anyone want to drag Naked Runway into the digital game?” Teagan asked. He was one of the first editors Chandler had interviewed. “This magazine and its employees have taken great pride in how we’ve continued to strive as a high-end physical product. Our client base finds value in the comfort of thumbing through the pages of an actual magazine.”

Most of those at the table nodded their agreement with him.

“The numbers don’t back that up,” Chandler countered. “Last quarter, Naked Runway had its lowest revenue ever. So low the magazine was sold at a bargain price. NR’s consumers are turning to sites like Instagram to see up-to-the-minute fashions, learn the newest techniques for applying makeup, and catch glimpses inside the lives of their favorite celebrities.”

“It’s sad to think of Naked Runway moving away from the luxurious magazine market,” Isabella said. “I have fond memories of saving my allowance to be able to afford it once a month. If you put it online, it will become a common commodity.”

“Common?” Chandler asked.

“You know. Download-a-free-app-and-have-access-to-it common,” Isabella said.

He considered her view but found he didn’t agree. “Not common. Just refocused. The owner’s goal is for those of you left still standing after I’ve done my job to work together to move NR into the digital market with an offering the readers aren’t getting elsewhere.”

“Like what?” Drew asked.

Chandler liked Drew. He was a hardworking employee with a passion for what he did. “That is not my field of expertise. What I can tell you is that those of you sitting at this table are the ones who have proven your loyalty to the company and have shown an unbridled enthusiasm for its continued success.”

“Whoot! Whoot! Whoot!” Isabella lifted her palms up toward the ceiling and did some type of jerky dance move.

No one whooted back.

Her cheeks went fire-engine red.

Chandler hated to leave Isabella hanging with her enthusiasm, but there was not a chance in hell he would ever offer up a pity whoot.

“When will we get to meet the new owner?” Finley demanded. “And why the continued secrecy around their identity?”

Chandler let her rude tone slide. She and Amanda had been close. “I’m employed by the new owner, just as all of you are. I have no knowledge of her plan beyond what she tasked me to do.” True enough.

“So, it is a her?” Isabella asked.

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