Page 2 of Ticket to You

“There they are.” Gemma gestures to the far side of the room. A tight circle of Hoffman’s higher-ups is gathered like wolves circling prey. Though there’s nobody to sacrifice in the circle, at least not yet. “Ready to see Jane?”

My stomach flutters wildly. “What’s the worst that can happen? I make an ass of myself, and they question why they ever hired me?”

“That's the spirit, kid.” Gemma squeezes my elbow. “Remember, you’re an amazing writer. They’re lucky to have you.” Gemma is always diligent to maintain her professionalism, but I know if we were back at my apartment, she would be giving me a tight, nurturing hug right now. Still, the confident gleam in her eye is enough to push me forward.

I walk toward the group with my head high and shoulders back in an attempt to make it look like a casual saunter. It’s a good thing my dress is long enough to hide my shaking knees. I’ve built up a mountain of confidence in my six years atAtelier, but that’s pushed to the edge as I get closer and closer to Hoffman’s board.

I’m taller than all of the female executives—and many of the men, too—but as I approach, garnering their curiosity, it feels like they’re towering over me, studying me with a microscope. In the circle of the finest tailored suits and dresses that cost more than the average yearly American income, I find her.

Jane’s black bob is so sleek and blunt it could cut through paper. She, as always, is wearing bold patterns in a vibrant palette. Jane’s dramatic outfits aren’t akin to a butterfly’s wings—they’re like a poisonous frog’s colors, warning anyone approaching that she’s a dangerous force. Even after years of meetings and work trips with her, I’m tempted to double back when she does her trademark eyebrow raise. Once I get within ten feet of the group, Jane even throws in a tight, pursed lip, like she’s testing my determination. I falter for a moment, fiddling with the band of my watch before pressing on. I know I want to start the travel section. I know it would be successful. Now I need to prove it.

You’ve got this, Ophelia, I tell myself, propelling forward to close the last steps between Jane and me. But at that exact moment, it feels like I’m hit by a brick wall. Someone from the group turns to leave and crashes into me. His arm hits my torso, spilling his drink all over my dress. In a flash, we stumble back, and I trip over my heels. The guy tries to catch me, but his long legs tangle with mine. I fall ass-flat on the floor, my head striking the floor. He lands atop me, pinning me down.

“Shit!” I’m not sure if it’s him, someone else in the group, or even me who swears. My ears flood with the pounding of my quickened pulse.

Mumbling frantic apologies, we both try to stand, but that only makes matters worse as we continue to stumble over one another. After an embarrassingly long amount of time, we both make it upright. My body buzzes with adrenaline and my ears are so hot I worry they might be aflame.

I rarely meet a man who is taller than me in my heels, but I have to peer up to see this guy’s face. He has a square jaw, intense eyes, and features that look like they belong carved into marble. I recognize him at once: Adam Abrams. He’s a force in the journalism world. Even though he’s been withOutdoorsyfor years, his work has landed him in at least a dozen other publications. He’s the face ofOutdoorsy,though I’ve never seen him up close in person. Something about the candles and sparkling string lights amplifies his features.

Adam’s brows furrow low over his pale blue eyes. “I–I’m sorry.” His chest rises and falls quickly with shallow breaths.

His eyes are on my chest, and I follow his gaze. Thanks to the buzzing of humiliation coursing through me, I somehow forgot that Adam’s drink is the newest accessory topping off my look for tonight. I glance down, bracing for the worst, and I pretty much get it.

Naturally, Adam couldn’t have been drinking champagne or a martini or anything that stood a chance of blending into my dress. Instead, a deep burgundy splash of red wine marred the pale pink fabric. Remembering my grandfather’s watch, I dry it off furiously on the skirt of my dress. Sure, Dior is expensive. But this watch is priceless.

Jane is the first to break the long, tense silence. “Ophelia, are you alright?”

Looking at her for the first time since the spill, I pray the dim lighting is enough to mask my face, which must be scarlet. “I’m fine, thank you.” I shake my shoulders out and fix my posture, piecing together any dignity I have left.

I stick my hand past Adam, who is still frozen at my side, to offer it to Jane. She takes it hesitantly and flinches, though I’m not sure if that’s from the wine remnants in my palm or my light shaking.

I clear my throat twice. “Jane, do you mind if I steal a few minutes of your time? I want to discuss my idea forAtelier Today. You know that in the past, I’ve gone on quarterly trips withAtelier, and on those trips, I produced some of our most popular articles. Those travel articles consistently gain a lot of traction, and I truly believe that—”

“Ophelia?” Jane interjects, holding up a finely manicured hand. “We can talk. But you should get cleaned up first. That’s Dior, if I’m not mistaken.”

I nod once. “I’ll be right back.”

I give Jane my bestNo, I’m not flustered at all, I’m very professional, even when drenched in winesmile. I need a moment to collect myself—and a moment to try to salvage my dress. The feeling of Jane’s eyes on the back of my head is the only thing keeping me from breaking into a full sprint toward the bathroom.

2

ADAM

The last thingI wanted to do after half my team got laid off was to come to this damn holiday party. There are far too many people, fake smiles, and bland, overproduced holiday music. And now, thanks to supposed “budget cuts,” I can’t even suffer through it alongside the friends I work with—rather,usedto work with—atOutdoorsy.

One of the hundreds of floral arrangements in here costs more than I spend on groceries in a week. A single tray of food costs more than my shoes. And if Hoffman’s didn’t care so much about putting on a show for their investors, they might stop with the lavish parties and could afford to keep their employees.

Not that I’m bitter.

My new editor, Gemma, convinced me to come to the party. She wants me to meet a friend of hers. But the main reason I came was to convince my editor-in-chief that dissolving so many positions atOutdoorsywas the wrong choice. I wasted no time stating my case after I arrived via a ridiculously ornate horse-drawn carriage. Frankly, I wasn’t doing a half-bad job at stating my case to my editor-in-chief. Until the collision.

And now, I’m following a step behind a woman who’s wearing a dress I probably destroyed, and I’m wondering if I’ll have to take out a small loan to pay her back for it. I try to observe the woman as much as I can from the back. Her hair is perfectly curled, and I can’t begin to imagine how long it took to style it. Her hands are balled into tight fists, and her entire body is rigid. If she knows I’m behind her, she doesn’t give any indication of such.

I feel bad about the dress and feel even worse about her hitting her head, but a bigger part of my mind is occupied by the faces of my now ex-coworkers. Still, I can’t be a total ass and ignore what just happened. “Hey,” I say to the woman, trying to sound softer than I feel, “I’m sorry.”

“So you said,” she grumbles in a raspy voice, not slowing down at all.

“How can I help?”

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