Page 1 of Whisked Away
Alex
“Spellbinding Scones.”
My editor slaps a gaudily bright magazine onto the desk between us, then follows up her statement by reading the subtitle. “Magic-infused baked goods served up in an equally charming Southern oasis.”
It takes an entire twenty-three seconds—which I spend silently counting as I breathe deeply to lower my heart rate—before I pick up the publication as though lifting a damp newspaper from the gutter.
A sticky bun glimmers on the cheap, glossy cover. Rainbow frosting drips from the confection, like one of my childhood school folders exploded all over the monstrosity. Scones covered with gold and pink sprinkles rest on either side—presumably to prop up the sugar abomination.
My teeth hurt just looking at it.
“This is disgusting.” I shift, my dress gliding against the black leather chair.
A fluorescent light flickers, highlighting Vivian’s frown as she gestures for me to hand the magazine back to her, which I do.
“Perhaps so, but this is also selling.”
A pigeon sits on the eave outside the window behind her, preening. It finishes the job, then flies away—out into the maze of skyscrapers, honking cars, and chewing gum-splattered sidewalks. At least the bird is free, even as it breathes in the smell of exhaust and burnt hot dogs from street vendors.
Unlike me—sitting in a high-rise office, food magazine covers with my name printed large and hung in expensive frames on the wall, while my editor flicks through a publication that isn’t even in the same stratosphere as ours.
Suddenly, I’m annoyed. I put on a proper dress for this meeting. Packed my briefcase that can fit my laptop, cell phone, power bank, SLR camera and massive macro lens, cosmetic bag, non-toxic peppermint hand sanitizer, water bottle, and two tasteless protein bars in case the train breaks down like last time.
I dragged this hella heavy bag fifteen blocks for Vivian Ellison to hand me a copy ofFoodie Frenzy.
“The masses like garbage. We’ve never bothered with flash-in-the-pan articles before. We write for a higher-brow audience.”
My hands itch to reach for the folder perched on the desk. It contains the article I spent months researching. Spent another three nights combing through it for grammar errors like I was arranging flowers on a cake for a royal wedding. I even added a flourish, penning the title in calligraphy:The Revival of Ancient Culinary Techniques in Modern Gastronomy.
That was a piece of media worth consuming. It highlighted real bakeries producing food with actual heart and history—like Eman’s tiny three-table café, where he crafts fragrant Aish Baladi flatbread served with honey hummus he hand-makes in a wooden mortar each morning. A shop thatwill have a line stretching around the block once this article goes to print.
“Well, our readership is down.” Vivian is serious now, her arms crossing and putting creases into her pressed blazer. “Really down, Alexandra. The board says we have to make a lane change.”
I stand, wobbling slightly on my low heels because I also stupidly bothered putting on real shoes for this meeting. “That sounds like a marketing issue.”
“Marketing can’t sell what people aren’t interested in buying. It’s time for us to update.Gastronomy Eatshas been touting the same articles for fifty years.”
“They’re classic and will stand the test of time.”
The only reason I don’t yank my bag up like a shield is that my shoulder still throbs from the walk. Instead, I run my thumb over the ring Mother gave me, tracing the worn metal like it’s some kind of lifeline. Usually, it steadies me, reminds me that I’m capable. Not this time. This time, my hand shakes.
I clawed my way up to a salaried position atGastronomy Eats. Busted my butt flying all over the world, turning in twice the articles than any other writer, making sure they were flawless, sacrificing five years of sleep. I’ve seen what happens when ambition takes a backseat to love, and I swore I’d never make that mistake.
And now, Vivian, standing there in her nine-hundred-dollar heels, is telling me my work—my career—is outdated? That people would rather read about rainbow-colored sugar bombs and so-called magic than real food journalism?
My head spins and I have the urge to press my fingers against the desk, leaving my prints stained on its shining surface.
Vivian tilts her head, the light catching the streaks of silver in her chignon. She’s everything I’m supposed to become—successful, independent, in control of a prestigious publication. Because success means security. It means never wondering if the bills will get paid, never gambling stability on something as fickle as love. Never making my parents’ mistakes.
“So… what? We just—” I wave my hands at the trashy magazine again. “Start writing clickbait now? And there’s no way in hell that photo isn’t edited within an inch of its life.”
Vivian doesn’t blink. Instead, she flips open the magazine, manicured fingers gliding over the glossy pages until she lands on one, her nail tracing a line of text.
The only thing sweeter at The Whimsical Whisk than the pastries is the owner, baker, and certified magician, Ethan Hart. If he’s not transforming butter and flour into the perfect pie crust or practicing a bit of scrumptious magic, he’s volunteering with his local Boys and Girls Club.
She spins the magazine toward me, and my stomach drops before my brain fully catches up.
Oh, you have got to be kidding me.
