The Dirty Truth

Two months ago, I kept a change of clothes in my desk for these kinds of mishaps—not that they ever happened. I was a bit more pulled together preaneurysm. And I was nothing if not prepared. But at some point during my stint in the hospital, they utilized my office as a makeshift space for temps and interns, and the dry-cleaned blouse and slacks I’d always kept on hand miraculously disappeared.

“It’s okay,” I say to her but also to myself, because it never hurts to hear those words. “It’ll be fine.”

Stopping at the little mirror by my door, I check my reflection, tucking one rain-frizzed chocolate wave behind my left ear before giving my cheeks a pinch for color. The old me would’ve had smooth, glossy curls, pristinely lined lips, and a creaseless, fresh-off-the-rack dress. I gather a hard breath and silently wish the hot mess staring back at me all the luck in the world, because she’s going to need it.

With my heart in my stomach and the burn of nausea rising up to take its place, I march to the end of the hall, push through the double doors emblazoned with Made Man’s masculine-meets-modern logo, and plaster the easiest, breeziest of smiles across my face.

The room turns silent, and one by one mahogany chairs creak as various colleagues twist to take a look at the woman of the hour—she who dared show up late for a meeting with our feared and respected commander in chief. Chin up and shoulders back, I stride toward the only available spot—which happens to be next to none other than Maxwell himself.

“Rough morning?” he asks with an unnerving aquamarine gaze so intense it almost distracts me from the blatant condescension in his tone. In this moment, I silently take back every Photoshop accusation I’ve ever lodged against this infuriating Adonis. The man is flawless. Truly. Not a single dark circle. Not a square millimeter of texture on his bronzed skin. Not a tooth out of place or a wrinkle on his white dress shirt. Sex appeal wafting off him like a fine cologne. But he could be the most perfect specimen of man ever to walk this earth, and it wouldn’t change the fact that he’s a bona fide asshole.

Someone chuckles from the far side of the table.

Papers shuffle.

A pen clicks.

My cheeks flush ten degrees hotter, graciously disguised under a conservative layer of filter-effect foundation.

“Something like that,” I fire back with an unfazed smile as I get settled.

His stare drifts to my stained skirt, which is half-obscured by the table. Made Man has an impeccable dress code, one necessitated by the fact that at any given moment world-famous photographers and A-list celebrities could walk through our halls in preparation for a shoot, interview, or highly anticipated promotional piece. West Maxwell would sooner die than have his prestigious staff appear less than perfect at all times. Not that I fault him for it. This company is his baby, his life, his world, and his soul mate all wrapped into one glossy eight-by-eleven magazine.

He’s the Oprah of influencers—if Oprah were a thirty-seven-year-old dark-haired, teal-eyed titan of industry with the kind of broad shoulders and chiseled features that would give Khal Drogo stans a run for their money.

The suffocating weight of his stare lingers on me as I flip my notebook to a clean page and ready my pen.

In all my years working for this self-made gazillionaire, this marks the closest I’ve ever been to him physically. I’ve been copied on emails (likely sent by his assistant), and I’ve been in the same room as him at all of Made Man’s holiday parties. Once I almost passed him in the hallway—until he took a sharp left and disappeared into my supervising editor’s office. It happened so quickly and unexpectedly I thought it was a mirage. And then I spent the rest of the afternoon convinced my supervisor was getting canned and I was next, because while West Maxwell owns the entire operation, he only makes appearances when something major’s about to go down.

I jot the date at the top of the page and press my pen against the first line, waiting for West to continue the speech I interrupted . . . only his attention veers toward my notebook.

“It’s the seventeenth,” he says, loud enough that the other end of the twenty-five-foot table can hear him. His jaw flexes as he forces an audible exhalation through his perfectly straight nose. “Not the sixteenth.” Scanning the room, he chuffs. “Someone please assure me this young woman isn’t one of our fact-checkers.”

I ignore his dig as a handful of sorry souls humors him with a chuckle.

Crossing out the date, I correct my grave mistake and offer him a subtle nod. “Fixed.”

“We good now?” he asks. “You mind if I continue my presentation?”