“I know most of you have never met me, but I’ve been living between New York and England for the past few years and am extremely happy to be taking over here at the New York Journal and therefore, of course, Visage.” Visage was the in-house style magazine, which went out every Sunday along with the Journal’s other Sunday offerings. The in-house magazines of such prestigious newspapers had always been considered the ugly stepsisters in the world of newspaper publishing, but I loved it here. Always had…until, I feared, now.
“For the past few years I have been overseeing HCS Publishing, here in Manhattan, part-time. I’ve assigned someone else that role, and I will be based in these offices from here on out. I have moved to Manhattan from England for the foreseeable future, as my father takes his steady step back from HCS Media, and look forward to making an already stellar publication even greater.”
I didn’t know it was possible for an accent to grate on someone to such a degree. As Henry Sinclair III spoke, his too-British, too-posh timbre was akin to nails being scraped down a chalkboard at a slow and torturous velocity. In vain, I tried to control my eye twitching to avoid looking demented.
“I’m gonna come,” Novah whispered, pulling my attention from said ball-sack. She dramatically bit her lip. “You think he keeps that accent in the bedroom too?” She cleared her throat and donned a terrible English accent. “Do kindly bend over, dearie, I am about to embark my large royal naval vessel into your splendidly tight vaginal shaft.”
A loud snort left my mouth as I tried to bite back my laughter. The sound was like a thunderclap in the small room. Sally swiftly raised her thinly microbladed black eyebrows in my direction, seeking me out like a nuclear missile. Target locked and loaded. I winced under her stern scrutiny; then I felt another set of eyes burning into me. Harry Sinclair stared my way, his cheeks slightly reddened by, I presumed, anger. I immediately straightened my shoulders. I had no idea what it was about this man, but it was like my body positively gleamed at his disapproval, craved his disgust, and preened at successfully pissing him off. I wasn’t sure if this was evidence of a new fetish I was developing but, regardless, I couldn’t fight the rebellion those narrowed blue eyes inspired.
I waited for public censure from the to-be duke, but Harry just nodded at the room, forcing a tight smile, and said, “Anyway, I am sure we will talk more soon. I’m happy to be here.” He looked at his father and indicated, with a wave of his hand, that they were leaving the room. “We have meetings with the other subdivisions about my takeover, so I’ll let you get on with your day.”
Harry and King Sinclair left the room as elegantly as royalty would retire from their subjects. I exhaled a loud sigh and whipped my head to Novah. “Royal naval vessel, Nove? Really? Vaginal shaft?”
She was still laughing, wiping tears from her eyes, unable to speak. I pushed to my feet and walked to the exit. Sally stepped into my path. “Are you a child, Faith?”
I sighed in defeat. “No, Sally. I’m twenty-five.”
Sally turned on her stiletto heel, giving me her back. “Well, you sound like a child to me. Funny, I do not, and will not ever, assign children feature stories in my magazine.” With those acidic parting words, she left for the elevators. And that was my boss. A frightening hybrid of Miranda Priestly and—one wouldn’t say Hitler exactly, but maybe a lesser dictator. Mussolini perhaps?
“Sorry, Faith.” Novah grimaced in contrition.
“It’s okay.” I felt a pit cave into my stomach. It wasn’t from Sally’s usual reprimand and threats but from the knowledge that, from now on, Henry Sinclair III would be present in these offices, lingering around me like a bad smell. Harry Sinclair, the famed future duke and heir to the HCS Media dynasty. Billionaire, British, twenty-eight, and arguably one of the, if not the, hottest bachelors on the planet. Six-foot-three, wavy dark-brown hair, tousled just enough to make it bedroom sexy, bright blue eyes, and two-hundred pounds of nothing but lean, cut muscle—we’d all seen the paparazzi pictures of him topless at his villa in Monaco. Harry was a walking GQ model, eye candy for the masses…until he opened his mouth and ruined the God-given masterpiece that was his fine exterior.
In truth, Henry Sinclair III was the most arrogant, aloof and coldest man I had ever met. He had such an aura of superiority that even standing beside him made you feel like a medieval maid scrubbing the stone floors of his majesty’s castle. And for some reason, I knew that castle would boast at least six turrets and, no doubt, a moat with an impressive girth.