Three weeks into her tenure at Elite, Vivian had developed a routine.
She woke up at six-fifteen, did twenty minutes of yoga, and caught the 7:22 subway train from Queens into Midtown. She arrived at the office by 8:45, which was early enough to claim the good coffee from the machine before anyone else got to it, and she spent the first hour of her day working through her email inbox, which had become increasingly crowded with assignment briefs and style guide quizzes and cc'd messages from people she still couldn't match to faces.
She had survived the autumn issue's first editorial meeting, during which Sebastian had interrupted her presentation of a profile piece to correct a factual error that she should have caught and had not. The correction had been delivered in private, in his office, with a politeness that made it worse. He had not needed to pull her aside afterward. He could have let her flounder in front of the entire team. Instead, he had waited until the meeting ended, caught her eye with a brief nod toward his office, and then spent four minutes going over the error with the same measured patience he might have used with a student.
She had been mortified. She had also, traitorously, noticed that he smelled like sandalwood and something else she couldn't identify, and she had spent the rest of the day trying not to think about it.
She was getting better at not thinking about him. It was a skill she was developing, like learning to meditate or playing the piano. It required constant, deliberate effort, and she was not always successful, but she was making progress.
On a Thursday afternoon in late September, three weeks and two days after her first day at Elite, that progress was abruptly derailed.
She was at her desk, finishing up a copy edit on a piece about sustainable fashion, when Maya leaned over the partition with a expression that Vivian had come to recognize as the Maya equivalent of a warning siren.
"Lyra's here," Maya said, in a tone that suggested this was not a normal occurrence. "She's in Sebastian's office. They've been in there for like twenty minutes and it sounds intense."
Vivian looked up. Through the glass wall of Sebastian's office, she could see two figures—Sebastian, sitting behind his desk with his usual composed expression, and a woman who was pacing back and forth in front of his window with the agitated energy of someone who had opinions and was not afraid to share them.
"That sounds like Lyra?"
"That is definitely Lyra." Maya's voice dropped. "She's been in twice this week. Both times, Sebastian's been in a mood afterward. Like, a specific mood. The kind where he works through lunch and snaps at Diana about font choices."
"Is she—" Vivian hesitated. "Is she trying to get him to fire me?"
Maya's expression flickered. "Not you specifically. She's trying to convince him to scrap the entire relaunch. She thinks it's too risky, that we should stick with what works, that—" She stopped, glancing toward the office. "Look, it's complicated. Lyra has opinions about everything, and she has Richard's ear, which means she has actual power even though she doesn't have an official editorial role. Sebastian usually handles her, but it's been more frequent lately, and I don't know why."
Before Vivian could ask more, the door to Sebastian's office opened.
Lyra Ashford was tall—taller than Sebastian, Vivian noticed—with the same dark hair and the same sharp cheekbones, though her eyes were a warmer brown rather than Sebastian's mint green. She was wearing a dress that probably cost more than Vivian's monthly rent, and she walked with the confidence of someone who had never once wondered if she belonged in the room.
She walked directly toward Vivian's desk.
"Vivian Shaw," Lyra said, stopping directly in front of her. It was not a question. "The new junior editor."
Vivian stood up, because something about Lyra's posture made sitting feel like a tactical error. "Yes. That's me."
"I've heard interesting things about you." Lyra's smile was perfectly calibrated to be friendly and threatening in equal measure. "Apparently you're the one who wrote that piece about sustainable fashion? The one that got flagged for the autumn issue?"
"I copy edited it. The writer was—"
"Mm." Lyra's smile didn't waver. "I look forward to reading it. Sebastian talks about your work very highly, did you know that? He's been paying you quite a lot of attention for a junior editor. It's unusual, is all I'm saying. But I'm sure there's an innocent explanation."
The way she said it made it very clear that she did not think there was an innocent explanation.
"Sebastian has been appropriately professional," Vivian said, keeping her voice even. "He's been helpful and attentive, exactly as he would be with any new hire."
"Of course. I'm sure that's exactly what it is." Lyra tilted her head, studying Vivian with an expression that was uncomfortably similar to the way Richard had looked at Sebastian in his office three weeks ago. "You know, it's interesting. Sebastian doesn't usually hire people without consulting Richard first. The fact that you came in under the radar like that—it raised some eyebrows. People wondered if there was something special about your application."
"There isn't."
"No? Then why the rush? Why the fast-track? Why the—" She waved a hand vaguely in Sebastian's direction. "All of that?"
"I don't know anything about a rush. I went through a standard interview process."
"Of course you did. Everyone does. It's just that—" Lyra leaned slightly closer, lowering her voice in a way that was performatively conspiratorial. "—I've been around this industry a long time, Vivian. I know what it looks like when someone is being protected. And I know what it looks like when someone's presence in a company is inconvenient for certain people. People who have very specific plans for that company's future."
"I really don't know what you're talking about."
"I'm sure you don't." Lyra straightened up, her smile widening into something that was almost genuine. "Well, it was lovely meeting you. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon. I make a point of knowing everyone who works in this building."
She walked away, her heels clicking against the floor with a rhythm that felt oddly threatening.
Vivian sat back down, her hands slightly unsteady on her keyboard.
Maya appeared over the partition almost immediately. "Are you okay?"
"That was—"
"Intense? Yes. I'm sorry. I should have warned you she might try to talk to you." Maya's expression was sympathetic but grim. "Did she threaten you?"
"She implied that I only got this job because Sebastian is interested in me. Which is—"
"Completely false and also something she would absolutely say to undermine you." Maya nodded. "Lyra's specialty is planting seeds of doubt. She did it to me when I first started here. Made some comment about how unusual it was that I'd been promoted so quickly, implying I'd gotten there by being Sebastian's favorite rather than by being good at my job. It took me six months to stop second-guessing everything I did."
"That's awful."
"That's Lyra." Maya sighed. "Look, she's wrong. You got this job because you're good at what you do, and Sebastian hired you because Chloe recommended you and because he personally assessed your interview and thought you were the best candidate. Those are facts. She can say whatever she wants, but the facts are the facts."
Vivian nodded, trying to believe that.
She got through the rest of her afternoon, attending a brief editorial meeting and completing two more copy edits, but Lyra's words kept circling back like a song she couldn't get out of her head. People wondered if there was something special about your application. I've been around this industry a long time. I know what it looks like when someone is being protected.
She knew she shouldn't let it get to her. Lyra was a professional antagonist, someone who derived power from creating chaos and uncertainty, and the fact that she had chosen to target Vivian on her way out the door did not mean Vivian had done anything wrong.
But the words still stung, because they touched something that Vivian had been trying to ignore since her first day at Elite: the quiet, persistent fear that she didn't actually belong here. That she had gotten this job through luck and timing rather than merit, that she was one mistake away from being exposed as a fraud, that everyone in this building was waiting for her to fail so they could say they'd known all along.
It was not a rational fear. She knew that. Her credentials were solid, her references were legitimate, and Chloe's recommendation had been based on actual work performance rather than any personal connection. She had earned this job.
But imposter syndrome was not rational. It was a fungus that fed on uncertainty, and the past three weeks had provided plenty of uncertainty to go around.
At 5:47, an email arrived from Sebastian.
Can you stay late tonight? There's something I need to discuss with you. It won't take long.
Vivian stared at the email for a full minute before responding.
Of course. I'll be here.
She should have been nervous. She should have been suspicious. Lyra's visit was still fresh in her memory, and Sebastian's email, with its careful neutrality, could have meant anything.
Instead, she felt something that was uncomfortably close to relief.
At 6:15, the office had emptied out enough that Vivian was one of only a handful of people still at their desks. She was pretending to read through a fact-checking document when Sebastian's office door opened and he stepped out, gesturing for her to come in.
She gathered her things and followed him, trying to ignore the way her heart rate had begun to do something medically inadvisable.
"Close the door," he said, and she did.
He was standing by his window, looking out at the city with his back to her, and for a moment she just looked at him—at the line of his shoulders in his jacket, at the way his hair caught the light from the fading afternoon sun, at the tension in his posture that suggested this was not going to be a casual conversation.
"I need to tell you something," he said, still facing the window. "And you're not going to like it."
Vivian sat down in the chair across from his desk, a habit she had developed over the past three weeks whenever she was in this office. "Okay."
"My sister came to see me today."
"I know. I saw her. She—" Vivian hesitated. "She said some things to me."
Sebastian turned to look at her, and his expression was unreadable. "What did she say?"
"She implied that I only got this job because you were—that you had an interest in me. Personally. Beyond professional."
"Did it bother you?"
The question was careful, measured, and Vivian found herself answering with equal care.
"It bothered me because it wasn't true. But it also bothered me because—" She stopped, choosing her words. "Because I've been wondering the same thing. Not in the same way she meant it. But I've wondered if I actually earned this position, or if I just got lucky with timing."
"You earned it."
"You can't know that."
"I can." He moved away from the window and sat down across from her, his elbows on his desk. "Chloe recommended you based on your interview performance. I reviewed your work samples personally and thought they were exceptional. Your editorial instincts are good—better than good, actually. And your copy is cleaner than most of the senior editors I know." He paused. "Those are facts. Lyra's opinion doesn't change facts."
Vivian absorbed this, turning it over in her mind. "Why is she doing this? Trying to undermine me, I mean. She doesn't even know me."
"She knows you threaten her."
"I don't understand."
Sebastian was quiet for a moment, his fingers drumming slightly against his desk—a tell she had noticed over the past weeks, a sign that he was choosing his words carefully.
"My father has been pressuring me to get married," he said finally. "It's part of a—a strategic plan for the company's future. He thinks that a high-profile marriage to the right person would be good for Ashford Media's brand, and he's been introducing me to candidates accordingly."
Vivian felt something cold move through her chest. "Candidates."
"Women. From the right families. With the right backgrounds. The kind of women who would look good in a society magazine photograph and bring something to the table in terms of business connections." His expression was carefully neutral, but she could hear something bitter underneath it. "I've been resisting. Not because I'm opposed to marriage in principle, but because I don't want to be a transaction in someone else's business plan."
"Of course."
"Lyra is my father's emissary in this. She believes—genuinely believes, I think—that the right marriage would be good for me and for the company. She's been pushing harder lately, and she's gotten more aggressive about questioning anyone I show attention to." He met her eyes. "You are the most recent example."
Vivian processed this, feeling the pieces click together. "So she's not just trying to undermine me. She's trying to undermine you. By undermining me."
"Yes."
"But if she's right—if there was something between us—that would actually help her case. It would prove that I'm a distraction, that you're making bad decisions because you're distracted by—"
"Yes." Sebastian's voice was flat. "Which is why I need you to understand what I'm about to say."
Vivian braced herself.
"I'm going to make you an offer," he said. "You're not going to like it. But I need you to hear me out before you say no."
"What kind of offer?"
He looked at her for a long moment, his mint-green eyes steady on her face.
"I want you to pretend to date me."
The words hung in the air between them, absurd and impossible and completely unexpected.
Vivian opened her mouth to respond and found that she had absolutely no idea what to say.
"Let me explain," Sebastian continued, his voice still measured and professional, like he was presenting a budget proposal rather than an insane suggestion. "Lyra is watching. My father is watching. Any woman I show attention to will be investigated, criticized, and ultimately dismissed if she doesn't fit their idea of what an Ashford wife should look like. You've already been flagged. If we do nothing, they'll keep digging, keep questioning, keep creating an environment where you're constantly defending your right to be here."
"And your solution is to pretend we're dating."
"My solution is to give them something real to investigate. A relationship that looks genuine, that has evidence behind it, that will make them focus on us as a couple rather than on you as an individual threat." He leaned forward slightly. "They'll still be hostile. Lyra will still try to undermine you. But it will be harder for them to claim you're unqualified if you're clearly someone I've chosen for reasons beyond professional competence."
"That sounds like it makes things worse, not better."
"It makes things different. Controlled. We'll have rules. Boundaries. It will be a business arrangement, nothing more. You help me ward off the pressure to marry someone my father chose, and I help you by making it clear that you're under my protection." He paused. "It solves both of our problems."
Vivian stared at him. Her brain was trying to process this in the rational, analytical way she approached copy edits and fact-checking, but no amount of rational analysis was making it make sense.
"I need to think about this," she said finally.
"Of course. Take whatever time you need."
She stood up, gathering her things with hands that were not quite steady. She was halfway to the door when she stopped and turned back.
"Sebastian."
"Yes?"
"Why me?"
He looked at her for a long moment, and something in his expression shifted—something that was not professional, not measured, not controlled.
"Because you refused my money," he said quietly. "And I've been thinking about that ever since."
She left without another word.
She took the subway home in a daze, and when she walked into her apartment, Maya was on the couch with Thai food and a expression that suggested she could tell something had happened.
"You look like you've seen a ghost," Maya said. "What did Sebastian want?"
Vivian sat down heavily on the couch. "I need to tell you something, and you're going to think I've lost my mind."
"Try me."
Vivian told her.
By the end, Maya was laughing so hard she had to put down her spring roll.
"You're joking," Maya said.
"I am not joking."
"Sebastian Ashford wants to fake date you."
"That's what he said."
"And you haven't said yes yet because...?"
"Because it's insane!"
"It's strategic." Maya wiped her eyes. "Viv, it's also a little bit insane. But it's also—actually kind of brilliant? Think about it. Lyra's already targeting you. Richard's already questioning your hire. If you were actually dating Sebastian—fake dating, whatever—even if it was just for show—it would make you untouchable. They couldn't push you out without going through him, and they can't push him out because he's the heir."
"They could still undermine me individually."
"They could try. But it would be harder." Maya's expression softened. "Look, I know it's weird. I know it's a lot. But think about what you're getting: protection, job security, and—" She paused dramatically. "—close proximity to a very attractive man who clearly wants to spend time with you even if he won't admit it's for non-professional reasons."
"It's a business arrangement."
"Sure it is."
Maya's skepticism was annoying, but it was also, Vivian had to admit, not entirely misplaced. Before Maya left, she paused at the door. "Marcus wants to know if you need him to come over and threaten anyone. I told him no, but he's on standby. You know how he gets."
She lay in bed that night thinking about mint-green eyes and sandalwood and the way Sebastian had looked at her when he'd said Because you refused my money.
She should say no.
She should absolutely, definitely say no.
She was still thinking about it at 2 AM, and she was no closer to an answer.
But she had not said no yet.
That was something, at least.
That was definitely something.
