Chapter 1

ONE

SOPHIE

The rippling of whispers started in the back corner. An old-school game of telephone where one person whispered to the person next to them, then to the next, then to the next. People darted back to their sharp-white, open-seating desks with cool, yet impractical, teal LED lighting, when the ripple turned into a wave. “He’s coming!”

Sophie Black launched into her rolling chair and scooted up to her desk. She straightened her ripped-edge pencil skirt and ran a flattened palm against her buzzed head. The tiny hairs prickled her skin and lowered her heart rate. She checked the bingo card on her smartphone. Only four left for a full blackout. All she needed was an “attagirl!,” “working hard or hardly working,” “rise and grind,” and “let’s turn that frown upside down.”

Was playing office bingo based on what clichéd business jargon the CEO would next spew immature? Absolutely. A fireable offense? Probably not. Did it make the twelve-plus-hour workdays more palatable? Definitely.

George Northwood deserved a little crap for his behavior. When she interviewed for an entry-level assistant position at Mahogany and Moon Creative Agency right out of high school, he’d barged into the hiring manager’s office, and within two minutes, joked she should call him “King” or “Captain” and asked her, with her shaved head and all, if she ever “caught pneumonia.”

Whatever that meant.

Six years later, besides the company growing to five hundred employees and now occupying four floors of a Seattle high-rise, not much had changed with George. So yeah, office bingo was just fine, in her humble opinion.

She focused on the screen, reviewing the remaining tactics needed for her latest campaign—frozen meatballs. Sure, it wasn’t a sexy product like what the other project managers had, like coffee, sodas, or technical gadgets. Someone even did an ad for a twelve-speed, purple unicorn vibrator that she was still envious over. Yet, even with the sub-par campaigns her manager assigned her to, this job was her dream.

After spending the last six years in this office doing everything from coffee runs to faxing ( like, seriously, who faxes anymore? ) to answering emails, she’d applied every scrap of energy into landing her dream job—creative project manager. The heartbeat of the campaign, diligently executing against timelines, evaluating risks, and communicating between teams. For so many years, she wondered what it would feel like to walk into a room and have people snap to attention. And finally, it happened. The validation was borderline addictive.

She yawned and tossed back the final few droplets of coffee. Today was only Wednesday, but she’d put in over thirty hours already, with no end in sight. The project management platform pinged with a new notification. She reviewed the most recently uploaded creative—a social post with a steamy Crock-Pot of meatballs. What a crock of… deliciousness! Enjoy Jorge’s mouthwatering salted meatballs with BBQ or teriyaki .

Suppressing the twelve-year-old level of maturity to giggle at “mouthwatering salted meatballs,” she messaged the creative lead that they needed to review the copy—and crossed her fingers they changed it up at least a little, so people like her would not crack up over the words. She bit back the overwhelming urge to provide feedback, as the creative team never took kindly to those nudges.

The heavy, dark wood office doors slammed. Sophie strained her neck to look past the swinging, flaming-magenta hammock chair that no one ever used to confirm King George had indeed entered the room. The sun reflecting off his multiple gold stacked rings, rope necklace, and overly whitened teeth nearly blinded her.

“All right!” His baritone voice bounced against the walls. “Who’s ready to take it to the next level, Northwood-style?”

“Bingo,” a voice muttered in the corner.

Dammit. She’d have to clear her card and lose the ten-dollar ante. She sighed and refocused on her computer screen.

An instant message popped up from her manager, Malcolm.

Can you come to my office?

Thankful for solid Malcolm-relief, she rushed to the end of the room, and knocked on his open door. No amount of bamboo plants, paperwork, multiple monitors, and scattered coffee mugs could hide Malcolm’s smile while looking at his phone. No doubt she was about to be bombarded with images of his infant.

Malcolm waved her in and shoved the phone under her nose. “Wifey just sent these. I mean, for real! Look at that face.”

Sophie slunk into his beautiful, yet dreadfully uncomfortable, overstuffed white sitting chair. “Isn’t there some sort of HR code that says you shall not force your staff to look at pictures of your baby?” Scrolling, she smiled at what seemed the same twenty images of a drooling, bald baby. “God, she looks like Amanda.” She handed the phone back. “Let’s hope she inherits your wife’s personality, too.”

“Hey!” His full black beard jerked as he twisted his mouth.

Man, she’d missed this—sitting with her mentor, getting the shot of serotonin needed to get back to the grind. The twelve weeks he had been gone were some of the longest of her life. “You adjusting from being back from paternity leave?”

“Truthfully? No.” He tossed the phone to the edge of the desk. “It’s been what… seven, eight days? I’m ridiculously jealous that Amanda gets another three months with Gracie. Might be time to invest in some obscure cryptocurrency so I can retire.”

She huffed and peeked out the window. A rare stream of sunlight elbowed its way through the dense spring Seattle clouds. She crossed her fingers that she could take a ten-minute walk over lunch to suck up some vitamin D before her bones crumbled. “Well, you don’t look terrible for staying up late with an infant. New haircut?”

“You like my new fade?” He brushed his hand over the top of his tight black curls with a grin. “Once I get rid of my dad bod, I’m gonna look just like Michael B. Jordan.”

“We all have dreams. Maybe if I grow out my hair, I’ll look like Paris Hilton.” She grinned. “Did you call me in here to force me to look at your baby, who won the genetic pool lottery from your wife? Or were you saving me from Captain Dillweed.”

“Sophie.” He wagged his finger. “Be nice.”

Malcolm never blatantly said that George Northwood made him want to gouge his eyeballs out with a silver-plated fountain pen. But he never didn’t say that, either. George was relatively harmless, mostly clueless, and the clients loved him. But she’d bet good money that did he not hand out the best bonuses in the business, half the staff would’ve fled by now.

Malcolm drummed his fingers on the desk, his wedding band clinking against the wood. “Do you know what today is?”

“Hmmm.” She crossed her legs, her fishnet stockings scratching her thighs. “The day I keel over dead from the most drawn-out conversation of my life?”

“ Nooo .” He pushed up his sleeves, the black ink tattoo of his wife’s birthdate on dark skin peeking out of the fabric . “Today’s your official six-month anniversary since your promotion. I just had a morning meeting cancel. Want to have your review now or wait until our scheduled time on Friday?”

All lightness vanished. Sophie sucked in her bottom lip, her tongue circling the metal lip ring. Her arm lifted to rub her head, but she forced it back into her lap. Let’s get this over with. “Um, now’s totally fine.”

“Great.” Malcolm cleared his smile. “You’ve been killing it. Really. Every campaign you’ve executed on time, if not early. I get continuous feedback from the creative partners that you are diligent, organized, and prepared. Not that I expected anything less. But… I did an audit on your platform entries, task completions, and logins. What do you think I found on your computer?”

She chipped at her black fingernail polish with a thumbnail and tiny flecks fluttered into her lap. Nerves shouldn’t be consuming her as much as they were. She was pretty damn amazing at her job—here before everyone, stayed late every night, was Superwoman-lightning-speed responsive. Being scrappy, she had an edge, a street smart that most of her co-workers lacked. She knew the real world, had picked it up by riding along with her dad on his classic Harley and working odd jobs since she could remember.

But, the vast majority of her co-workers had college degrees, and over half had either MBAs or MFAs. She had the finest high school diploma from a South Seattle public school with overcapacity classrooms and burned-out teachers.

So, what did Malcolm find on her computer? A laundry list of terms she scribbled down during meetings to google later when she didn’t know what the hell they were talking about. YouTube instructional videos. A hundred bookmarked online courses that she desperately wanted to take but had no time. She forced a grin. “Um, funny cat videos? Which I will not be ashamed of. It breaks up the day.”

Malcolm cracked a grin, then flatlined. “Trust me, I didn’t have IT dig into your internet searches. I was scared it would say how to poison your annoying manager and get away with it , and honestly, I don’t have the energy to fire you and look for a replacement.” He sipped from his bedazzled Best Dad Ever mug. “No, I saw your access times. Sophie.”

His voice took a decidedly dad-tone turn, and her cheeks flushed warm.

“You’re burning on both ends, averaging close to sixty hours a week. There was only one day in the last six months where you didn’t log on for a little bit.”

He paused like she was supposed to say something, but what could she say? These were facts. The dark circles under her eyes weren’t to rock a Seattle-emo look. She was damn tired.

“I feel awful.” His leather chair squeaked under him as he rocked. “When I was on paternity leave, I just assumed you’d take some vacation time.”

Vacation? The word sounded both terrible and incredible. She needed some downtime, for sure. Her parents, her best friend, even her apartment neighbor had called out that she looked fried. But if she took time off, and they managed without her… then what did that say about her skills? “It’s all good. I want to nail this job.” She softened her face and prayed it didn’t convey her real thoughts.

“You’re gonna burn out. This is not sustainable.”

Her neck tightened.

“At the same time, your campaign execution is flawless.” He tapped off his buzzing smartwatch. “Less than a year of being a PM and you’re operating at a senior level. I gotta say, you must’ve had one hell of a manager leading you.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yes, Malcolm. I owe everything to you. Shall I call you the king, too?”

He sucked in his lips. “I’m not taking that bait.” He rolled the chair up to the desk and propped his elbows on the cherrywood. “I have a proposition for you.”

She tugged on the collar of her cropped leather jacket, the tiny lapel spikes digging into her fingertips. “I don’t babysit.”

“Thank God, ’cause Gracie is too young for an eyebrow piercing and too small for a leather coat.” He twisted his wedding band. “George finally landed the huge account for the Latoure cruise line.”

No way. Latoure was the new luxury cruise ship out of Seattle. A floating city, oasis, heaven on water , at least according to the Times . She remembered reading an article—and by article, probably a TikTok or Reel—about this new ship set to bring in tens of millions of tourist dollars while melting the guests’ worries as they sailed the Pacific to Alaska. Cruising used to be a dream for her until life got in the way. But the moment she saw the promotional materials the team gathered for George’s pitch, it catapulted back to the top of her vacation mood board.

“It’ll take a fully dedicated team to execute. We’re even bringing on some consultants to help. Anyway, Latoure is sending five employees of our choosing on an Alaskan cruise to inspire us to create the best ads.”

Sophie tilted her chin. “So, what’s the proposition?”

“George wants a rep from each team to go. One designer, copy, lead, manager, and… one project manager .”

He landed the last two words with a heavy tongue, and her spine straightened in response. She was only six months into the role and had the lowest seniority of all the PMs. No way would they let her go on this trip. She snapped her fishnet stockings at the knee. “What are you saying?”

He breathed out, hard, through his nose. “You need a break. You might be new to this particular position, but you’ve outlived half the company by now.”

He wasn’t wrong. Shelf life at an agency usually topped three years.

“And you’ve earned this,” he continued. “But so did your teammates. However, I have full discretion, and I want to offer the ticket to you.”

She did not hear him right. She couldn’t have. All the moisture in her mouth zapped away, and she eyed his water bottle. She’d only been on a plane once in her life when the company sent her to Vegas for a conference. A cruise? On the actual ocean? “Malcolm—are you saying I get to go on a cruise?”

“Before you get too excited, there’s a couple of stipulations.” He took another sip from the mug. “One, a new assignment came in for you today, with an expedited timeline. A series of social, web, and digital ads for Devil’s Doughnuts.”

Her chest lifted. “What? Sweeeet. No pun intended.” Devil’s Doughnuts was one of the hippest bakeries in Seattle, boasting everything from a twelve-inch, truffle-butter, sugar-dusted doughnut to pickled-lemon mini-cakes, which sounded disgusting but she could vouch for their salty-sweet deliciousness. “For real, I love that place.”

He jiggled the computer mouse and scanned the monitor. “We’re gonna have to hand off your current campaign to another PM, because the Devil’s Doughnuts campaign needs to launch before you all leave.”

Okay, okay. She could do this. She’d been under tight timelines before… The nightmare of a reactionary ad during last year’s Cyber Monday shuddered to mind. “When does the cruise leave?”

His dark brown eyes softened. “Eight weeks.”

Eight weeks? Her throat jerked with a hard swallow. “The entire campaign needs to be done by then? All of it?”

“All of it.” His mouth dipped into a frown. “And we haven’t even started building the messaging strategy.”

The math didn’t math. Marketing strategy took a minimum of two weeks. Project workback schedules, kickoff, and handoff one week. Creative and copy developed, for a full social, web, and digital campaign, was three weeks minimum—with a solid A-team assigned. Then creative rounds with leaders, operations, execution… No chance in a fiery hell they could execute this in eight weeks.

She squinted, as if that would give her the clarification needed. “I don’t get it… why the push?”

He slid the mouse to the side. “Quick version. Sounds like some shady stuff happened to one of the main Pride Parade sponsors and the association dropped them. Devil’s swooped in and nabbed that spot, but they want to capitalize on it fully with the limited time. George guaranteed this turnaround time.”

Of course he did. The dude was damn near clueless about what it took to run a full campaign.

“And we can’t let all the top performers leave on a seven-day cruise if this is still in flux.”

Logically, it made sense. Obviously. If the top creatives were basking in the immaculate view of marine-blue glaciers and northern lights, the execution of the campaign—arguably the most important part of the entire campaign—would be left to the replacement team. A logistical nightmare and surefire way to fail a campaign launch.

But just because it made sense, didn’t mean it felt good.

“Give this to me straight.” She shook out her tense fingers. “Are you saying I need to project manage all of this, alone , to go on the cruise?”

“We’ll have a senior program manager overseeing the entire scope, but you’ll be the main PM on all the channels.”

So… web, social, and digital. Combined. She coughed on the nervous saliva pooling in her throat. The deadline was not only on her—the entire team would have to work double time to get this out. Part, sometimes a large part, of Sophie’s job was keeping up morale. The ones going on a cruise had an incentive to work long hours. The others didn’t. And she didn’t foresee a world where the overlooked teammates would jump at the long days to help ensure the others made voyage time. “I… I honestly don’t know if I can do it.”

“Good news, though.” Malcolm’s grin returned. “We brought in relief. A last-minute PM. Just heard about it this morning, actually. She’s getting introduced to folks today and starts tomorrow. You’ll be training her and she can partner with you on this project.”

The heat trapped in her chest released. They trusted her to train someone? Hell yes! For the past two years, training was a personal goal. Probably living out some childhood fantasy like when her parents left her alone and she passed the time pretending to be a teacher to her raggedy dolls. If they brought in a new PM, that person might have more project-management experience than her, which meant, together, they could knock it out of the park.

Maybe the cruise could be a reality. And if she were on a cruise, maybe there would be another woman who was traveling alone. And their eyes would meet across the deck, a whisper of wind fluttering through her hair, and they’d be drawn together, her true soulmate, while waves crashed in the background?—

Malcolm’s fingers slapping the desk jolted her out of her thoughts.

“What do you think?” he asked.

About the fact that she’d been single for almost six years, and the idea of meeting someone was basically the only other thing that occupied her mind besides work? But that she didn’t want just anyone, she wanted that someone , the one that flipped her stomach and zinged her to Jupiter and back and curled her toes, and if only she would have a tiny bit of time off work, she was convinced she could find the woman of her dreams?

He probably meant what did she think about the work situation. “Do I have a choice in all of this?”

“Sure you do.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Pink Flamingo is hiring, I heard.”

She groaned. She’d never work for the competitor. When Pink Flamingo moved into the same high-rise as Mahogany and Moon’s building, occupying the second and third floor, friendly banter and threats of a field day competition with tug-of-war and tire races flung between the agencies. But soon, rumors of client meddling and sabotage filled the space, and all friendly banter ceased. It was them or us. And Sophie chose her alliance. Besides King George, and a couple of less-than-desirable co-workers, she loved this place.

“The cruise leaves May 15th out of California. I’ll send you the info.”

She glanced at the calendar hanging on his wall and quickly counted the weeks with her fingertips. “That’s exactly eight weeks from yesterday.”

He tugged on his beard. “I know. Sorry, Soph. I really want you to have this opportunity, but you have to wrap up by then in order to go. Believe me, I’d love nothing more than to know you’re hanging out with retired folks playing bingo, eating at the chocolate buffet, and reading romance novels while watching the waves.”

She scowled. “Um. I’m twenty-four, not sixty-four. Why wouldn’t you assume I wanted to go to the nightclub and bars?”

“Because I’ve worked with you for six years and know your type.”

“What’s my type?” She lifted a brow.

“You’re a baby boomer wrapped in a Gen Z body. Pretty sure you’d rather knit than go on a pub crawl.”

She popped a hand to her hip. “I’ll have you know that methodical stitching is incredibly therapeutic and a good way to release tension.”

“While watching Wheel of Fortune .” He grinned into his mug.

“Best game show ever, and I’ll never let you tell me otherwise.”

He laughed and stretched his neck, looking behind her. “Looks like George is making his way here with the new hire.”

“Poor thing,” she muttered, and ignored Malcolm’s fatherly glare. She looked down at the pile of black chipped nail polish in her lap, unaware she’d scraped off nearly everything from her fingers . Oops. She brushed it into her hands and clapped it into the wastebasket.

George walked in, his massive frame hiding whoever was behind him.

She could smell his deep, musky scent that was probably some super-expensive brand, but it overpowered the small room. Did he bathe in it? Running out of time to eat breakfast this morning was doing her no favors, as the combo of the sickly-sweet smell and her empty stomach made her want to gag.

“Sophie! Did you get a new haircut?”

Do not roll eyes. She’d been buzzing her hair since she was fifteen, and once a month he asked her the same question.

“Ha ha.” He smacked his palms together. “I’m just messing around.”

You don’t say…

His thunderous voice banged against the walls. “You need to smile more.”

Dammit. That was on my bingo card! She pushed out a grin.

Stepping aside, he waved his arm at the woman behind him. “I’d like to introduce you to our new project manager. Meet my daughter?—”

“Ella,” Sophie choked out. The air vanished from the room. Sophie’s hand flew to the back of her neck and slid up and down the prickles.

Ella looked different from when Sophie last saw her six years ago. Black bangs so straight they looked like a titanium sharp-edged razor sliced them. Tortoiseshell, chunky frames covered deep brown eyes. Ruby-red, flatlined lips. Perfectly matched, freshly manicured, blood-red nails. The same pretentious, narrowed eyes that made Sophie cry her first week on the job.

Ella tugged once on the edge of her crisp, tailored, navy power suit that absolutely cost more than Sophie’s monthly rent. Who the hell did she think this was, anyway? No one wore suits. She was joining a Seattle creative agency—home of purple hair, sleeve tattoos, and ripped jeans. Not a stuffy financial institution.

Standing beside George, Ella wasn’t subtle as her gaze trailed over Sophie. And for the first time in forever, Sophie’s insides flared with heat. She wiggled her toes inside her heavy combat boots and wondered why the hell she’d chosen today to wear her ripped purple-and-black fishnet stockings.

The black-haired demon shook Sophie’s hand, absent of any emotion, except for a hint of a smirk when she looked at Sophie’s chipped nails. “Hi, Sophie. Good to see you again.”