Chapter Four

The alarm rang at six, shattering the silence of the condo. Carrie groaned into her pillow, wishing she could steal just one more hour of sleep, but discipline dragged her out of bed. She clipped into her Peloton, her legs pounding against the pedals as if she could burn out the memory of Andrew's grin from the night before. Thirty sweaty minutes later she showered, dressed in her sharpest navy sheath dress, and pinned her hair into a sleek bun. She fastened her earrings with a muttered promise.

"Today will change. It has to."

On her way to the office she stopped at Starbucks. The flat white was hot in her hand, its bitter edge sharp enough to jolt her awake. She carried that hope into the elevator, willing herself to believe that the tide might finally turn.

Her optimism cracked the second she stepped into the office. Sofia was waiting with the same strained look as yesterday, a face drawn tight with worry.

Carrie didn't even sit down. "No updates?"

Sofia shook her head. "Nothing, Ma'am. I called her team again this morning. They're polite, but it's the same answer. Anita is unavailable. Her PR team won't give us anything."

Carrie set her coffee down with more force than she intended. "Politeness does not get us a cover story. The deadline is next week. If Anita won't talk, this entire issue collapses."

Sofia fidgeted with her notebook. "We could revisit Marissa Villarosa—"

Carrie cut her off, her patience snapping. "No. We have been over this. She is not the face of power. This issue demands presence, not pretty trinkets."

The door swung open without a knock. Joan swept in, her energy filling the room like a burst of color. At five-foot-six she was already striking, but with her trademark five-inch stilettos she towered over nearly everyone in the office. Dark-skinned and classy, she carried herself with the effortless poise of a runway queen, her style always sharp, her quirks unforgettable. Beside her, Carrie's five-foot frame felt tiny, almost comical, heels and all. Yet Carrie never once resented the comparison. Joan was her friend, her confidante, her inspiration. The embodiment of the boldness she sometimes wished she could summon on command.

She was also Echelon's fashion editor, the kind of woman who could walk into any room and turn heads before saying a word. Joan's wit was as sharp as her heels, and she never showed up without both.

She dropped her oversized sunglasses on the desk and sat without asking, lipstick immaculate despite the early hour.

"You both look like you're preparing for a wake," Joan declared. "Still crying over Anita Sandoval?"

Carrie arched a brow. "Good morning to you too."

"I don't do mornings," Joan replied with a smirk, crossing her endlessly long legs. "But I do interventions. And clearly, you need one."

Sofia sighed. "We've tried everything. Every contact. Every number. Nothing."

"That's the problem," Joan said. "You keep trying to drag her into your world. She doesn't live here. She lives up there." She jabbed a finger toward the ceiling. "You want her, you go where she is."

Carrie folded her arms. "And where exactly is that? Because last I checked, she's not lining up for Sunday brunch."

Joan's smirk widened. "Tomorrow night. Elysium. Private DJ event. Biggest club in BGC. Owned by a friend's situationship, don't ask, it's messy, but I scored a ticket."

Sofia blinked. "Elysium? That's the one with the mirrored ceiling?"

"And the twelve-foot LED wall," Joan added with relish. "The one where they serve champagne out of ice swans. Only the one percent even bother showing up. It's not a party. It's a census of the rich and scandalous. They also have private rooms upstairs. You cannot get inside unless you're verified by the membership committee, and that committee is basically a roll call of old family money and new empire builders. The dance floor is for show. The rooms are for power."

Carrie frowned. "And Anita will be there?"

"That's what I heard," Joan said. "And Andrew too. Apparently, the two of them together are enough to make even billionaires RSVP. If they're not together, you'll still get them both in the same building. And if nothing else, you'll drink free champagne and remember what fun feels like."

Carrie gave her a flat look. "You think I'm going to chase Anita Sandoval into a nightclub?"

Joan leaned back, her smile wicked, her heels swinging like she was already dancing. "Why not? You've chased her everywhere else. What's a little house music and overpriced vodka? Besides, you would look fantastic under strobe lighting."

Sofia bit her lip. "Ma'am, maybe she has a point. If Anita really is going..."

"Maybe?" Joan interrupted with a laugh that rang like glass. "This is not maybe. This is your shot. Stop waiting for the mountain to move and go climb it. In this case, the mountain has a velvet rope, a bouncer with a six-pack, and a bottle minimum that costs more than your rent."

Carrie stared at her coffee cup, the heat seeping into her skin. The idea was absurd. She had no business lurking in the shadows of a nightclub at midnight. But the memory of Anita's tear-streaked face and Andrew's mocking grin lingered like smoke.

Joan leaned forward, resting her chin on her hand, eyes glittering. "So. Are you in? I'll put your name on the list. If not..." She shrugged. "Good luck with Marissa and her beaded bracelets."

The office fell silent. Sofia looked from Joan to Carrie, her expression tight with nerves. Carrie tapped her finger against the cup, her thoughts circling, restless, pulled toward a decision she wasn't ready to make.

At last, she looked up, her face unreadable.

"I'll think about it."