Chapter One
Caviar is disgusting, and anyone who says otherwise is a liar.
Still, I roll the eggs around in my mouth as if they’re a fine wine, just like Dad told me to do before he abandoned me in the corner to go talk to one of the many white-haired men at this event. If I weren’t at the Street Media Corporation annual gala, I would spit it out in a heartbeat. But I can’t embarrass Dad by being the Girl Next to the Fake Plant Spitting Expensive Food into Her Napkin. So I let them sit in my mouth, hoping they’ll just dissolve so I don’t have to force them down.
A small band plays in the front of the sparkling room full of expensive dresses and tuxedos. Four couples make use of the hotel ballroom’s dance floor while the rest of the attendees either stand around mingling or sit at the tables adorned in white luxury linens and orchid centerpieces. Tonight’s gala is both a celebration of the company’s profitable past year and a networking event with potential investors. Everyone who’s anyone in New York City is here, dancing and laughing and meeting wealthy new faces.
And I am simply an intern lucky enough to have an important dad.
“Ah, you’ve found the rare delicacy,” Mr. Street says, startling me as he appears at my side. He nods at the caviar spoon in my hand. There’s no way I’m insulting the host of the party—not to mention the CEO and founder of the news conglomerate—so I swallow the melting eggs and shoot him a grin. Or what Ihopelooks like a grin.
“I have. They’re delicious,” I lie, holding back a gag.
“I hear you should press them against your soft palate to truly experience the buttery flavor and unique texture.” Mr. Street shakes his head. “Personally, I’ve never understood the appeal, but to each their own.”
You’ve got to be kidding.
I could have been standing here exchanging quippy lines about how repulsive these eggs are, and how everyone in the room is surely faking their enjoyment of them, but instead I’m one of the fakers.
I deflate at the missed networking opportunity.
“How has your internship been so far, Ms. Mitchell?” Mr. Street asks, the light from the crystal chandeliers reflecting off his kind brown eyes and balding head.
“It’s been great,” I tell him. “I’m learning so much.”
This is only half true. It’s hard to learn from lower-level journalists and content creators when I’ve grown up the daughter of Brad Mitchell, president of Street Media. I was five years old when Dad first taught me all about journalistic integrity and source anonymity. And although this is my first summer at the company in anofficial capacity, I’ve shadowed him the last two summers, learning the company ropes, interviewing techniques, how to write a compelling article, and how to recognize and filter bias. Dad says journalism is in my blood and that one day, when he retires, I’ll take his place. All I need is solid experience and the right contacts.
In other words, the Streets.
“That’s fantastic.” Mr. Street takes a sip from his champagne flute. “Have you worked on any assignments you’ve particularly loved?”
The highlight of my whole summer has been tagging along with a reporter covering the Model Icon Fashion Show, but I know better than to say that.
“I’ve really enjoyed dipping my toes into foreign affairs. Covering the European Parliament election and the situation in Ukraine has been really eye-opening.”
“Oh yes, your dad did mention your interest in overseas matters. Did you know I started out as a foreign-affairs reporter?”
I did know that, of course, because a good journalist does her homework.
“Oh wow. I had no idea,” I say, leaning in and feigning interest. “Do you have any good stories from those days? Or any wisdom to impart?”
“Now, Ellis,” I hear from behind me as my dad joins us, placing his hand on my shoulder, “you cannot monopolize Edward’s time tonight. As the host, he has too much schmoozing to do.”
Mr. Street chuckles. “Unfortunately, I’m afraid that is true,but perhaps we can all get lunch together next week.”
“I would love that,” I say.
“Check my calendar with Anita and get it set up, Brad. I have a feeling your daughter is going to do big things. Her passion simply emanates from her.” Mr. Street beams at me. “Go get yourself more caviar before it’s all gone, Ms. Mitchell.”
He heads toward a group of bigwigs in a heated debate, and Dad turns to me, his Work Smile shifting to his Dad Smile, a difference that is probably imperceptible to anyone else. His eyes linger on my shirt and his smile slips away.
“Is that one of your… creations?” he asks, disappointment dripping from each word.
I tug self-consciously at the fitted halter top that I made out of a thrifted oxford. The addition of one of Mom’s decorative cameo brooches and the floor-length silk Carolina Herrera skirt push it comfortably into black-tie territory, but Dad seems to think otherwise.
“It is…,” I confirm, now regretting not wearing something simpler.
“Well, it seems you made a good impression, regardless.”
