Chapter 1:
The Art of PR, or How to Keep the World from Exploding Before Lunch

I wedge my desk phone between my shoulder and ear, juggling notes across three screens while attempting to sip coffee that I definitely do not have time for. My posture is a pretzel in a pencil skirt, but I will not drop anything. At Hathaway & Co., multitasking is an Olympic sport, and I am gunning for gold.

One of my monitors flashes:

LOGAN STARR PRESS CONFERENCE IN T MINUS 2 HOURS

The vultures—sorry, paparazzi—are already circling, and Logan Starr, beloved actor and PR nightmare, is statistically seconds away from making my life harder.

Wonderful.

My cell phone buzzes an incoming call, and I brace myself and answer.

My mother’s voice—breathless, urgent—fills my ear. “Maggie? Can we talk?”

“Mom.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. “I’m about to drown in a PR whirlpool.”

She hesitates. Never a good sign. “It’s about your father. He’s making waves again.”

The words hit like a stone dropped into deep water, too fast to catch, sinking somewhere I can’t reach. My grip on the phone tightens, but my voice stays smooth. Calm. In control. Not currently spiraling.

“I promise I’ll call tonight,” I say, layering the words with a practiced warmth.

Before she can argue, I end the call. The screen blinks dark. I set the phone down. Like it might detonate. 

Guilt slithers in, tight and sour, but I shove it aside. There’s no time for that. Not now.

A notification pings, an instant message from Zoey, my brand-new assistant, who panics over everything from coffee filters to global diplomacy.

Zoey: OMG THE MIC STAND IS BROKEN I THINK?!!?

Of course, it is.

I push to my feet, adjusting my skirt. Outside my office, the Hathaway & Co. floor is its usual war zone. Glass walls frame a battleground of screeching phones, folders stacked in precarious Jenga towers, and employees darting between desks in full-blown crisis mode, as if the stock market had just crashed.

The reflection in the glass catches me. Dark circles, undone hair, the caffeine-fueled focus of a woman who does not have time for a nervous breakdown.

And then Augustus appears.

Daphne Hathaway’s assistant is a small, wiry man with the aura of a haunted Victorian child and the temperament of someone running on sheer spite. He waves me over with the clipped urgency of a man with no patience for nonsense. Even less for people who waste his time.

“She wants you in her office.” His head flicks toward the executive wing. “Now.”

I’m already pivoting that way. My mind veers because no matter how terrifying Augustus is, there is one universal truth.

No one calls him Augustus.

They call him Gus. And he hates it.

If looks could kill, he would have a body count. Starting with Daphne’s nephew. Gabe made it his life’s work to use ‘Gus’ in the most obnoxious ways possible.

Gussy, my man.

Gus-Bus.

Gus with the good hair.

Once, he tried Gustopher.

Gus almost quit. Almost.

I’m smiling at the thought as I pass him, but then reality slaps me because if he is personally delivering a summons from Daphne, things are already on fire.

I stride past Zoey, who clutches a binder like a life raft. “Maggie. The press packets for Logan. I misplaced them somewhere? Break room? Maybe the janitor’s closet?”

I close my eyes. God, grant me the strength.

“Zoey,” I say slowly, gently. “You’re fired.”

She squeaks in alarm.

I sigh. “Find them. Stat.”

She nods frantically and bolts.

At Daphne’s door, part greenhouse, part war room, I launch before she can. “Logan Starr’s conference starts soon.”

Daphne steeples her fingers, unbothered. She is composed, British, and far too powerful to be fazed by this chaos.

“Serena St. James is fueling rumors on social media,” she says. “We need to keep him calm and keep the story contained. That’s your job.”

Sweat trickles down my spine. “Understood. No drama.”

She lifts a perfectly arched brow. “Drama is inevitable, Maggie. Just don’t let it ruin me.”

With a flick of her manicured hand, I am dismissed.

Back in the corridor, my phone vibrates. Mom. Again. I shove it back into my bag and pretend the world isn’t burning.

The elevator dings open, revealing Gabe Hathaway, leaning lazily against the wall, every inch the picture of insufferable ease.

“Sin-clair,” he drawls (if an Englishman can drawl). “You look ready to strangle someone.”

“Tempting,” I mutter, stepping in. “But I’m a little busy saving the world from Logan’s latest fiasco.”

He punches the ground floor button. “Chaos is good for the soul.” 

I want to shove him into the next potted fern we pass. I do not have the time, or the emotional bandwidth, to spar with the human embodiment of chaos.

“Not at eight in the morning.” I scroll through frantic messages from my mom, Logan’s manager, Serena’s ex-publicist, and three gossip columnists, hungry for blood. The sharks are already circling.

The elevator stops. Gabe gestures for me to exit first, arm extended in a mockingly regal flourish. I do not shove him. But I think about it.

The firm’s event floor is a madhouse. Staffers shriek about water bottles and missing name tags.

A digital clock looms, counting down the seconds to my demise.

Zoey sprints toward me, panting, gripping a stack of press packets with the wild-eyed relief of someone who’s just defused a bomb using office supplies. “I found them!”

I flip through, then nod. “Perfect. Distribute them. And fix the water situation.”

She nods and bolts, somehow surviving another near-death trip over a mic cord.

My phone pings. Mom again. I send it to voicemail.

Gabe, drifting behind me, raises an eyebrow. "Fun day?"

I ignore him, scanning the messages piling up, “Did you see Logan’s final statement?”

He nods. “I also saw him stomping around, all caged fury. This should be fun.”

“Fun isn’t the word,” I mutter. “He’s supposed to read the script, plug his film, then exit. No freestyle rants.”

“That never happens.”

He’s right, but I can dream. Gabe and Logan went to the same school at some point, bonded over mutual bad decisions, and somehow never outgrew them.

Zoey’s voice crackles in my earpiece. “Maggie, the mic stand is stuck!”

I jog to the stage area, where two grown men wrestle the demonic piece of equipment. I click the release lever. It snaps into place.

Gabe, watching, pretends to be impressed. “Heroic. Saving the day one stand at a time.”

“Some of us work,” I shoot back.

With minutes to spare, the room hums with tension.

“Logan’s here,” Zoey says in my ear. “He wants to see you. Specifically, you.”

Lovely.

I toss Gabe an exasperated glance. He just waves me off.

*****

The green room door stands guarded by a human refrigerator.

"Hi… hello… urgent PR disaster incoming," I pant, waving my badge like I’m trying to board the last life raft on the Titanic. "I need in. Immediately. Life or death. Mostly death. Definitely mine."

The guard doesn’t even blink. Why? Because, no one would recognize me if I walked past them holding a fire extinguisher. That’s the job, make the mess disappear, not your face appear. You are not the news, you help navigate your clients through the mayhem of their own making. 

I jab a finger at the door. "There’s a very famous, very unstable man behind that door who thinks TikTok trends are a form of international diplomacy. Please."

Still nothing.

Desperation makes me stupid.

"Listen," I hiss, standing on tiptoe. Since I think I can physically intimidate a man built to the dimensions of a bank vault, "either you let me through, or Logan Starr live-tweets himself into a federal investigation. And it will be your fault. Your name. On the subpoena."

A tiny, almost invisible flicker crosses the guard’s face. Victory.

I shove my badge higher. "Let’s save us both a congressional hearing. Open the door."

Inside, Logan Starr paces the room, a caged tiger in designer sunglasses, his messy hair crowned by a trailing scarf that billows with theatrical flair.

“Maggie,” he snaps, whipping off his shades. “Where’s Daphne?”

“Putting out other fires. You’re on in—” I glance at the clock. “—sixty seconds.”

“If they mention Serena, I walk.”

Perfect. He’s a swan dive away from scandal, and I’m the idiot standing under the diving board with a paper towel.

“We’ve curated the questions.”

His eyes narrow. “They’ll try.”

“Dodge. Deflect. Plug your movie. Exit.”

He grunts and storms out.

When I leave the room, the refrigerator is following Logan and Gabe is standing in the shadows watching them leave.

“Showtime,” he whispers.

Logan steps onto the stage. Camera flashes explode. My phone vibrates. Mom. I shove the guilt down. Right now, I have a celebrity meltdown to prevent.

Welcome to the circus. And I’m the ringmaster, praying the lions stay in their cages, at least for ten more minutes.