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  “Carrie? You have a meeting with her this morning?”

  Oh, shit. Suddenly, I remember. Carrie Warrenhouse, the beautiful and hard as nails editor of BuzzPost and Tom’s fiancée, wanted to see me first thing Monday morning. Oh, shit. Shit. Shit.

  “You forgot?” Tom asks. “I can’t believe you forgot.”

  Well, I can’t believe that you are marrying that bitch, I want to say, but I keep my mouth shut. Instead, I look through my very disorganized bag for a notepad and a pen so that I have something to write with in case she has any notes for me. When I first started here, I learned the hard way that Carrie always has notes and finds it insulting if you don’t come to her office prepared.

  “Here, here,” Tom says, grabbing a notepad from his desk. “Do you at least have a pen?”

  I find a pen on my desk and display it for him proudly.

  “Thank you,” I say and head toward her office.

  Chapter 2 - Ellie

  When things at work don’t go as planned...

  Carrie Warrenhouse. She’s the current editor of BuzzPost and the daughter of the Edward Warrenhouse, the current owner of BuzzPost. It would be one thing if she was a total incompetent idiot, but the thing is that she’s not. Not at all. She’s smart and incredibly put together. Despite her rich family, she probably would’ve gotten into Harvard all on her own accord. She’s five years older than Tom and I are and, over the last few years, she’s made BuzzPost an actual contender in the game of serious news. It made its mark on the world with wacky videos and funny online quizzes, but over the last few years that she has been Editor in Chief, they really transitioned into reporting on important political and international news. And, unlike other online magazines and newspapers, they continue to make money off it. Advertisers love us and the money is pouring in.

  “Please have a seat, Ellie,” Carrie says, pointing to the plush chair in front of her desk. Her office has floor-to-ceiling windows and a beautiful view of the skyline.

  “I’m sorry I’m late,” I mumble and crouch down into the seat. I don't know what we’re going to talk about, but meetings like this always make me nervous. I feel like I’ve been called to the principal’s office and she’s about to call my mom and report me.

  Carrie is the epitome of chic. Her hair is styled in a short razor-sharp bob without a single strand out of place. In comparison, my own long unkempt tresses, which kindly may be described as styled as beach waves, look unprofessional and out of control. I twirl a lock around my index finger, regretting the fact that I didn’t even bother running a brush through them this morning.

  “I wanted to discuss with you the last article that you submitted,” she says. This place has about ten editors, but Carrie is such a micro-manager and workaholic that she oversees every part of the BuzzPost with utmost precision.

  “Uh-huh.” I nod. For the life of me, I can’t even remember what the article was about.

  “It’s this one, about the Kardashians and their new makeup line,” she says. Oh, yes, of course. Now, that’s some hard-hitting journalism right there.

  “From reading it, I got the sense that you were not particularly interested in the topic,” she says, pointing to the printed out article on her desk. I glance over and see that it’s all marked up in red. Shit.

  “Well, you know, it’s kind of a fluff piece.”

  Double shit. I should not have said that.

  “A fluff piece?” Carrie asks with a look of shock and contempt on her face. “Are you serious?”

  “No, what I mean is that.” I try to backtrack, but nothing really comes to mind. “I didn’t really mean that.”

  “I’ll wait,” Carrie says, crossing her arms across her chest.

  What a bitch. It takes all of my power to keep myself from rolling my eyes.

  “It’s just a sponsored post about their new makeup line,” I say.

  “Exactly. It’s a sponsored post, and that means that we’re getting paid good money for publishing it. And that’s why a story like this needs a writer who can at least fake a minimal amount of excitement about the products and the Kardashian brand in general.”

  Are you serious? I want to scream. Are you fucking serious? I mean, we both went to Ivy League schools and now you’re asking me to show more excitement for the Kardashians? It’s not that I have anything against them. It’s just that I don't actually really know anything, or really care to know anything, about them.

  But, of course, I can’t express any of this. Instead, I bite my tongue and say, “I understand.”

  “The thing is Ellie, that this is not just a one off problem with you,” Carrie says. “This is becoming something of a habit. I have been reviewing some of your other work and, frankly, I think you can do a lot better.”

  I nod as if I agree with her. There’s nothing really to say since they did publish my other articles.

  “I know that your direct editor seems to be happy, but I expect more. I want BuzzPost to be one of the top online magazines around, and we’re not going to get there if our writers are not on top of their game.”

  “Okay, I’ll try,” I mumble. But Carrie doesn’t let it go. She just keeps pushing.

  “I don’t need you to just try, Ellie. I need you to do.”

  Finally, I’ve had enough.

  “I don’t really know what you want me to say,” I say after a moment of silence. “I mean, I’m sorry if you think my work isn’t up to some standard, but I think it’s pretty good. Frankly, I think I got as excited about the Kardashian makeup line as any sane person could get. But if you want to employ a celebrity-obsessed teenager to write these kind of articles, be my guest.”

  Oh my God. I can’t believe I just said that. I’m not an outgoing person, and I’ve never said what I really thought to a boss before.

  From the look on Carrie’s face, she seems to be a little bit caught off guard as well. She straightens her tailored suit jacket and adjusts herself in her seat. Suddenly, a strand of hair breaks off from the rest of her perfect bob, and she no longer seems so intimidating.

  “I don’t really know what to say to that, Ellie,” she says after a moment. “Except that you don’t really seem very happy here.”

  “Actually, I’m not. Not at all. I don't like writing the kind of fluff articles that I get assigned, and I don't really like to write articles that pretend to be journalism but are actually elaborate advertisements. That’s not why I came here.”

  “Then maybe this place isn’t the one for you.”

  I think about that for a moment. She’s right. For the first time, I actually agree with her.

  “No, it’s not,” I say, getting up. “Consider this my two weeks notice.”

  Before I get all the way to the other side of her office, she calls out, “Actually, we don’t need two weeks notice. We can get the interns to fill in for you.”

  Wow, really? I’ve worked here for almost two years and she’s going to get the interns to do my work. And she doesn’t have to pay them anything. Perfect. I don’t even bother to acknowledge her statement. Instead, I walk out of her office and head straight to my desk.

  Chapter 3 - Ellie

  When my secret crush disappears…

  “Where are you going?” Tom comes over right away after my meeting. I take my bag and start to put personal things from my desk into it.

  “What are you doing? What’s going on, Ellie?”

  I shrug. I don’t want to get into this now in front of everyone. But I know Tom, he isn’t the type to take a hint or to let something go.

  “I just quit,” I say. Actually, given what happened, I’m not entirely sure how accurate that is. I mean, I was going to quit in two weeks, but Carrie said I should go right away. Does that even count like a quit? Or did I just get fired?

  I can’t keep track of all the thoughts that are running through my head anymore. And I definitely don’t have any answers to any of it.

  “What? Why?” Tom gasps.

  I shru
g. “It was a long time coming,” I say after a moment. “I mean, I can’t really write long advertisements disguised as articles anymore. Or stupid quizzes.”

  Tom knows exactly what I’m talking about. He was a political science major at Yale. He's a political junkie and, despite the fact that he’s really qualified and engaged to the editor, he still spends most of his days coming up with quizzes like, “Design a dream apartment and we’ll tell you who you are and This Ben & Jerry’s Quiz will tell you which Hogwarts House you belong in.”

  After stuffing my purse with almost everything that I brought into the office, I wave good-bye to some of my other colleagues and walk out to the elevators. I’m not friends with anyone here except for Tom, and we all live nearby so it’s not like I’m not going to run into them again. Tom follows me.

  “Ellie, what’s going on?” Tom asks, grabbing my shoulder. I shrug him off.

  “Nothing. It’s just something I’ve been thinking about for a while. I mean, this place is fine, but I just can’t work here anymore.”

  “This is one of the top places to work in New York if you want to be a writer,” Tom says. “I mean, I know that Carrie can be a real bitch sometimes. What did she say?”

  Did he really just say that about his fiancée? I shake my head.

  “It’s not her. It’s everything. I want to write what I want to write, Tom. And I’m sick of being here. My mind is made up.”

  We ride down the elevator together in silence.

  “But what about money? Do you really want to depend on Mitch for everything again?” he asks.

  “Wow, really, Tom? You’re going to bring that up?”

  We’ve been friends for a long time. And, as a result, he is very well familiar with my issues with my stepfather. I grew up in a very middle-class family that pretty much lived paycheck to paycheck. But after my parents divorced when I was eight, my mom took a job tutoring Mitch Willoughby’s five-year-old daughter. Mitch was a widower and a vice-president at one of the top investment banks in New York. They fell in love and married soon after that and they have been happily together for many years now. I don’t really have any issues with Mitch except that he wants to do a little bit too much for me. He wants to pay for everything and, sometimes, even takes offense when I want to pay for my own things. One of the reasons why I really wanted to take this job after graduation was that I wanted to pay my own way, at least as far I could. He still pays for my share of the apartment that I share with Caroline because there’s no way I could afford it otherwise. Given the fact that Tom’s dad is also quite wealthy and he lives in a crappy fourth-floor walkup and refuses to take any money from him, I thought that unlike anyone else we know, he would really understand where I’m coming from.

  “I just don’t get what you’re doing, Ellie. Suddenly, when things get a little tough, you’re just going to quit? You know you would never really be able to do that if it weren’t for Mitch, right?”

  It’s hard to believe that his pride is one of the things that I actually admired about him before.

  “Are you really going to make me feel guilty about this?”

  “Yes! I mean, no. I don't want to make you feel guilty. I just want you to stay. I mean, you’re like my only friend there.”

  “Aren’t you forgetting someone?”

  He stares at me.

  “Carrie? The editor in chief? Your fiancée?”

  “Yes, of course. But you know what I mean. She’s from another world from us. You’re the only one who really gets it.”

  Now, I feel insulted.

  “The thing is Tom, that you’re from a rich family. Your dad is a famous attorney at one of the most prestigious law firms in Boston. You summered on Cape Cod. You went to Yale. You’re marrying into the Warrenhouse family, which owns half of New England. Mitch might have money, but my real father doesn’t. He’s a teacher. You may sympathize with the poor and live like you are poor, but it’s not real.”

  “Fuck you, Ellie. I don’t take any money from my dad. I live on what I make here. And thirty grand doesn’t buy much in New York.”

  “No, it doesn’t,” I agree.

  “And you don’t think I don't want to quit this? You don't think I don’t want to go on the campaign trail and follow and report on politics as it happens? Of course, I do. But I also want to pay my own way.”

  “Well, maybe you shouldn’t,” I say. “I mean, if your dad is willing to pay for you to start your political journalist career, why not let him? He loves you. You’re not getting anywhere just working here, doing what you don't really want.”

  “I can’t believe you’re saying this to me,” Tom says.

  To be honest, I don’t really believe it much either. This was definitely not the opinion that I had even last week. I admired what Tom was doing. Living life on his own terms. But now, with almost a quarter million dollars in my bank account, I feel a little different about money. There’s a freedom that comes with it. The freedom to not do crap that you don’t want to do. Now, I don't have to waste my time writing pieces that I don't care about. I can write what I want to write and really pursue my own dreams. And getting the money wasn’t all that bad either. It was actually exciting. Shivers run up my body as I think back to last weekend.

  “Ellie? You’re not listening to me,” Tom says. He has been talking for a bit, but I have no idea what he said.

  “Listen, what’s done is done. I’m going to go home now. We can talk about this more if you want later,” I say and walk away from him.

  I don’t know if it’s the money or just meeting Mr. Black, but I no longer feel like a love-sick puppy around Tom. Before last weekend, I’d spend my days waiting for him to come and talk to me at my desk. I’d live for the moments of banter that we exchanged during lunch or on a coffee break. I obsessed with his relationship with Carrie and their engagement. But now, things are different. Tom is still a friend, but the feelings that I had for him seemed to have all but dissipated. It was like a balloon had popped and all the pressure that was built up inside had vanished.

  When I get home, I don’t even bother to unpack my bag, but just drop it to the floor. I sit down in front of my laptop and open a new document.

  The story that I start isn’t entirely fully-formed in my head, but I do have the beginning. I don’t know where it’s headed, but for now I have the insatiable need to write down everything that happened. It takes me a moment to decide where I want to start: with Caroline getting the invitation to the luxurious yacht party. I type the title of the work at the top, Auctioned to Him, and begin. With that, the words just start to spill out of me. My fingers can’t type fast enough to keep up.

  Chapter 4 - Ellie

  When I hear his voice again…

  I write for close to two hours without taking a break. The words come and come like a waterfall. I’ve never had this experience before. Suddenly, my phone rings. I should've turned it off and go to do just that. But when I glance at the screen I see that it's a call from him. Him. Mr. Black. And it's not just a phone call. He's calling on FaceTime. I don't have time to even glance at myself in the mirror, but I decide to answer it anyway.

  "Hello, gorgeous," he says in his sultry, deep voice. I almost forgot how sexy it was, but within a moment it all comes back to me. He looks breathtaking. His eyes are deep and wide with long, beautiful eyelashes. His skin is tan and the way the light falls on it, he looks like he's almost glowing.

  "Hey," I whisper. Unfortunately, I glance at my own reflection in the lower right hand corner of the screen. Unlike him, I do not present well. The light here is coming from directly above me, giving me strange long shadows all over my face. My nose looks to be double the size and don't even get me started on my bigger than usual forehead. As if I didn't have it tough it enough.

  "I'm just calling to say hello," he says.

  "It's really nice to hear from you," I say. And see you, but I don't add this.

  "You seem surprised."

  "Actually
, I am." He isn't wrong about that.

  "Why is that?"

  "Well, you know.” I shrug. "Men in New York. They promise to call, but never do. I'm kind of used to it."

  I hate how defeated my voice sounds. It sounds like I'm sitting around and waiting for them call me. This is not the case. Well, not in every case. Agh, I am definitely not putting out a good impression.

  “Ellie, you never met a man like me,” he says confidently. It takes me a moment to catch my breath. Something within me sighs and surrenders, and my body relaxes with pleasure. I crave his presence. I need him to be here, next to me. I need to press my body against his. I shudder at the thought. I’ve never felt like this before. On the surface, the feeling seems like lust. But I’ve felt lust before, and it never felt like this.

  “What is it?” he asks. Suddenly, I realize that I haven’t said anything for quite some time.

  “Nothing. You just caught me by surprise,” I mumble. I look at his face more closely. It’s breathtaking. His dark hair is lustrous and thick, and imagining running my fingers through it makes me weak at the knees.

  “So, the reason I’m calling is that I want to see you again, gorgeous.”

  The way he says gorgeous makes both of my cheeks turn bright red.

  “Okay. Like on a date?”

  “You could say that. Something of an extended date.”

  I don’t really know what he means, so he explains.

  “I want you to be mine for the week. Just like you were mine for a night. If you agree, you would have to do everything I say, just like before, and drop anything else that you might be doing to be with me.”

  I try to hide my excitement at the prospect of this, but I’m not too successful. A wide smile starts to slip across my face.

  “And, of course, you would have to call me Mr. Black again. And Sir. For the whole seven days.”