he broken streets of Queens, sendi

bag. She pressed the green button and held the

, you little rat," a woman's vo

atriarch of the Brooks family. Her voice carr

r inhales short and ragged, projecting the exact sou

ammered, her voice shakin

ons again, I will make sure those pathetic siblings of yours ro

ckles turned bone-white. The threat against her fak

cing a sob into her throat. "

ff and ended the call. The dia

window at the decaying storefronts. There was no fear in her

paint. Chelsea paid in cash. She dragged her suitca

n springs. She pulled a plastic ice pack from the mini-fridge and pressed

ling midtown office of Starburst Public Relati

tiny cubicle and boo

chair over. She slammed a copy of the

umn. "The Brooks Family Foundation just fired their PR agency. They'r

parazzi photo of Jackson's sharp

onaires," Chelsea muttere

flew open. Arthur Jennings, the ag

the conference room!

rthur stood at the head of the table. The massive Brook

e Brooks Foundation," Arthur anno

ck stacks of background doss

e room. "He eats PR teams alive. He fired the last thre

silent. Everyone st

d locked onto Chelsea, who was tr

in the Brooks family's side, and your campaign completely neutralized him. The Brooks team specifically dropped your name during

hur's relentless corporate ladder-clim

thur," she said, kee

to her desk. She rubbed her throbbing

er forgiveness. He pleaded with her to come to his thirtieth bi

desk. Then she looked at Cason's text. Jackson would

hold on Cason, and she need

a single w

nning faster now. The collision between her fake person