Jealous Elara

Amara was halfway through a report about Lyselle Media's latest advertising campaign when her phone buzzed with the kind of urgency that screamed, This isn't about business. She glanced at the screen, her eyebrows raising at the sight of Elara's name.

"Hey, superstar," she answered, her tone light. "What's up? Did you meet some snooty Parisian director who asked you to redefine art?"

The silence on the other end of the line was deafening. Amara frowned, pulling the phone away from her ear to make sure the call hadn't dropped.

"Elara?"

"So, Nicholas, huh?"

Amara blinked. "Nicholas?"

"Yes, Nicholas. The charming department director who apparently thinks you're date material?" Elara's voice was as sweet as molten sugar—burning and ready to scald.

Ah. There it was. The infamous rumor mill of Lyselle Media had officially gone international. Amara rubbed her temples, the beginnings of a headache forming.