There. She’d slotted in a mention of the book, and because it was live it wouldn’t be cut. Her publisher would be pleased.
“I want all women—from the barista who serves me my coffee every morning to the woman who manages my investments—to feel in control of their destiny.” She gave the camera an intense look. “You have more power than you know.”
Rochelle leaned forward. “You’re famous for saying that no one can have it all. Have you made sacrifices for your career?”
“I’ve made choices, not sacrifices. Choices. Know what you want. Go for it. No apologies.”
“And you’ve never had any regrets?”
Regrets?
Gayle’s world wobbled a little. How well had this woman done her research?
She sat up a little straighter and looked at the camera. “No regrets.”
And just like that, the interview was over.
Rochelle unclipped her microphone. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” Gayle stood up. “How did you get your start in TV?”
“I applied for a ton of things after college but had no luck with anything.” Rochelle was relaxed and chatty now the interview was over. “Then I was offered an internship at the studio. I shadowed a reporter, and they let me present a little because they thought I looked good on camera. So I suppose you could say I fell into it.”
Gayle winced. You fell into snowdrifts—not jobs.
“Today is a crossroads for you. Doors will open. I hope you walk through them.”
“Thanks, GM. I’m never going to forget what you’ve done for me.” Rochelle glanced at the crew and then back at Gayle. “We need photos so we can promote the interview on our site and social media.”
“Of course.” Gayle walked to her bookshelves and posed in what she knew was the most flattering position, careful that both her books were in the shot, face out.
Did they know that today was her birthday? No, why would they? Her digital team had scrubbed all mention of her birth date from the internet, so her age was shrouded in mystery. Birthdays slid past like the seasons—unmarked and frankly unwanted. She preferred to keep the focus on her achievements.
The photographer glanced around him. “Could we have a photograph with the award?”
The award?
Gayle glanced upward. The award had been placed on the top shelf of the bookcase that lined the only solid wall of her office. Had it been attractive she might have displayed it somewhere more prominent, but it was an ugly monstrosity, the brainchild of someone apparently devoid of both inspiration and artistic skill. The golden star itself was inoffensive, but it had been attached to a particularly ugly base. The first thing she’d thought on being presented with it the night before was that it reminded her of a gravestone.
Her opinion of it hadn’t mellowed overnight.
She looked at the award again, loathing it as much as she had when she’d received it—although of course at the time she’d smiled and looked delighted. What message would it send for her to be photographed with something so lacking in aesthetic charm? That she was ready for the grave and had the headstone to prove it?
She glanced outside to where Cole, her assistant, was supposed to be sitting during the interviews in case he was needed. Where was he? He should have anticipated this and had the statue ready.
She could either wait for his return—which would mean the TV crew lingering in her office—or she could get the damn thing herself.
Irritated, she slid off her shoes and pulled her office chair over to the bookcase.
The photographer cleared his throat. “I should get that for you, Ms. Mitchell. I’m taller than you, and—”
“Chairs were invented so that women could stand on them when necessary.”
Still, she was about to curse Cole for putting it on the highest shelf when she remembered she was, in fact, the one who had instructed him to do that.
Stepping onto the chair, she reached out.
Why had he put it so far back? Presumably Cole found it as loathsome as she did.
She rose on tiptoe and felt the chair wobble slightly.
She closed her right hand around the base of the award, remembering too late that it had required two hands to hold it steady when she’d been handed it the night before. As she swung it down from the shelf, the chair wobbled again, sending her body off-balance.
By the time she realized she was going to fall, it was too late to recover.
She groped for the bookcase with her free hand, but instead of providing solid support it tilted toward her. She had