My palms were sweating, but I forced my knees not to shake. I was always good at being an aggressive reporter, at getting to the bottom of a story. I had learned to smell a story halfway across the state. I could write gripping copy – that’s what had gotten me my current job, after all. I wasn’t worried about asking the right questions or missing my opportunity. Journalism was in my blood; it was my life. I could write this story in my sleep.

What I wasn’t good at was grace and glamor. Growing up with four brother I had always been a tomboy. I had never owned a pair of heels and even now my hair was cut boyishly short. The hardest thing about tonight was not approaching a dangerous political figure, nor working undercover without the paper knowing it. The hardest part was emulating a poised, well-kept, rich, beautiful woman. Truthfully, my makeup only looked decent because Chandra had taken pity on me and offered to help. Straightening my borrowed dress, I tapped him on the shoulder.