Seated at her staff desk, Morgan Sidney watched this randy round of cop and robber unfurl. Scanning smut at the office was not exactly peculiar, since any subject was fair game at leading Hollywood gossip website, Slander.

Peeking over her shoulders, she shifted uncomfortably in a squeaky swivel chair. It might have been research, but she didn’t want the entire Slander payroll to catch her in action. After repositioning her headphones, she lowered the volume and glowered at the screen. Attempting to focus, she wondered how people got off to such cheap erotica.

When Officer Prince smacked Tori with his ornate black scepter, then called her a whore, Morgan attempted a deep breath. But air caught like varnish inside her throat, blocking her lungs. She panicked, panting and heaving for oxygen.

Despite valid reasons for detesting pornography, Morgan refused to let sickening memories haunt her at work. Eyes closed, she practiced the pursed-lip breathing her desk mate Sean implemented during asthma attacks. Through pinched lips, Morgan inhaled to a slow count of three, then exhaled to a slow count of six.

Her body softened and she opened her eyes as the five-minute cut culminated. Tori Jade sped off with Officer Prince’s cum glistening on her face. Morgan shook her head and removed the earphones to unusual silence.

A clearing throat interrupted the quiet. Morgan swiveled around, then froze, eyes wide. Nearly a dozen colleagues stood gawking. Virtuous Laura from accounting held a hand to her mouth. Producer Marcus Rodd, Morgan’s smug rival, smirked. And her best work friend, fellow vlogger Sean Dupriest, broke the silence with his signature hee-haw laugh.

“Meeting in two,” announced boss man Jason Gaber, bustling toward the conference room. Everyone scattered to prepare.

Morgan remained still until Sean squeezed her shoulders. “Chillax, sweetums,” he whispered. “We know you were”—he paused to insert air quotes—“researching.” His yodeler’s cackle echoed, and he tugged her hair lightly, adding, “Nice pants. Bringing back the 90’s?”

Scratching her awkward oversized pants, Morgan followed Sean toward the conference room. She generally donned leggings, comfy sweaters and ballet flats, but today the twenty-six-year-old looked fresh out of a fashion feature. Instead of its usual wild beachy waves, her thick, mid-length, chestnut-brown hair was ironed straight and pulled back tightly. Her coffee-brown eyes popped, enhanced with eye makeup she mainly reserved for work events or occasional club nights. Foundation and bronzer blanketed her face, covering cute California nose freckles, plus blush, which she hadn’t worn since her sister’s wedding two years prior. Sporting vintage pumps, Morgan stood four inches taller than her five-feet-six inches. Wobbling, she tiptoed into the conference room to take a seat.

Slander headquarters sat fifteen stories high in the middle of Los Angeles, though Jason would have preferred fifty-five stories higher and in Manhattan. After joining Slander as editor-in-chief three years earlier, he’d moved its beachside office to Century City, one of LA’s most prominent business hubs. He expected employees to mimic his faux-New York City vibe, but no one measured up to his tailored-blazer-silk-pocket-square expectations. At least his subordinates had retired their flip flops.

Like every morning meeting, Jason stood beside his seat, declaring things and scribbling notes on a marker board wall. A high-end two-button jacket matched his short steely hair and darting blue-gray eyes. To exude a daunting image, standing only five-feet-eight inches, he leased customized sportscars while barely supporting two ex-wives. Adding to his identity crisis, an intern had recently labelled him middle age. Still, Jason held all the power at Slander, including the ability to promote vloggers like Morgan to a coveted producer title.

Two dozen of Slander’s most-esteemed congregated around a large glass tabletop, chiming in over a humming photocopier when needed. “Next up,” Jason said sharply. “How are we covering this porn royalty split?”

“The new empress revels in media attention,” Sean recounted. “But the prince still won’t talk.”

This was clearly news to nobody. “So, zero updates,” Jason said.

Sean hung his head.

One month earlier, a colossal shakeup had stunned the court of Silicon Valley. Princess Tori Jade had kicked her man of three years to the curb, trading up for a greater crown by eloping with a woman, Viola Emperor, self-proclaimed Emperor of the Dykes.

Clay Emperor, Viola’s deceased father, had struck gold in the 1980s phone sex boom, and eventually his business, known as Clay’s Empire, owned hundreds of porn tube sites. After a brief stint as a one-hit-wonder pop sensation, Viola had commandeered Clay’s business after he died. In an attempt to keep the company relevant, she renamed it Lit Empire Entertainment.

Now aspiring tabloid staple Tori felt elated, perched atop the porn kingdom as Empress Tori Jade-Emperor. Meanwhile her ex, heartthrob porn star Chase Prince, also known as the Prince of Sin, remained MIA.

“Perhaps Morgan has the four-one-one,” Marcus said, lifting his brows smugly. “After all, she just watched one of their scenes.”

Everyone turned to Morgan. She glowered, certain Marcus had plotted this opportunity. Not only did he relish sabotaging her, he had forwarded her the porn link. “I was just—”

“Watching porn in my offices?” Jason interrupted.

“For research,” Morgan defended. “Apparently it’s the duo’s final scene together.”

“Doing your homework.” Jason snapped his fingers. “I’m glad somebody around here is.” He scrawled her name below Porn Split on the marker board. “So Sidney will cover it. Next?”

She sprang to stand, nearly falling over. “No, I’m covering Fashion Week.”

“Anyone can cover buttons and frills, Sidney. I have to use my resources where they shine, and you’re clearly familiar with this breakup.”

“You said I could move off celebrities.”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d say.”

Morgan breathed deeply. “Jason, you said pick any beat. I picked film festivals.”

“Marcus covers film festivals.”

Through gritted teeth, she continued, “And you said, Marcus covers film festivals. So we agreed on Fashion Week.”