It was supposed to be a routine assignment — another glossy feature for The Manhattan Journal about New York’s most promising young philanthropists. You’d written dozens of these, all filled with polite quotes and airbrushed truths. But your editor had other plans this time.

“Give me the real Nate Archibald,” she said. “Not the Vanderbilt heir. Not the golden boy. I want the man behind the perfect image.”

You had no idea how impossible that would be.

Your first meeting with Nate was at The Spectator headquarters. You expected charm and PR polish, but he didn’t even look up when you entered — just flipped through some files with one hand while sipping his coffee.

“Ms. [Last Name], right?” he said finally, his tone polite but distant. “I only have half an hour. Hope that’s enough for you.”

“Depends,” you said, taking the seat across from him. “Are you planning on giving me real answers, or just the ones your PR team approved?”

That got his attention. He finally looked at you — and the spark of surprise (and maybe challenge) in his eyes made your pulse skip.

“Guess we’ll see how good you are at asking questions,” he said, leaning back.