Chapter One

"Rachel Summers, Daily Globe."

Twenty-five-year-old Rachel Summers twirled her pen around her long, well-manicured fingers and suppressed a yawn, the receiver of her phone pressed against her ear. It was a half hour before five but she was already over work. She was supposed to be proofreading and editing this article that had been dumped on top of her desk—it was a report on a thwarted bank robbery—but it had been the most frustrating thing she'd encountered in weeks. She hated editing this guy's stuff because he had obviously never learnt subject-verb agreement but she was a copy editor so she had no choice: she had to earn the middle bucks.

She wished she could leave but she couldn't, of course. Sometimes she questioned the ethics of using her telepathy to let people think that she had been there all afternoon. That way she could sneak out and go home and watch Scandal or something mindless like The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.

But she could almost see her father scowling at her in her mind's eye for even having that idea.

"Hi, Miss Summers," said a chipper woman on the other end of the phone. "This is Gillian Rosenthal, Mr. Carter Clayton's assistant. He's asked me to contact you and ask if you can come up to his office immediately."

"Me?" yelped Rachel, her pen slipping out of her grasp and almost falling to the brown-carpeted floor. Instinctively, Rachel used her telekinesis to pull the pen back up to her and she closed her eyes, wanting to smack her head. She hoped no one had seen that. That was a rookie mistake! She didn't want to out herself as a mutant.

"You are Miss Rachel Summers, copy editor in the Copy Editing Department, right?" said Gillian.

"Yeeeees," said Rachel, drawing it out, surprised.

"Well, Mr. Clayton would like you to come up here immediately, if not sooner," said Gillian. "See you in a few minutes."

They hung up.

Rachel lifted herself up from her little cubicle and looked around the busy room full of other copy editors for a big-shot newspaper like the Daily Globe. She picked up her handbag from the battered, wooden table and quickly rushed to the nearest ladies' room and took a deep breath as she looked at herself in the mirror.

Her shoulder-length, wine-colored hair was in a disheveled mess and her make-up was seriously undone. So she wasted no time in pulling out a brush and her make-up case and fixing all of that up. The dress she was wearing—a grey, tweed number that she'd gotten in Forever 21 and had owned for years—had a jewel neckline and capped sleeves and cut just a few inches above her knees. It was a little tight but it accentuated her curvaceous figure. And she was wearing sky-high, black Louboutins that she'd splurged on last Christmas when she'd gotten some money from her Grandpa Grey instead of saving it.

Being summoned by Carter Clayton was something of a big deal. His mother, K.J. Clayton, was the owner of the whole paper and he was the Lifestyle Editor for the whole newspaper, which Rachel had always found strange. If his mom owned the whole paper, in fact a publishing empire called Clayton Publishing, why would he be content just working at one of the publications? Shouldn't he be running the whole company?

That's what she would do. But she wasn't born to wealth and privilege like he undoubtedly had been.

Deciding that there was nothing more that she could do, Rachel straightened her back, put her little bag on her shoulder and confidently strode out of the ladies' room and to the elevator bank. As usual, the elevator that opened before her was full of endless reporters on cell phones with contacts and ad men from the marketing department overcharging businesses. But all Rachel could do was calm her beating heart.

When the doors finally opened on the floor of the Lifestyle Department, the shift was almost unnerving. The Editing Department was on the first floor of the building and was in the worst kind of condition. The furniture was old and worn. There was a consistent stench that hovered over the entire department because the carpet hadn't been properly cleaned in God knew how long. Lethargy and human suffering ran rampant.

But the Lifestyle Department was the closest Rachel had ever been to heaven: it was completely white. There were white tiles on the floor, everybody's desks were neat and had modern MACs on them—unlike the aged Dells she and the rest of the Editing Department had—and everybody just looked…happier. They were all better dressed, they were thinner. Natural light streamed into the entire floor, almost blinding her it was so beautiful.

"Hi," said a perky, buxom blonde who was sitting behind a sleek, glass desk just outside the elevator. "Can I help you?"

"Hi," said Rachel, trying to mimic the girl's joviality. "I'm Rachel Summers."

"Oh, Gillian told me to expect you," said the girl, rising from her seat. She pointed to another perky, beautiful blonde sitting behind her own glass desk, busily typing. "That's Gillian over there. Have a good day. Oh, and I'm Britney, by the way."

Rachel said, "Thank you, Britney," and scampered off in the direction of Gillian, who was now on the phone.

Rachel soon arrived in front of Gillian's desk but before Rachel could introduce herself, Gillian lifted her golden eyes and gave Rachel a dazzling smile.

"Miss Summers," she said, hanging up the phone. "That was Britney. She told me that you were here. Please have a seat." She indicated some soft wingbacks directly across from her desk. "I'll just check in with Mr. Clayton."

Rachel sat down, though she could see Mr. Clayton walking around his office—it was the largest office on the floor and, like all the other offices, it was encased in glass—yammering into his Bluetooth headset. His desk phone rang and he answered, spoke into it (presumably to Gillian), hung up and then sat down behind his desk, leaning back in his huge, black chair, all the while still speaking on his headset.

Rachel found herself appraising him: he didn't look that much older than she was, though he was markedly more successful, but he carried about himself in a sophisticated way, like he was more mature than most young men his age. His golden-brown hair was parted at the side and slicked back and he had sky-blue, long-lashed eyes that were appraising some manila folders in front of him. He was wearing a crisp, white shirt and navy blue trousers and a matching blue tie with a striped pattern. She couldn't help from comparing his appearance to a prep-school student.

She hadn't expected him to be so handsome. He was tall and broad-shouldered, like the gym was his home away from home, and he had a strong jaw and a long, straight, patrician nose. She wondered how she'd never seen him before. Sure, the Midtown building of the Daily Globe was huge. But she would have noticed a guy as good-looking as him.

Mr. Clayton pressed something on his headset, which Rachel assumed was him ending the call, and then he picked up his desk phone and made a call. Gillian's desk phone rang and she answered it, speaking quite softly into it (unlike down in Rachel's office, everybody seemed to speak in a whisper here).

When Gillian hung up, she said to Rachel, "You can go in. Mr. Clayton will see you now."

Rachel rose and drifted to the door, where Mr. Clayton waved her in. She pulled open the door and entered and he indicated that she should take a seat in one of the sumptuous, white wingbacks in front of his glass desk.

"Summers," said Mr. Clayton, in a velvety smooth voice that was somehow not surprising to Rachel. But it made her name sound way more exotic than it actually was. "Good afternoon. Thank you for coming."

"Good afternoon, Mr. Clayton," she said, crossing her legs. "May I ask why you called me up here?"

He picked up a manila folder with her name stenciled on the front of it and gave it a cursory glance.

"So. Rachel Summers," he began. "Graduated with good SAT scores from…where is this? Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters?" He lifted his blue eyes and locked them with her emerald-green ones.

"It's a boarding school in Westchester," she quickly said.

"I see," said Clayton, frowning back down at the manila folder. "Top of your journalism class at Metro College. Editor-in-Chief of The Metropolitan, Metro College's newspaper. You worked here as an intern from your first year at Metro and when you graduated, you accepted a position here as a copy editor, am I right?"

"Absolutely," said Rachel.

"And HR told me that you've applied for one of the positions that opened up for investigative reporting?"

"Well, any kind of reporting, really. Current affairs, crime, anything. I've always wanted to be a reporter, Mr. Clayton. It's been a dream of mine for a long time. And I've always liked the Daily Globe. But being a copy editor doesn't really do much for me: I don't get to pursue my passion."

"Well, since you want to report on anything, I think you should start here," he suddenly said.

"Excuse me, Mr. Clayton?" she croaked.

"It'll be a staff position," he continued, closing her file. "You report to me. I know it isn't the same as reporting on real crime in the City—this is the Lifestyle Department, after all—but I'm thinking that your work here will eventually help you to segue into hard news. Your salary will be considerably better too."

Rachel was stunned. The thought had occurred to her that maybe this would happen: that he would be offering her a position in his office. But she'd never actually thought about accepting a position there. Wasn't this department all about fashion and etiquette and gossip? She had never thought about working in this particular department.

But, then again, how could she refuse a salary bump? Reporters, even lifestyle reporters, certainly earned more than she did as a lowly copy editor. Maybe she'd be able to find a proper apartment, better than the cramped, little one she now had in Midtown. Maybe she could look to the Village. Given how these people on this floor dressed, she could only assume that everybody was paid better than she and her cohorts were.

"I can see the gears turning in your head, Summers," interrupted Clayton. "I felt the same gears turn in mine a few years ago when I was offered this position here and not something more serious. This department produces fluff pieces, that's what you're thinking, right?"

Rachel felt her cheeks warm. "Yeah."

"I couldn't agree with you more, Summers," he said. "But I know talent when I see it. I know it. That's why I've slowly but surely been recruiting young journalists, much like yourself, all loyal to me, so that when that higher position does open up, I can take them with me."

"You mean…"

"Think of this as a temporary fix," he said, folding his arms across his muscular chest. "It isn't the be all and end all of your career: just something to pay the bills. I've seen your sample submissions and you're much better than the Lifestyle Department. Which should make writing a fluff piece about a celebrity promoting a movie here in Manhattan pretty easy to do, am I right?"

She nodded.

"So?" he said, arching one perfectly plucked eyebrow. "What do you say?"

"I'll take it," she said, beaming.

He picked up his desk phone and punched in a number with nimble fingers. Two seconds later, someone answered and he said, "Gillian, get a desk prepared for Summers. And tell Purcell to get in here." He hung up and then narrowed his eyes on Rachel again. "Summers, I won't have you writing just yet. I'll let Purcell show you the ropes of the department first. You'll work closely with her on some of her things and then you can go out there on your own."

As soon as he finished his sentence, the door flew open and a tall woman in her mid-thirties strode in. She was wearing a black shirt-dress that fell down to her knees and her light-brown hair was pulled up into a sleek, tight-ponytail and she wore sky-high, strappy, black stilettos. She was very beautiful, with sharp features that would have marked her as a model, not one of the Daily Globe's top lifestyle reporters, and she had her hands in the side pockets of her dress as she plopped down next to Rachel.

"Summers, this is Purcell," introduced Clayton. "She thinks she's a cut above the company because her column is syndicated nationwide. Purcell, this is Summers."

"Carter, you know how much I hate it when you call me by my surname," cooed the willowy beauty seated next to Rachel. She extended a hand to Rachel, who readily took it. "Call me 'Dabney'. And you are?"

"She's your new shadow," he said. "You'll be taking her along with you everywhere this week. She's new to the department and she'll need someone seasoned to show her the ropes."

Dabney gave Rachel the once-over. "A little slice like her won't have much of a problem getting in to all the right places."

"Oh, and Summers," said Clayton. "This job pays well for a reason: you're no longer tethered to nine-to-five. You work when we need you to work. Weekends, late nights, the works. It's five now but you and Dabney are now heading to the Baxter Building."

Rachel could feel her heart almost soar out of her chest and make a blood-stained mess on the whiteness that was Clayton's office.

"What's happening at the Baxter Building?" she managed to ask.

"Something big," he said. "At least for this department. If it was global catastrophe, I wouldn't get the call. I was just on the phone with the Fantastic Four's publicist and he told me to send my best person over STAT."

"I smell an engagement in the air," yelped Dabney, rising from her seat. "That Spencer Storm and Danielle Cage have been heating up New York all summer! Come on, kid! Let's jet!"

Rachel soon realized that things happened very differently for the Dabney Purcells of the world: before she and Dabney could hit the lobby, a sleek, black Lincoln Town Car awaited them just outside the building to whisk them away to the Fantastic Four's 42nd Street and Madison Avenue headquarters.

When they'd arrived in the lobby of the famed Baxter Building, they were told to head up to the reception room on the thirtieth floor but Rachel knew that building almost as well as she knew Xavier's, though she couldn't exactly tell her new mentor that.

The reception area was packed with journalists seated and whispering to one another about the big news. Dabney and Rachel were ushered to the front and they both sat down cross-legged as they waited for the press conference to begin.

"This is so exciting," said Dabney to Rachel, though she was looking at herself through the mirror of her compact.

Rachel nodded, even though her heart was beating at a hundred miles a minute. She didn't know what to expect. Not that she'd been in touch with Franklin or Valeria at all since she'd ended things with him. Since she'd decided that she'd wanted a normal life and dating the leader of the Fantastic Four was the antithesis of normal. She and Franklin were exactly the same age and they'd all but grown up together at Xavier's, since he was a mutant too.

A delegation of press people suddenly ushered the Fantastic Four, all in street clothes, to the small stage that had been built for this press conference.

Franklin was looking as handsome as ever, his golden hair parted in the middle and shaggy and reaching down to his shoulders. She would never have let him grow his hair out that ridiculously long if they had still been dating. His clear, blue eyes glimmered as he looked over at his sister, whispering to her and smiling. He was tall and athletic and he was wearing a lovely, navy blue suit that brought out his eyes even more. His codename was Avatar and he had a slew of mutant abilities.

He was arm and arm with his younger sister, Valeria. She was as beautiful as Rachel remembered her: long cascades of golden hair just like her brother's and the same blue eyes. She wasn't a mutant, though. Valeria was a normal human, except for the fact that she had a genius intellect. Everything she was capable of doing was because she had developed the technology for it and people called her a modern day Tony Stark. Her codename was Miss Fantastic.

Standing next to Valeria, their fingers intertwined, were the two other members of the Fantastic Four: Spencer Storm and Danielle Cage. Spencer was Franklin and Valeria's cousin and he was tall and broad shouldered and handsome, just like Franklin, though he had chestnut colored hair and almond-shaped, brown eyes. Spencer had inherited his father's abilities wholeheartedly and went by the name Firestorm. His girlfriend, Danielle Cage, was beautiful as well, with a full afro and flawless, caramel skin. She was the product of Luke Cage and Jessica Jones and had inherited her mother's powers. She went by the codename Jewel.

Together they formed the Fantastic Four.

Franklin's eyes did a cursory survey of the room and then they settled on Rachel and alarm flashed across his face for a millisecond before he regained his composure. Almost immediately she could feel him pushing to speak to her psionically, trying to open the rapport they had created when they were both much younger.

But she fought him. She couldn't let him into her mind. And it would be too hard to stay out of his. She would immediately want to know about everything that had taken place in the years since they had broken up. She couldn't deal with that. Not when she was finally beginning to integrate into mainstream, civilian life.

After making the necessary introductions and felicitations, the publicist said, "I'd like to let Mr. Richards speak now."

Franklin, beads of sweat now streaming down his face as he glanced at Rachel yet again, pulled out a handkerchief, dabbed at his forehead and approached the mic. He nervously ran his fingers through his shaggy, blonde hair and then smiled for the cameras.

"Hi, everyone," he said, in that deep, familiar voice of his. "I'm Franklin Richards. Some of you know me as Avatar. And I just had an announcement to make today. Something that I've wanted to share for some time. For the past two years I've been seeing someone. And today I asked her to marry me…" He gave Rachel one last glance before he said, "And she said yes."

Stepping out from a door behind Franklin was a tall, beautiful blonde who looked like she had been pulled out of a Victoria's Secret catalog. She had sandy-blonde hair that fell down her back and she was wearing a modest, pink dress that brought out the undertones in her skin. She was grinning from ear to ear, her green eyes scanning the audience of journalists.

Rachel had never really known Shannon Rogers that well, though they'd interacted once or twice. Both of their parents were heroes, after all. Shannon was the daughter of Steve Rogers, also known as Captain America, and his wife, Sharon Carter. She'd grown up at Avenger's Mansion and had taken her father's shield for herself for the past four years under the codename American Dream while her father had retired. And for all intents and purposes, American Dream was the leader of the East Coast Avengers.

Rachel hadn't even known that Shannon and Franklin were dating.

"This is even better than I thought!" crooned Dabney, pulling out a notepad and feverishly scribbling all over it. "What dress is that? It looks like a Badgley Mischka. Do you think that it was custom made?"

"I…wouldn't know," said Rachel, gaping at Shannon, who now locked hands with her fiancée.

"We intend to be married in a few weeks," said Shannon, dazzling everyone with a million dollar smile. "And you're all invited."

"The son of America's First Family," said Dabney, her eyes glazed over with pure adoration, "to be wed to the daughter of America's First Hero! I love it! We have to get all the details! Who's making the dress, where is it, who's invited. Everything!"

Dabney went on and on about wedding details but Rachel couldn't hear her: she could only hear the sound of her heart breaking.