Yesterday we showed you a sneak peek at the prologue of Professionally Unprofessional: well, here is chapter 1….let us know what you think. Also, if you are interested in being an ARC reader, send us an email at submissions@phantompublishing.com

For the Prologue go here and Chapter 2 go here.

CHAPTER ONE

Three Best Sellers and Two Years Later.

It turns out that it takes a while to reach the coveted spot of being wealthy enough to rent your own office space.

Maci and I burst out of the elevator like a couple of confetti cannons, the sleek white walls of the downtown office building a stark contrast to the shoebox we’re currently working in. I can’t help but wonder if we’re even allowed to be here—two publishers in their mid-twenties, giddy with the smell of cheap perfume and ambition. Our real estate agent leads the charge, a crisp folder in hand, while Maci dances across the open floor plan like she’s auditioning for a Broadway musical called New Office Space.

“Lex, can you believe this?” Maci squeals, spinning in a circle. “It’s perfect!”

I glance around at the modern interior, the kind that screams adulting but in a chic way. “I think I’ve died and gone to IKEA heaven.”

Maci stops long enough to give me a mock glare. “You could show a little more enthusiasm, you know.”

“Oh, I am!” I assure her, raising my hands like I’m praising the almighty Office Space Gods. “I just don’t want to get too attached before they figure out we’re used to paying rent in vape shop gift cards.”

The agent smiles politely, like she’s not sure if I’m joking. Spoiler: I am not.

Our footsteps echo as we wander further into the space, a satisfying clack against the hardwood floors. Massive windows give us a view of Chicago that our current digs can only dream of, unless strip malls and parking lots are your thing.

“I mean, check out the size of this place,” I say, peering around. “We could fit three of our current offices in here and still have room for a life-size cutout of Stephen King.”

“Or one of you!” Maci chimes in, grabbing my arm.

“Yes, Lexie the Author,” I muse, “available for birthday parties and book signings.”

The agent, a no-nonsense woman in a blazer sharp enough to cut glass, consults her notes. “Shall we continue? There’s quite a bit more to see.”

Maci practically bounces as she trails after the agent. I’m tempted to remind her that we haven’t signed anything yet, but it’s hard not to get swept up in her enthusiasm.

The open floor plan stretches out in front of us, a blank canvas just waiting for Maci’s grand designs. She pauses to point out imaginary walls and invisible desks, her imagination running as wild as her chin-length blonde hair.

“I think we could do our editorial team over here,” she announces, gesturing to an empty corner. “And the marketing folks can go right next to them.”

“Keep dreaming big, partner,” I say, trying to keep up with her. “If we sign this lease, we might even have a real break room instead of a coffee pot balanced on a stack of paperbacks.”

We reach the end of the space, and the agent gestures to a hallway leading to another set of offices. “And of course, your neighbors will be a financial advisory group.”

I pull up short, the words slamming into me like a bad review. “A financial what now?”

“They’re already established here,” the agent explains, flipping through her folder, “but with this much room, you shouldn’t have any issues coexisting.”

“Coexisting,” I repeat slowly. “Like two peaceful nations, sharing a border and not launching paperclip missiles at each other.”

Maci nudges me, eyes sparkling with excitement. “I’m sure we’ll hardly notice them.”

“Yeah,” I mutter, “but what if they notice us?”

Maci shrugs it off, the picture of optimism. “Lex, it’s going to be amazing. We’ll have all this space and be right in the heart of the city.”

I want to believe her, but all I can picture are men in suits giving us the side-eye because we’re a couple of free-spirited publishers cramping their corporate style.

The agent points out the newly renovated kitchen area, and we walk over, the promise of more amenities leading us onward. “This is quite a rare find in the city,” she says, the practiced lines rolling off her tongue. “Especially at this price point.”

I can feel Maci vibrating with happiness beside me, like an over-caffeinated jackrabbit. “We could actually afford it?”

I chuckle at her enthusiasm, even as I weigh the pros and cons in my head. “That depends. Do they accept payments in back issues of our failed magazine project?”

“Are you always this skeptical?” the agent asks, one eyebrow arching over her horn-rimmed glasses.

I give her a wink. “Nope, only on Mondays.”

“It’s Thursday…” She says giving me a look that is both scathing and confused.

“Think of it like this,” Maci jumps in, wrapping an arm around my shoulder. “Our little company. Big, beautiful new office. The only thing that could ruin it is your worrying.”

I glance around at the high ceilings and natural light streaming through the windows. It’s tempting—way too tempting for someone like me, who’s spent the last year crammed between a laser printer and the world’s most irritating neighbor. Not Maci, the vape shop.

We close the door to our – possible- new place and head towards the boundary where our creative haven meets its financial adversary. I can hear faint sounds from the other side—keyboards clicking, phones ringing. The kind of sounds that probably accompany daily TPS reports and discussions about stocks and bonds.

“Do you hear that?” I whisper dramatically to Maci. “Corporate drones preparing their attack.”

She swats at me playfully. “I think it sounds perfect.”

For a second, I let myself get swept away in her dream, picturing our desks filling the empty space, creative chaos where there’s now only polished perfection. Then the reality of sharing with a group that likely irons their socks brings me back down to earth.

I let out a long breath, taking one last look at the beautiful, expansive space. “We could really make this work, huh?”

“We really could,” Maci says, linking her arm through mine. “Come on, let’s go sign before the bank changes their minds on our loan.”

The city buzzes beneath us, the hum of distant traffic a reminder of everything this place offers that we don’t have yet. I still have my doubts, sure, but when the chance comes to grow your dream, you don’t let it slip by without a fight.

The closer we get to financial territory, the more I feel like I’m sneaking into a corporate fortress. It’s sleek and shiny, all minimalist furniture and muted colors, and Maci and I look like rebels infiltrating an army of suits.

I was hoping to make it to the elevator before we had the chance to run into any of the corporate dudes, but just as we pushed the button their office door opens as a group of men dressed in fancy suits make their way towards our position.

My eyes land on the king of them all: six feet of arrogance in a tailored suit, his glare sharp enough to shave with. I barely have time to register his whole smug vibe before he opens his mouth, condescension dripping from every word. “Are you lost?”

Before I can snark out a reply, the relator steps forward, hand extended, “Hello, I’m Francie Mavis of Mavis Realty; my clients with a publishing company and I were just taking a look at the open office space down the hall.”

He looks at Francie’s hand as if he were personally offended by her addressing him. “Ben Maddox.” He says in a tone that sounds both bored and dismissive. “A publishing company?” he says, drawing out the words like they’re foreign to him. “How… quaint.”

I can almost feel my spine snapping straight as his dismissive tone slithers into my ears. “Quaint, yes,” I reply, fighting to keep my voice even. “But we like to call it charming.”

Ben’s gray eyes scan me from head to toe, taking in my casual jeans and t-shirt. He might as well be inspecting a piece of gum stuck to his shoe. I flip my long hair over my shoulder, an old habit that kicks in when I’m irritated.

“Do you always greet potential neighbors this way?” I ask, injecting as much sarcasm into the question as I can manage.

“Only the charming ones,” he says smoothly, a hint of a smirk playing on his lips.

Maci jumps in, her voice bright and cheerful despite the tension. “I’m Maci, by the way! So nice to meet you all.”

Ben barely nods, and I can almost see the thought bubble over his head: Cute. They’re letting interns tour the building.

“Alexandria Phillips,” I introduce myself, even though he hasn’t asked. “Co-owner of the publishing company that may or may not be infiltrating your precious corporate bubble.”

Ben’s eyebrow twitches at the word “owner,” like he’s mentally recalibrating his assessment of me.

I can’t decide if I’m more annoyed or amused, but I’m leaning toward annoyed.

“Publishing,” he repeats, rolling the word around his mouth like it’s a foreign concept. “Books and… magazines, I assume?”

“No, porn,” I shoot back just to get a reaction. For the record, we do not publish porn. We are classy. Mostly.

His eyes go wide as one of the men behind him snickers.

Maci elbows me sharply in the ribs. “She’s kidding,” she says quickly, her cheeks flushing pink. “We publish fiction. Contemporary, romance, that sort of thing.”

Ben’s expression settles back into practiced indifference, but there’s a glint in his eyes that wasn’t there before. “I see. Well, Ms. Phillips, I hope your— fictional endeavors don’t disrupt our very real business.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” I reply, tapping my chin thoughtfully. “Have you seen our latest bestseller? ‘How to Remove the Stick from Your—’”

“What my partner means,” Maci interrupts, stepping slightly in front of me, “is that we run a very professional operation. You won’t even know we’re here.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” Ben says, his gaze still locked on me.

The elevator dings behind us, and I’ve never been so grateful for the sound. “Well, this has been enlightening,” I say, backing toward the open doors. “Can’t wait to bring our chaotic creative energy to disrupt your… what is it you do again? Count other people’s money?”

“Financial advisory,” he corrects, his jaw clenched so tight I’m surprised his perfect teeth don’t crack. “We help people build wealth and security.”

“How noble,” I reply, not at all impressed. “We just help them escape reality for a while.”

Maci practically drags me into the elevator, smiling apologetically at Ben and his crew. “It was lovely meeting you all!”

As the doors begin to close, I catch Ben’s steely gaze one more time. Something flashes across his face—annoyance, curiosity, or maybe just indigestion from whatever fancy lunch he probably had.

“Lexie!” Maci gasps, but she’s fighting a smile. “Did you have to antagonize him?”

“Me?” I press a hand to my chest in mock innocence. “I was being delightful. He’s the one who acted like we were selling friendship bracelets instead of running a legitimate business.”

As the elevator descends, Maci nudges me with her elbow. “His eyes were kind of dreamy, though. All stormy and intense.”

I look at her like she’s just suggested we publish a cookbook written by crack heads. “Excuse me? Did we just meet the same person? The human iceberg with a superiority complex?”

“I’m just saying,” she shrugs, “hate-flirting is still flirting.”

“We were not flirting!” I sputter. “We were establishing boundaries, like two neighboring countries with nuclear capabilities.”

Maci rolls her eyes as the elevator reaches the lobby. “Right. Well, if we take this office space, you two can continue your cold war from opposite sides of the hallway.”

I follow her out into the marble-floored lobby, my mind still replaying Ben’s dismissive tone. Something about him just gets under my skin like a splinter. “Did you catch that look he gave us? Like we were peasants trespassing in the kingdom of his oversized ego!”

“To be fair,” Maci says as we push through the revolving doors into the Chicago afternoon, “we did start in your parents’ garage.”

“That was years ago!” I protest, squinting in the sudden sunlight. “And now we have one part time editor and a four bestsellers.”

Maci links her arm with mine as we navigate the crowded sidewalk. “Which is exactly why we need this office space.”

The image of Ben’s irritating smirk flashes through my mind, followed quickly by the memory of those floor-to-ceiling windows and all that space. Space we desperately need.

“You know what? Yes.” I nod decisively. “We’re not letting some arrogant finance bro scare us away from our dream office. We’re taking it.”

“Great,” Francie says, already typing on her phone. “I’ll send over the contracts this afternoon.”

I can’t shake the image of Ben’s disapproving glare. There was something about him that got under my skin immediately, like a papercut from a particularly pretentious bookmark.

“You know what?” I say to Maci as we head for the train. “Maybe this will be good material. I’ve been wanting to write a villain with really cold eyes.”

Maci laughs, linking her arm through mine. “Just remember, in your books, the cold-eyed villain usually ends up being the love interest.”

“Not this time,” I assure her, even as a tiny voice in my head whispers, “Yeah, good luck with that.”

But I’m a writer. I know how these stories go. And Ben Maddox is definitely not getting a redemption arc in mine.