I arrive at work with a new sense of determination and focus. I picked out the blouse with the most plunging neckline, the tightest skirt, and the highest heels I could find from Maggie Mae’s closet. I am wearing a lot more makeup than I usually do, which doesn’t say much since I barely wear any on any given day. And I flat-ironed my hair.

All of these things - new outfit, hair, and makeup – are my suit of armor. Today, I am going into battle, and I just hope that this is enough.

I take a deep breath before the elevator doors open to the 67^th floor and go straight to Ms. Greaves desk.

“Ms. Greaves, I really need to speak to Mr. Wild,” I say. She pulls away from her computer with an incredulous look on her face.

“Pardon me?” she asks.

“It’s very important,” I say, hating the hesitation that my voice suddenly acquires. I need to be more direct. Strong. Be strong.

“I really need to speak to Mr. Wild. It’s very important,” I say.

She takes a moment to think about it. It feels like a century passes before she speaks again.

“I’m sorry, Annabelle, but that’s impossible.”

Annabelle? Why the hell did she call me Annabelle? My knees go weak, and I need to sit down. But as a result of some invisible force, I remain standing. It’s as if she knows what I am talking about or why I want to talk to him. I search her face for answers. But it remains flat, revealing nothing. I’m just about to open my mouth and try again, but she cuts me off.

“You will not meet Mr. Wild until he is ready to meet you,” she says and turns back to her computer.

Defeated, I go back to my desk. There is a large sticky note with Ms. Greaves elegant handwriting near the keyboard. It has five names on it.

Ms. Allison Read

Mr. Thomas Lane

Mr. Samuel Johnson

Mr. Tanner Hall

Dr. Elizabeth Cullen

To say that Ms. Greaves is detail-oriented is an understatement. Ms. Greaves is a borderline compulsive obsessive. This is just a simple note with five names of people who are supposed to be put through immediately to Mr. Wild, no ifs, ands, or buts. I certainly don’t need to know their formal titles – Mr., Ms., Dr. – but Ms. Greaves includes them anyway.

Her handwriting is impeccable, and it actually makes me a little jealous. I’ve had a very limited amount of exposure to handwriting and only write in blocky print letters, occasionally connecting the y’s and the e’s, but never the n’s or s’s. Every afternoon, when the office gets a little slow and the calls aren’t streaming in, I try to copy her handwriting but fail almost every time. Well, today is a new day.

The first call comes a minute or two after nine, just as it has all the previous days. It is someone’s assistant from Japan calling about setting up a meeting. I’m supposed to put the call through to Ms. Greaves to ask whether it should be forwarded further on down the line, but I don’t. I don’t really know why except that I can’t. I need to talk to Tristan, and he is going to talk to me one way or another. Instead of putting Mr. Yokomoto through, I write down his name and number and wait for the next call.

The second call of the day is from Ms. Allison Read. She sounds young, and I don’t have to wait on the line for her assistant to put her on. She actually calls herself, and her voice sounds urgent.

For a moment, I waver. I want to put her through, but I don’t. This is the only leverage I have. This is the only way that I knew how to get the chance to talk to and confront Tristan. Er, Mr. Wild.

By lunchtime, both Dr. Elizabeth Cullen and Mr. Thomas Lane also call, and I don’t forward either of their calls. Though no one seems to have noticed anything unusual, I start getting worried. It’s not just Tristan who I am messing with. It’s also all of these other people who have urgent business to conduct with him, and it isn’t right for me to keep their calls.

So I decide to go directly to the source. Mr. Wild’s email is on his expense reports.

Tristan, Mr. Wild,

I know who you are.

I know that you know who I am.

We need to speak.

Annabelle York

The words on the screen seem so threatening, and I debate whether I should make them kinder and sweeter somehow.

More personal.

No, fuck him. He’s an asshole who doesn’t deserve kindness I decide and go to lunch.

Hours pass and nothing. I thought that he would have written me back immediately. I thought he would have gotten scared that I knew the truth, but he’s not. I can see that he read it almost a minute after I sent it, but he still chooses not to reply.

Agh! What a dick! I want to scream.

But instead, I write another email.

I’m holding all of your calls until you meet with me.

This one gets his attention right away.

Annabelle,

Fine. Meet me at 6 at Louis’ at the corner.

* * *

I’m done with work at 5:30 and the half an hour before our meeting is the longest of my life. Time doesn’t just stop. In fact, it seems to be moving in the opposite direction. I get to Louis’ early and find a seat near the wall. I’m not in the mood to talk or chitchat, but I do need a drink. My hands are shaking, and my heart feels like it is going to jump out of my chest.

I’ve never been to Louis’ before. It’s a ridiculous place with special lighting for expensive bottles of cognac and vodka that line the back shelves. Everything here seems to be made of glass and mirrors, and I hate the reflection that I can see in the mirror.

I am still wearing my suit of armor, but my makeup is a little worn and smudged, and the position of my body says that I am a lost kitten looking for a home. Luckily, I have a chance to correct this before I see him.

I go to the bathroom, apply extra eyeliner and mascara and toss my hair. I broaden my shoulders and remind myself that if it hurts my stomach to breathe that means that I was sitting up straight.

“You can do this, you can do this, you can do this,” I say to myself in the mirror.

When I come out again, the population inside Louis’ seems to have multiplied threefold. Almost every seat is taken by men wearing $3000 suits who are talking to women in $1000 heels. I make my way back to my old spot, but it too is taken. The man in it is facing the bar nursing beautiful Old-fashioned. The orange peel floats on top and dances in the light.

“I saved you a seat,” the man says without turning around.

I recognize the voice immediately. It belongs to Tristan. My heart starts to beat uncontrollably fast, but I try to disguise my apprehension as best I can. I sit down next to him.

“Apple martini, please,” I say to the bartender without making eye contact with Tristan.

“So what did you want to talk about?” he asks.

I turn to face him. He looks different. Completely different from how he had looked in the woods. His hair is freshly cut, his face smooth and closely shaven.

And yet, he looks kind of the same. There’s a deep golden hue to his face, and his eyes are blue and effervescent. I look at the way my drink reflects in them, and it takes everything I have not to pull his face close to mine and kiss him.