“Thanks so much, Manuel!” I say, my heart already thrumming in my chest. I catch the look he gives me as I spin around and head back into the office. It’s a look that wonders why I care so much that my boss is in the building. But I have no time for Manuel and his looks now. The coffee has to go on Sandra’s desk and I need to be at the door in thirty seconds at the most.

In three strides I’m at my desk, putting my coffee back behind my computer monitor, and it’s another step to the closet, where I tuck the drink carrier into a recycling bin that looks like a high-end laundry hamper. Sandra didn’t want a plastic bin in the closet, even though she has a separate one behind the second desk for her coats, so I spent a Saturday finding the perfect alternative.

There’s a full-length mirror on the wall next to the double doors, and I take a moment to make sure that my appearance is on the sharpest point imaginable. My ensemble today is Chanel. I picked it up from the dry cleaner on Friday, along with the other pieces that will hopefully get me through this week, as long as I don’t have any food catastrophes. That should be easily avoidable. Lunch breaks are an unnecessary distraction.

My hair is piled on top of my head, impeccably dried and arranged in the messy, carefree look that actually takes an hour to achieve. The only thing I need to touch up is my lipstick. It’s my signature shade—Rouge D’Armani, No. 103—and I keep a tube of it in my desk at all times. I swipe it on, the movement expert.

Outside the glass doors, people are materializing in the hallway. They’re slotted for the first meetings of the day. Some of them don’t have appointments until 9:30, an hour from now, but they find things to do in the meeting rooms across the hall, poring over mockups, chatting in low voices to each other over presentation boards.

One meeting room is taken up almost entirely by a group of five of the hottest men you’re likely to ever see in your entire life, and they’re dressed in outfits that look like a sexy twist on businesswear. They’re here to have Sandra approve the looks for the shoot on Thursday, and two stylists flit around them, adjusting sleeve cuffs again and again, making sure jackets hang just so. One look from Sandra and they’ll find themselves making frantic calls to the designers for replacements. The only people who seem entirely at ease are the models. They have the least to lose. Bryce, a blonde, blue-eyed model with All-American looks, catches me looking through the doors and winks.

I give him a small smile. Bryce likes to stop at my desk after meetings and chat, and if Sandra’s tied up with a designer, he likes to bitch about work and boys, tell me who stood him up for a date last weekend, who turned out to be a terrible dancer and worse in bed. Those conversations are like pressure valves for my day. I would have cracked months ago if it weren’t for him.

For a second my mind wanders. Bryce has a once-in-a-lifetime body. If he weren’t gay, I’d like to take him back to my apartment and strip off that shirt, tug down the charcoal pants, and slide my hand...

Sandra’s face on the other side of the glass startles me so much that I jump. I can’t believe she caught me off guard like this. I came to the door to watch for the signs of her imminent arrival—the way people’s heads turn and then swivel back so they can pretend they weren’t watching her like a hawk as she came down the hall.

When my body leaps Sandra’s eyes narrow, and then she pulls the door open with her free hand.

“Catherine,” she says by way of greeting. “Cancel my appointments.”

As she says this she tosses the summer-weight coat she had been carrying folded over her arm to me and thrusts her purse into my arms. I catch all of it with practiced ease and slip the coffee cup into her hand.

Something about her expression seems...off. Sandra isn’t one for big smiles and keeps her emotions tightly under wrap, but I’ve spent the last year studying her. Something’s going on. My mind spins into overdrive. It’s not about the meetings, or else she would have emailed me at some point this morning or during the night. Some personal issue, maybe? Her husband doesn’t like the long hours she puts in. That could be it.

I swallow. She’ll tell me the reason if she thinks I need to know. Still, this isn’t the first time my meeting-confirmation efforts have been completely wasted. The frustration almost doesn’t touch me. “Should I clear your schedule for the entire day, or only for the morning?”

“Morning,” she says, then glides into her office and takes a graceful seat behind her desk.

It takes me less than five minutes to hang her coat and bag in the closet and step outside to shoo the crowd away from the double doors. Bryce gives me an exaggerated pout—this means he’ll have to hang around the office for at least the next couple of hours in case she reschedules—but I give him a tiny shrug. I’m the messenger. Nothing I can do about that.

“Catherine.” Sandra’s summons isn’t a question. It comes as soon as the glass doors swish closed behind me. I step over to her desk, picking up a small notepad and pen from my desk on the way. It’s extremely rare for Sandra to give me only one instruction at a time.

“I’ve cancelled the morning appointments. Would you like me to start rescheduling them now?”

She doesn’t acknowledge that I’ve spoken. Instead, she reaches into a desk drawer and pulls out a pair of reading glasses, which she perches on the edge of her nose. Reads something on her computer screen.

The silence reigns for several moments.

Then she shatters it with an announcement that makes my stomach twist with panic.