I don’t want to leave Jax’s bed.

For the first time, instead of sleeping with me in the guest bedroom, he led me further down the hall to his own room. It’s the opposite of the guest room, which is swathed in white—white sheets, a white comforter, white accents.

Jax’s space is dark.

The walls are a rich slate color, and the silk sheets that cover his bed are a dove gray that seems like heaven to lie in. It’s calming in a way I hadn’t expected. Dark. Inviting. Strong. I’m safe here.

The last thing I want to do when I wake up on Monday morning, after a weekend of exploring everything Jax’s money can buy in the city—next weekend, he tells me, we’ll go to the Hamptons—is head in to work at the Basiqué offices.

The moment I get into the car, the pressure behind my eyes starts.

Jax didn’t argue with me about coming into work. Instead, he had his stylist and the hair and makeup team come to his penthouse this morning so I could relax as long as possible this morning.

As they went to work styling my hair, the thought floated across my mind: I could get used to this.

Nope. No. I cannot get used to this. No matter what Jax has, and what he can offer, I’m keeping my eyes on the prize. The prize is still a job that can make me self-sufficient, dependent on no one else.

Not even him.

By the time Mark drops me off in front of the building, the pressure has built to a searing pain. I can hardly stand to look at the gentle morning sunlight.

Get inside, I tell myself. You’ll be all right if you can get inside.

My motivation has deserted me.

I almost forget to order Sandra’s coffee, and Manuel brings it at the last moment, sprinting down the hallway with only a minute to spare.

“You’re the best,” I tell him, pressing a twenty into his hand as a tip.

Get through the morning.

It’s going to be small goals today. There’s no other way for me to survive. The splitting pain behind my eyes doubles, triples.

People are starting to gather in the meeting rooms, outside the doors, talking casually to one another. She’s almost here.

Sandra sweeps into the office right on time and divests herself of her purse—no coat today.

A deep breath in. A deep breath out.

I’m not quite all the way into her office when she starts speaking, and at first I can’t quite believe what I’m hearing.

“The next issue is going to be a double issue. Let all the essential parties know.”

I’ve already scribbled most of it down before it registers in my brain.

“What?”

“Was I unclear?”

“No, I—a double issue?” A million thoughts swirl in my brain. Where is Sandra going to find the content for this? Is she going to poach it from the next issue after this one? That will completely screw up the editorial calendar. Accounting is going to have a fit. And the scheduling—

She’s already speaking, rattling off a series of about fifty changes for today’s meetings alone.

“A double issue, Sandra? Are you sure?”

Sandra presses her lips together, her jaw jutting out, and she takes one breath through her nose, then exhales. “I’m not asking for your input, Catherine. This is a necessary step for Basiqué. If you have a problem with our creative direction, you are welcome to seek employment elsewhere at any time.”

A chill goes up my spine. No. I do not want to seek employment elsewhere—not without tying everything up here in a neat little bow, with a glowing recommendation from Sandra.

“I don’t have a problem. I wanted to…There’s no problem. I’m sorry, Sandra, go ahead.”

The adjustments to today’s schedule grows to a hundred. I sit down at my computer, the headache having spread back to my temples.

Screw up the scheduling on purpose. The thought surfaces from the back of my mind, and for a good minute, I give it careful, thoughtful consideration. Which meetings could I neglect to reschedule? Which things could I not do that would make the dominos collapse, one after the other?

When I realize that I’ve begun planning Basiqué’s downfall, a sick feeling blooms in my stomach.

Everyone was right. I’ve been an idiot all along.

The splitting headache, the fatigue that follows me everywhere, and now this—actively fantasizing about ways to do my job so poorly that the magazine closes. These are warning signs. It might not be a collapse next time. It might be a full-on nervous breakdown…or worse.

I’ve got to leave.

The thought fills me with anxiety, and that’s when it hits me: I’ve become obsessed with my job.

It’s far beyond a reasonable level.

It’s all I’ve thought about for the past year.

It’s taken the place of most of my friends, and any possible romantic relationships.

And still…

Still, I’m not completely sure I want to leave. It’ll happen someday, but…

I shake my head and breathe, the pain subsiding a little.

You’re tough, Schaffer, I think to myself. You can make it another six months, a year—at the very least, you can steer things through the double issue, and then she’ll have to give you an excellent recommendation when you leave.

Yes.

That’s what I’ll do.

I’ll make my exit gracefully, carefully, causing a minimum of disruption. I’ll stay in Sandra’s good graces—as tenuous as they may seem—and position myself to step directly into a better job.

I only need a few months to do it.

Before I can start on those plans, however, I have to reschedule several thousand meetings for today.

I stretch my hands and bring up my calendar and email client, my mind buzzing with newfound motivation. This is the home stretch.

I can make it.