When I walk into the offices of Prerogative Media—again, for a third time—my guard is up. I’m really trying to be trusting and open-minded that Jen doesn’t know and that Weston is right in that she doesn’t know, but I’m still on edge.

“Oh. Mia. Hello,” Jen says when I get off the elevator. It’s the same slightly terse manner she’s had with me before. Maybe it’s just her personality.

“Hi, Jen,” I say. “Reporting for duty!” Jen stares blankly at me. God, what a stupid remark. It’s like I’m kissing up to her or something. “Um, I was told that there’s an office for me?”

“You mean a cubicle?” she says.

“Yeah, that’s what I—”

“Hang on, I’ll get someone to show you back.”

After a quick call, a girl in a slim black skirt and strappy heels comes out.

“I told you it’s not my job,” she says to Jen.

“I can’t leave my desk.”

“You do often enough.” She turns her eyes to me and says, “Let’s go. I’ll show you back.”

I follow her through the rows of cubicles, offices lined on the sides. Everyone seems to watch us, hopefully just checking out the new girl and nothing crazier than that.

“Here,” she says at a desk right in the middle of everyone. It feels like total exposure. “The last person left without notice so you’ll have to clean it. We cleared all the files from her drawers and also rummaged the good stuff she left behind. The rest is trash. If you need cleaning supplies they’re in the break room. Your temporary username and password are here. Set up your own once you log in. Any questions, try to figure it out on your own first. If you must, I’m just three down.”

“Thanks, I appreciate it,” I say but she’s already sighing and walking away.

I will do this. This job is too good to be beaten down on my first day. I don’t know how other offices work but maybe there’s just a couple of bitchy girls here and the rest are cool. Or I don’t have to have any friends here. It’s work, after all, not social hour.

I set to cleaning up the desk. It’s dusty and cluttered and it does look like it’s been thoroughly rummaged. Dried pens and broken pencils, half-used notepads and loose paper clips and rubber bands fill the drawers. I toss a bunch of old office supplies in the trash then head to the break room for paper towels and cleaning spray to wipe it all down.

There are several people getting coffee and chatting. They all turn to look at me when I enter. I give a little wave.

“Hey,” I say. “I’m Mia, the new—”

“You’re Mia?” someone says, and then a light chuckling goes through the room.

I steel myself. “I’m looking for a cleaning spray or something? To wipe down my desk.”

“Over there,” a guy says, pointing to a cluster of cabinets near a bulletin board.

I go to the get the cleaner, find it, then look at the articles and notices posted on the board. Lots of legal work stuff cluttered around pictures from the magazines and some articles. One catches my eye.

It’s an article from a past issue of Blush titled “Top Ten Ways to Get Ahead at Work.” Except all the ten ways are crossed out in black Sharpie, and in their place reads, Blow Your Boss.

I stand staring at the defaced article in disbelief and total, absolute humiliation. I can hear the others behind me—they’ve gone quiet, seeing what I’m looking at. I rip the article off the board and walk out of the break room. As the door shuts behind me I hear laughter and lots of, Holy shits.

I go straight to Weston’s office, bypassing Rachel, who tries to stop me at his door. I throw the door open; he’s on a call but quickly gets off when he sees my face.

“Excuse me!” Rachel says behind me. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Bridges. She just barged past me.”

“It’s fine, Rachel,” he says. “Please close the door.”

She turns to leave but shoots me a look first which could mean so many things that I can’t even begin to interpret them.

“What is wrong with you?” he asks. “We’re going to need to set some boundaries if you’re just going to bust in here whenever you feel like it.”

“This is what’s wrong with me,” I say, tossing the article on his desk. “I told you. I told you, Weston. They all know now. How can I possibly stay here if the whole fucking office knows about this? Do you know how embarrassing this is? How dirty and disgusting it makes me feel?”

“Okay, try to calm down,” he says. “I know you’re upset but…”

“No, you don’t know. You told me no one would find out. You promised me. How can I possibly stay here when everyone knows?”

“You are not going anywhere,” he says. “And I’m going to take care of this right now. Where was this?”

“In the break room.”

He stalks across his office and throws open the door.

“What are you doing?” I say, trying to follow him—to stop him or see what he does next, I’m not sure.

Across the floor I see two of the people who were in the break room just leaving. When they see Weston their faces go white and they start walking faster to their cubicles.

“Uh-uh, nope. Stop right where you are,” Weston says, pointing to them with the article in his hand. They freeze. “Anybody want to fess up to this?” He raises the article in his fist. Everyone is watching—him, us, the whole nightmare scene. “Anyone? Whoever did this, great job. Stand up and let us admire how clever you are. No one wants to cop to it? You sure? Don’t have the guts?”

The entire office is dead silent. No one else speaks, no one even moves.

“When I find out who did this,” Weston says, “your ass is fired and I’ll make sure you never work in New York media again. And if anyone else says anything else remotely like this, you’ll be joining them. So keep that in mind when you’re all standing around gossiping instead of doing your fucking jobs.”

He turns on his heel, walks right past me to his office. The door slams, and that’s it.

I stand there for a moment—we all do. We’re all stunned. A few people dart their eyes at me one last time before scuttling back to their desks and getting back to work. I go back to my desk to hide from everyone and everything.

Later, Jen walks by my desk and hisses, “Did you have to run and tell Daddy? You’re going to get someone innocent fired.” She keeps walking, not looking for a response.

I spend the day working on my BDSM article. I keep thinking he’s going to call me, or email or text, but I don’t hear a thing from him. He doesn’t come out of his office all day, so I keep focused on the article. By the end of the day, once most everyone else has left, I’ve got a pretty good draft completed. I wasn’t told who my editor is or what I’m supposed to do with the article once I’ve finished it so I email it to Weston just before I leave. I have no idea if or when I’ll hear from him.

When I get to the apartment I throw my bag on the floor and immediately go digging through the cupboards and refrigerator.

“Hey, you,” Brody says, coming out of his room. “You okay?”

“Do we have any alcohol in this place?” I need a drink, and I need to vent.

“Not that I know of,” he says. “Hey, slow down. What’s wrong?”

I stop my searching and take a deep breath. “I had a really shitty day.”

“Then we will change that. Get your bag. I’m taking you for a proper drink.”

At the bar, we order Moscow mules and eat the free pretzels from the dish.

“I mean, I’m happy for the job but the people there are super bitchy,” I say. “I hope it’s just some sort of new girl initiation but damn.”

“Just do good work,” Brody says. “You’re not there to make friends. You’re there to make a career.”

“I know. That’s what I told myself. But still…”

I don’t tell Brody everything. I don’t tell him about Weston and me, or the real reason why today was so awful. I can’t bring myself to admit all that, not yet anyway.

“What’s that boss of yours doing in all this?” Brody asks. “Did he stand up for you?”

“He went nuclear. Yelled at the entire office, which was possibly even worse than the teasing I got today.”

“What a dick,” Brody says.

My phone pings a text, and my heart races to see it’s from Weston. I thought he was too busy for me today.

Where are you? he writes.

He’ll love this, I think as I type back a reply: At The Well having drinks with Brody.

The text bubbles start almost immediately, just like I knew they would.

Who the fuck is Brody?

Friend.

Come to my place. No friends allowed.

Maybe after, I write.

I put my phone away, not wanting to read any more texts about why I’m not at his penthouse yet.

“How about a shot of Fireball?” Brody suggests.

“I’m in.”

He orders two and we toast to being awesome bosses as soon as we have the chance.

I ask Brody about the girls he’s been seeing but he tells me they’re nothing special.

“Like, I could never get any of them to do Fireball with me,” he says as if this is the measurement of a good girlfriend. “They’d totally turn their noses up. No one is fun like you are.”

“Don’t worry, you’ll find someone. I mean, probably not as cool as me,” I say. “But you can give it a try.”

“I could never find someone as cool as you, Mia,” he says.

“Aw, you’re sweet.”

He wraps his arm around me and rubs my shoulder. “The best girl in all of New York.”

“Cheers to that!” I say, a bit drunk from all the drinks. As long as the day fades away, I’m good.

Until I’m not.