Am I in trouble?

My heels click-clack across the shiny, tiled floor toward the conference room. They sound way too loud. They echo.

It’s not every day that Mr. Robert Foster himself, the founder of the company, wants to see me—alone. And I’m terrified.

Even though the man is already wrinkled and gray, he’s no frail, old senior.

From the stories I hear through the grapevine, he runs the city. He worked his way up from a poor “delivery boy”—no doubt transporting some questionable substances—into the kingpin he is today.

The hotel I work for is completely legit, of course.

Mr. Foster is cleaning up his act and is apparently letting go of his shadier businesses. Now that he’s got enough money to last generations, there’s no longer any reason to deal with something that dangerous.

I grab the handle and push the door open, then scan the oversized room.

Strange.

A large, rectangular table stands in the middle of the enormous space. Floor-to-ceiling glass panels line one wall. Normally, they would allow me to see the skyscrapers outside and some tiny, little cars, too.

But today, the conference room is dark. The blinds are drawn.

It’s quiet, too. Other than the sound of my footsteps as I enter the room, I hear nothing.

No Mr. Foster.

All of a sudden, there’s a click behind me. The lights switch on all around me.

“Surprise!” a chorus of voices shout, all at once.

Out of nowhere, heads spring up from behind and under the conference table. I see grinning faces staring at me with twinkles in their eyes.

Damn it. It’s a trap.

“Happy birthday!”

I force a smile as my colleagues sing the all-too-familiar birthday song. Tracy from HR holds up a chocolate cake on both her hands, the candles casting a warm, flickering yellow glow onto her face.

It wouldn’t be polite to run out of the room, letting the door slam shut behind me, even though that’s exactly what my instincts tell me to do.

Melinda from Legal puts her hand on my shoulder and gently pushes me closer to the table.

“Blow out the candles,” Tracy says with an excited grin as the song ends, and she puts the cake on the side of the table closest to me.

I do as they want, keeping a smile pasted on my face and looking down at the cake, letting my straight, red hair cover my face like a veil.

Tears prick my eyes, and I hope they don’t notice any outward signs of me wanting to cry. That would be a total buzzkill.

They’re being nice. I should appreciate their effort. They have no idea they’re only reminding me of the worst day of my life. The day when I lost everything.

It’s not their fault. I’ve never told them. I don’t talk about it anymore. It’s not like anyone can help me.

I blow out the candle and smile, keeping my gaze down as clicks and flashes from my colleagues’ phone cameras go off. I take a deep breath and blink away my tears before I lift my gaze and flash everyone the happy smile they expect.

“Thank you so much, everyone,” I say. “You didn’t have to.”

Seriously. You didn’t. You’d be doing me a favor if you pretended like this was just another day.

“Aww . . . But, we had to, Harper,” Melinda says. “It’s your birthday and you’re stuck at work. It’s the least we can do.”

“Yeah. I’m sorry we couldn’t approve your leave today. I’m sure there are better things you could be doing than staying here in the office,” Tracy adds.

I try my best to pretend it’s someone else’s birthday as Tracy, who has taken on the role of the person-in-charge for the cake, distributes paper plates with generous slices on them.

“So, twenty-four, huh?” Tracy gives me a smile. Working in HR, she knows exactly how old I am.

“Yup.” I cut my slice of the cake with the side of the fork and put it in my mouth. It’s creamy and sweet, and I’m sure it’s perfectly good, but I can’t taste anything. I never have much appetite on my birthday. Not since my nineteenth, anyway.

“Must be nice to be young.” Melinda sighs as she shovels more cake into her mouth. “I’m telling you, twenty-five is when you start to age super quickly. Before you know it, you’re thirty-two and worrying about the lines forming under your eyes.”

I laugh.

“I’m sure you have a crazy party planned. I hope you’ll be able to postpone it until the weekend. I really feel bad about not being able to let you take the day off,” Tracy says.

Ha. Party. As if I’d be in the mood for that on my birthday.

“Don’t worry about it,” I say. “I can go . . . celebrate on the weekend.”

“Do you have a hot date?” Melinda asks. “A boyfriend waiting for you at home?”

I shake my head.

“I never hear you mention spending your weekends with guys,” Tracy says.

“Yeah. It’s been a while since I had a boyfriend,” I say through the lump in my throat.

“Oh? How long?” Melinda asks.

“Five years,” I say softly, hoping the murmur of conversation in the conference room will drown out my reply. I know they’re going to make a big deal out of it.

“Five years?” Melinda widens her eyes. “That’s a long time to be single.”

“Well, most of the guys in this office are married,” Tracy says. “And we do work her to the bone. It’s no wonder she doesn’t have time to date.”

“Yeah. I just want to focus on my career right now,” I say, sticking to my usual line.

Tracy and Melinda nod their heads.

It’s an answer most people can understand. The kind that won’t invite more questions.

“So, after all my hard work, does Mr. Foster even know I exist?” I ask, trying to change the subject.

“Unfortunately, no. That was just a lie to get you to come here ASAP.” Tracy laughs. “Don’t worry, though. It’s not you. He doesn’t spend enough time in the office to know anybody, except for the staff members who have been here forever.”

“I think he is in the building today, though. I saw him walking into his office just before I came in here.” Melinda pauses. Looking at me, she says, “You know what? There was a cute guy who went in with him. He looked like he’d be perfect for you.”

“Oh, don’t worry about me.” I give her a polite smile.

Seriously. I don’t actually have a problem meeting guys. I meet guys, alright. I’ve just never met anyone who could take my mind off him.

People think I’ll get over it quickly since I was so young when it happened. But, how can I? I hit the jackpot on my first try and nobody has even come close to making me feel the way he did.

“I don’t worry about you. It’s just that I’m married with kids now, and I want to live vicariously through you.” Melinda laughs and touches my shoulder. “But, Harper, you really should see this guy. He was gorgeous.”

The guy could look like Chris Hemsworth, and it still wouldn’t matter.

“Which guy was this?” Tracy asks.

“I’ve never seen him before,” Melinda says. “Believe me, I’d remember a face like that. Not to mention . . . that ass.”

“Melinda!” Tracy laughs.

“If you saw him, you’d understand.” Melinda’s manicured fingernails part the slats of the dark wood blinds. “Oh, there he is now. He’s walking out of Mr. Foster’s office. Come quick!” She waves us closer, keeping her eyes glued to the target.

Tracy steps toward the window and stands beside Melinda. “Ooh . . .” she says as she motions for me to join them.

I don’t need to see this guy to know that I won’t be interested, but I play along.

Since my nineteenth birthday, it seems like I only do things to play along with what people expect of me anyway. I haven’t done anything to enjoy myself in a long time.

Everything I do has been a ruse to keep up appearances, to make it seem like I’m normal. Functioning.

I slide up to the window and peek outside through the blinds.

As usual, I see the spacious office floor that’s sparsely populated by chunky, wooden furniture and big, impressive paintings.

Mr. Foster’s office door is ajar. He’s shaking the hand of a guy, who has his back to us.

My heart skips a beat . . . but I ignore it. Over the years, I’ve learned to pay no attention to that clenching in my chest. I’ve had to.

Because, even though the way the man’s leather jacket pulls snugly across his broad back reminds me of him, I know it’s not him.

It can’t be him.

I’ve had moments like this countless times before.

It’s never him.

Okay, breathe, I tell myself. Inhale for five counts. Hold it in for five counts. Exhale through the mouth for five counts. Repeat.

Even as my heart rate returns to normal, my eyes remain glued to the tall, dark, mysterious figure. I can’t stop staring. Luckily, neither can my co-workers.

“Ooh, he’s turning around,” Melinda says.

Everything happens in slow motion as the man lets go of Mr. Foster’s hand and takes a step back. His side profile comes into view, and my jaw drops. My breath catches in my throat.

Mark.

I swallow, but the lump in my throat remains. I clasp my hand over my mouth and bite down, hard, on my bottom lip before I let out a gasp—or worse, a sniffle.

It’s not Mark, I tell myself the same thing I always do when this happens.

My therapist taught me to take a step back and analyze the situation with a clear head.

It can’t be Mark. It can’t possibly be Mark.

He looks so much like Mark, though. I squint and zoom in on the details.

His hair is different. Mark used to have neat, tightly cropped hair. The man—the moving, breathing man in front of me—has an unruly mess on his head and thick facial hair growing along his sharp jawline.

But it’s the same dark shade. And it has the same slightly wavy texture to it. I remember how I used to tease Mark when his hair grew long enough for the waves to show.

The same steel-gray eyes. The same broad chest. The same long legs. And yet, there’s something different about this man. I get the feeling he wouldn’t care if I teased him about his waves.

Still, the man walks exactly the same way Mark used to. He’s got the same air of quiet confidence Mark used to have. Like he doesn’t care what the world thinks of him. Like he knows exactly who he is, and everyone else will just have to deal with it.

But, he scares me—and not just because his very presence suggests something is irreparably wrong with the universe. It’s not because of his large, muscular frame either.

He stands by the elevator door. In a few seconds, he’ll leave. And I might never see him again. The thought fills me with both dread and relief.

I can’t explain it. But something in my gut tells me he’ll hurt me.

It’s twisted, but this chilling fear in the bottom of my stomach makes me want to reach out my hand through the wooden slats of the blinds, through the glass, and through the yards of office space between us, until my fingers touch him. Until my hand presses on his chest and feels his heart beating. Until I get close enough for him to inflict pain on me.

It’s been too long since I felt anything at all. I’d do whatever it takes to feel something. Even if it’s unbearable, excruciating pain.

The shiny elevator door opens, and the man steps inside, out of my view.

But something tells me I’ll see him again. Soon.