I ripped the tabloid headliner off the screen of my computer. ‘Boss fucker’. How original. The little twat. Tuesday had rolled around and I hadn’t heard a thing about the status of my job, so I made my way into work as if I still had one. The press hadn’t let up one bit. Not once over the weekend. They were still standing across the street like a pack of hyenas waiting to try and peg me for a quote. Shoving microphones into my face and begging like dogs in heat for quotes about my supposed full-fledged relationship with Kenneth fucking Weber.

And getting to work wasn’t any better.

There were press and journalists gathered outside of the front of the building. Like they didn’t have anywhere else better to be. The second the spotted my car entering the parking garage, they ran across the road and came straight for me. The security guards at the front of the damn building had to chase me down and usher me in like some sort of fucked up pop culture icon.

Then, there were the looks as I walked to my office.

I tried to ignore them. I tried to ignore the hushed whispers that stopped whenever I walked into an area or down a hallway. I tried to ignore how people slowly shoved their asses to the other side of the fucking elevator like my skin was rotting and falling off my face.

I sat down in my chair at my office and tossed the tabloid headline into the trash can. But that wasn’t even the worst of it. I had anonymous letters sitting on my desk. All sorts of handwriting and on all sorts of cardstock that said the most despicable things.

Did you suck his cock before or after he gave you the job?

It would be nice to earn a vacation to Switzerland after screwing around with my boss.

You’re a disgrace to all women who own the title of ‘secretary’. It’s a job, not a fetish. Get your priorities straight and go find a job somewhere else.

Now random people in the building I didn’t even know were accusing me of the same things those media reporters were. And how in the hell did these things get on my desk anyway? Was Kenneth not in his office?

I looked over at the darkened frosted glass and snickered.

Of course his ass wouldn’t be in work.

Nevertheless, I set on about my day. To make matters even worse, I felt like I had the hangover of the century. I felt nauseous. My head felt like it was splitting into two halves. Food was no longer appetizing and I was struggling to make myself eat. Was it possible I had contracted something from Switzerland? Could that happen? Was their water not filtered the way ours was or something?

I needed to focus.

I needed to get my mind off the toll all the stress was taking on my body.

I took messages and left them for Kenneth as well as tailored his schedule with people who wanted to see him for meetings. Clients from Switzerland that had apparently canceled were looking to have video conferences with him and I snickered. They probably got reemed by their own bosses for canceling on one of the most prominent figureheads in the health and wellness industry.

At least one of us would make it out of this shit alive.

“Tiffany.”

His voice blanketed my ears and I almost looked up at him. But I kept my focus on my computer as much as I could. Pushed through the splitting headache as much as I could. I typed in his scheduled meetings and wrote down ones I needed to reschedule with other people. I made sure the bill on the hotel rooms back in Switzerland were paid. I slid the letters off my desk and into the trash as he stood there, looming over me while his eyes bounced from me to the computer.

“I didn’t know if you were going to come in today,” he said.

But I kept typing away on my laptop, listening to voice messages in one ear and typing into his schedule as the information as fed to me.

“How was your flight back from Switzerland?” he asked.

I deleted all of the voice messages my desk had before a phone call came in.

“Mr. Weber’s office, how can I-? No comment.”

Were they serious? The reporters had my damn desk number?

“Who was that?” Kenneth asked.

I picked up the sticky notes I’d tacked on my desk with numbers I needed to call back and reschedule meetings with.

“Miss Graves, I understand if you don’t want to converse with me personally. But professionally, I’m asking who you the hell was on the other end of that phone call.”

“A reporter, apparently,” I said. “From the Miami Tribunal.”

“I’ll be sure to give them a call and figure out why in the world they feel they can harass my secretary at her desk.”

“Probably because they want to know whether I fucked my way to the top or not.”

“Tiffany.”

I whipped my gaze up to him and allowed my eyes to harden. I ached. I wanted him to take me in his arms and tell me everything would be okay. That my job wasn’t at risk and that my mother would be able to get health insurance and that I wouldn’t be blacklisted like my father had been. But I needed to put distance between us. I needed to get him back at arm’s length.

It was the only way I knew to survive all this.

“Miss Graves,” he said, “I’ll go in and fill a few holes in my schedule, then shoot you the meetings to reschedule. I had a few voicemails from clients back in Switzerland that want video conference calls all of a sudden.”

“They called here as well. They’re already on your calendar,” I said.

“Ah. Well, then well done, Miss Graves. And for the record, if another reporter calls you and asks for a comment, tell them to hold and then patch them into my office.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I’ll be letting them know the legal action I can take for harassing a woman at her station.”

I watched Kenneth walk into his office and his words warmed me. I wasn’t sure why, either. It was like he was trying to protect me. Or defend me. Or something like that. And I got the feeling that bosses didn’t usually do that with their secretaries.

Then again, we didn’t exactly have a traditional professional relationship.

I called my mother and checked up on her a few times, but I was still worried for her. Barricaded in her house and unable to go somewhere. Not like she went anywhere, anyway. But at least she had the option to. Now, because of my idiotic ass, she didn’t have that choice. All she had was that house with the blinds thrown shut.

“Fancy some lunch?”

I jumped in my chair before my eyes flew over to Paige. I ripped my new headset from my ears and threw my arms around her. She was such a sight for sore eyes. That wild blonde hair and that bold-as-fuck makeup. I held her as tightly as I could get her and closed my eyes, willing my tears to stay at bay.

“Come on. We’ll go into the lounge and lock the door,” she said.

The smell of soup and sandwiches hit me the instant I walked into the room, and it turned my stomach. But I didn’t want to be rude. Paige had a serious spread on the table, and I figured I needed to make myself eat something. I’d barely eaten since I landed back in the States, which wasn’t good. I locked the door behind us and quickly took my seat, my stomach up in arms because I hadn’t eaten breakfast. I took a long pull of my orange-mango tea before picking up my sandwich, and the two of us sat there in silence for some time before she broke the ice.

“I know you can get through this,” Paige said.

“I don’t know if I can,” I said with a sigh. “I came in this morning to a bunch of fun little letters on my desk.”

“We work with pricks, Tiffany. They’re just jealous because none of those assholes get to work alongside Kenneth Weber. Or fuck him.”

“Paige.”

“It’s none of my business, but I know you two did. A woman doesn’t look at a man the way you were looking at him in those pictures without something happening behind closed doors.”

“I don’t really want to talk about that,” I said.

“And that’s fine. Just know that I’m not judging you. Hell, I’ve slept with more men than I can think of. And I don’t give a shit. I like sex and I like sex with older men. Who the fuck is anyone else to judge me?”

My eyebrows shot up to my hairline as Paige began to giggle.

“What’s really got you all riled up?” she asked.

I took a bite of my sandwich and sighed, trying to stomach it as much as I could.

“I don’t know if I can work in an environment like this,” I said. “I mean, there were letters. Someone cut out one of the front page tabloids and wrote ‘boss fucker’ on it. Reporters are still on my lawn clamoring for me every chance they get. I don’t feel safe, Paige.”

“So, what? You’re going to quit and give them the satisfaction? Because it’s pretty obvious Mr. Weber hasn’t fired you yet.”

“And I don’t know why. Do you know why?” I asked.

“Maybe because you’re good at your job? Or he likes having you around? Or a combination of both? Did you ever think about that?”

“No, I didn’t. And it isn’t just about the letters or the thing on my computer or any of this. My father’s face…”

I grabbed my tea and took a long gulp as Paige reached out for my arm. Oh, the tea tasted nice. I’d stick to the tea. The tea would help me get the food down.

“I can’t turn on the television without seeing his face. Without my mother reliving what happened to him. We’re cornered in our own home and relegated to nothing except watching movies because every time we turn on the television, my father’s picture is up. And people are talking about his actions at Instatech. Which none of them are true, by the way. I don’t know what happened, but my father didn’t harass those women.”

“Okay,” Paige said. “So you think quitting will suddenly erase all that off the television?”

“The headline will be about me quitting. Not about my father who died from drunkenness after being slandered and wrongfully terminated by his company.”

“No, the headline will then be about how his daughter is walking a similar path,” she said.

“What?”

“Think about it. The media is one big ass attention-whore. If you quit, they’ll say ‘like father like daughter’. Sure, your father was fired. But the point is the two of you no longer work for the same company you two trusted. Then they’ll be breathing down your neck. Watching to see if you turn to alcohol like your father did. If anything, you’ll be giving them fuel for their morning stories and you will have accomplished nothing but making yourself unemployed.”

Holy shit. She had a point.

“I’m sorry for what happened to your father, Tiffany. I really am. I can’t imagine what kind of toll that took on your family. But you need to stick this out and see what happens. Don’t give into the media pressure. That’s the only way to really give it to them.”

I sighed and took another sip of my tea to try and give myself time to think.

“You have to do what’s best for you. In the end, I can’t make you do anything. And neither can some stupid ass reporter. But if I were you in this position, I’d try to stick it out as long as I could. The pay’s great, and if things aren’t awkward between you and Mr. Weber then you haven’t tanked shit with your boss. And you never know. The media might keep digging into this story and bring to light something that they’ll latch onto later on.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“Have you ever watched Nancy Grace?”

“Uh, no. Can’t say I have.”

“She’s like a human detective. She feeds off the curiosity of her viewers and blanket statements that seem to conjure evidence and proof out of thin fucking air. She’s brilliant, and she’s built an entire empire off that kind of stuff. And soon, with her misconstruing everything that happens, the news ends up latching onto something that is so farfetched from the truth that everything else falls into the background.”

“So you’re saying I should let the media run with the story, keep my job, and let them stick their feet in their own mouths?”

“Yep. Let them eat toe jam for breakfast,” she said with a smile. “And if you really want to look on the bright side, then consider this. Not all news stations suck asshole. Some are investigative. If they start digging into this story-- and you know they will-- maybe someone will be able to shed light on Instatech.”

“Wait, you think so?”

“If you really don’t believe your father did any of that shit, then maybe he didn’t. And maybe someone will find that out because this story has been running for so long. Who knows? Maybe all this insanity is a fucking blessing in disguise.”

While I admired Paige’s bubbly personality and appreciated her attempts to cheer me up, I didn’t see any good coming from any of this. My mother was trapped in her home. My co-workers were anonymously harassing me. I kept hearing my phone ringing during my lunch hour, and it was probably more reporters calling for statements or quotes or updates of some sort. Every television I passed by in Casual Recreation’s headquarters had the news going, and every time I looked up at it I saw his face.

My father’s beautiful, loving smile.

And the worst part of it all is that I wanted to go to Kenneth. I wanted to rush into his office and lock his door behind me. I wanted to feel his arms wrap around me and I wanted to accept his help and I wanted to tell him about my flight from Switzerland. Fill him in on my weekend. Ask him to help me with all of this shit going on.

But I couldn’t.

I couldn’t ask him for help because everyone’s reputation was on the line. I couldn’t look his way without it being dissected. I couldn’t go into his office without someone in this building assuming I was about to get down on my fucking knees and take his cock into my mouth.

I couldn’t go to the one person I wanted.

Just like I’d never again be able to go to my father like I wanted.

And it fucking sucked.