The clacking keys of my keyboard are the soundtrack by which I now live my life. The sound, which had been soothing what seems such a short time ago, is now agonizing. I can’t deny some feeling of loss, though I realize it’s strange to be so sullen about a potential plan ruined—especially considering that the plan was doomed to fail from the start.

I should feel some sort of pleasure from the crushed look Dillon gave me as I left his apartment without a second glance, straight out of his life, for good. Instead, I feel a strange sort of remorse. I don’t miss him, per se…I just miss the job.

Granted, now that I look back, there was something endearing about his enchantment with me. I know I’m not as good of an actress as I’d like to fancy myself, and my feeling of hatred for him had been so intense, it was nearly impossible to obscure. I use the past tense when I refer to my hatred for the man, realizing now that I’ve potentially damaged him.

While the thought would have brought me some measure of delight in the past, I find myself feeling…bad.

Dillon’s ignorance regarding the effect he has on people’s lives had gone on far too long, and that’s not necessarily something I regret bringing up to him so harshly. I just can’t help feeling as if I had been on the verge of insanity to want him to suffer so badly. It had been strictly business from his perspective, until things began to get personal just recently.

The image of his stricken expression haunts me, but I know the chance of fixing this whole terrible situation has been flushed neatly down the drain.

A smile works its way onto my face as I stare off into the vacant space in front of me. For a billionaire playboy, he’s certainly a rather clueless one. I suppose he thought I was simply playing hard to get. In a way, I suppose I was, though that hadn’t been my intent. I won’t lie and say I’d consider dating him just because I feel bad about how things ended, but…in another lifetime, we might have worked together. Is that silly?

Of course, a man like Dillon Bradshaw would never know I exist, had the catalyst of my downward spiral not been enacted. It seems a wonder even now—what did he see in his snarky housekeeper?

I’ve always had a rather dry sense of humor, defaulting to sarcasm and snide remarks to obscure my insecurities. Never before have I been looked at in the way Dillon looked at me. While I realize his feelings can’t have been much more than a skin-deep infatuation, the thought of his boyish smile upon seeing me every morning sends pangs through my heart.

I’m still angry. I think I’ll always hold some anger towards the situation. Now that I’ve had time to think, however, I can come to terms with the fact that it was just business.

That’s how it needs to remain, from this point on. I can’t afford to entertain silly thoughts about some cold and calculating businessman, who is likely considering how to have me arrested at this very moment. The problem with that thought is the fact that I know better. Dillon has likely never been the cold and heartless business mogul that I’d seen the day I was fired. The man that I hated, the man I thought that he was, never existed.

In his place, would I have done the same thing?

It does little good to think too deeply about it now. I have enough money to pay my rent for this month, but I have to go back to scouring the job boards. Resentment bubbles up in me, although it is directed towards myself this time. If I’d simply done the job required of me, I would have it pretty easy. The pay I received for the maid job is much more than I’ve ever been offered for another job. Considering how neat the man keeps his home, it was relatively easy work, as well.

Breathing a weary sigh, I turn my attention back to the computer screen. I’ve submitted my resume to several temp agencies, and I can only hope that it’s very clear that I’m willing to take literally any job they throw at me. I need a way to get by, and a temp job may have a chance to lead to a permanent position.

It’s unlikely I’ll ever find another job in the finance world, since I double-crossed the most well-known businessman in the field. Hell, Dillon may very well be the best known businessman in the country.

My computer dings, indicating that I’ve received a new email. I glance towards my inbox, curling my toes in anticipation. The pop-up box declares that it’s a message from one of the agencies I applied to, offering me a job with a need for urgent placement. Giddiness creeps up in me, and for a moment, the billionaire is forgotten. I open my inbox, clicking on the email and scanning the attached document for information.

Slowly but surely, the happiness begins to drain away.

When I say I’ll take any crappy job, I don’t mean a job literally cleaning crap. Apparently, the city needs someone to clean the public restrooms in the city park. The pay is as deep in the toilet as the job itself, but I’m not really at a place where I can afford to turn down any job offers. I swallow my pride, typing a response to the agency.

Leaning back in my chair, I press the send button before glancing towards my window. The view is mostly of the side of a concrete building, but a sliver of sunlight peeks out from around the building during a few hours in the mornings. Some may say there is some symbolism in that glimmer of light, a tiny bit of hope for the future, but I’ve long since given up on things getting better.

I close my eyes, my mind drifting to the view from Dillon’s penthouse. From his window, you can gaze out across the entire city. You can even see the slightly wooded area on the outskirts of town—at least, until the trees are plowed down to make room for additional apartment complexes. Still, in spite of how industrialized it is, the view is rather enchanting at dusk. Near nightfall, the city is alight with towers that reach towards the sky, the entirety of said buildings covered in windows where the lights never seem to be dimmed.

This city never sleeps. Sometimes, I wonder how I manage to sleep at night with all the hustle and bustle. I’ve always craved action, though I prefer said action to be presented in the form of a particularly hard case at the office. I remember working long nights at Stratton and Company, the delight that rushes through my body when I’ve finished a job well done.

Once again, I think of Dillon and the cushy job I had working as his maid. I can’t help but wonder if he’s thinking of me, too. Doubtful. The billionaire has probably already forgotten my name. I can picture him, flirting with a new maid who doesn’t give him snide looks or try to sabotage his life.

I don’t know why that thought seems to carry so much weight, placing a burden straight on my chest. Even less obvious are my reasons for thinking about him so much. I try to shake off thoughts of him, freeing my mind as much as I’m able.

My computer dings again, and as hopeful as I am that it’s another temp agency, I’m once again disappointed to see the terms of my poo profession outlined for me. Sighing, I note where I’m intended to meet for the interview. It’s some distance away, and for a moment, I forget that I couldn’t even get my car to start the last time I tried. The thought strikes me suddenly as I begin making my way downstairs, however.

Groaning in irritation, I order a cab through the app on my phone. I’m told that I’ll be picked up in around ten minutes, and realizing I have very little to do but wait, I continue to make my way downstairs. Perhaps I’ll feel better once I’m out in the sunlight. I have my doubts, but I can at least pretend to have an ounce of positivity left within me.

Stepping into the sunny day, I shield my eyes from the sun as I lean against the exterior of my apartment building. As my back touches the concrete, I’m vaguely aware of a slight squishing sensation on the back of my shirt. I jolt upright, lurching away from the building only to see a half-chewed wad of gum stretched between myself and the surface of the building. I struggle to swallow a scream, reaching around to my back with the intent of ridding myself of my sticky passenger.

“Yuck,” I mutter, feeling vaguely nauseous as the gum squishes between my fingers. Another miserable moan spills from my lips, and I make an attempt to wipe the sticky saliva and gum mixture off my fingers.

“Miss Law?” a voice inquires abruptly, and I glance towards the street, expecting to see the taxi I’d called for.

Instead, there is a well-dressed man standing beside a limousine. The windows are blacked out, and while I have a sneaking suspicion of who might be inside the extravagant vehicle, I have no way of truly knowing. Gritting my teeth in irritation, I walk purposefully towards the man, who I can only presume is the limo driver.

“That’s me,” I answer brusquely, glancing towards the car.

A familiar guilt begins to boil in my gut, and the nausea I’ve been feeling washes over me even more intensely. I must be getting somewhat pale, as the limo driver reaches out with a gloved hand and removes the gum from my shirt. I manage to mutter my thanks, rummaging in my purse for some hand sanitizer.

“I can provide you with a napkin as soon as you get in the car. Your former boss would like to speak to you, and I’m under the impression that it’s a rather urgent matter,” he explains.

I try to ignore the sudden lurch of my heart, torn between irritation and delight at the thought of seeing the man I had attempted to ruin. The fact that he is probably here to rub my nose in my misstep seems almost secondary.

Admittedly, the measure of pride I still hold is miniscule. In all likelihood, it has been ripped away just as quickly as the wad of gum has been ripped off of my shirt. I draw my lip between my teeth, looking up as a taxi pulls up in front of my apartment. I feel bad for a moment, knowing that the area isn’t on the normal cab route, and for good reason.

Living in this particular apartment complex isn’t exactly something I should be proud of. There’s a shooting or a stabbing nearly every other week, with the occasional drug bust spattered here and there on weekends. To say I keep my door locked tight would be an understatement. It’s all I can afford, though, and it’s better than sleeping on a park bench.

In any case, it’s unusual to call a cab here, as most drivers usually give the area a wide berth. It’s not like I can just tell the guy to leave without compensating him for wasting his time. Granted, I haven’t gotten in the taxi yet or greeted the driver…

Ultimately, it’s a matter of whether I truly want to get in this limousine with Dillon. It could go either very badly, or, it could go great. While I’m erring on the side of this being an awful decision, I can’t bear to leave things on these terms. Swallowing my pride, I glance towards the limousine driver. I manage a half-hearted smile, reaching up to touch my hair.

“Do I look all right?” I inquire softly, and he hesitates for a moment.

“You would look much prettier if you were to smile, Miss Law,” he finally says, offering me a smile.

I narrow my eyes, weighing the option of telling him to shove it. Sure, he has a reason to smile—he works for the richest man in the state. I mean, just because I ruined that chance for myself, doesn’t mean he should go flaunting his happiness around!

“I’ll take that into consideration,” I mumble, managing a half-smile as the driver opens the door.

Steeling myself, I duck down so that I can slide inside. While I’m not surprised to see who my company will be, there’s something about his presence that sends mixed feelings through my body. Dillon turns to me with a soft smile, and I feel my heart bang frantically against my ribs.

Well, it couldn’t get much worse.