I look at my phone for the seven hundredth time in the last hour. Still no reply from Hannah.

I had called her a dozen times since last night, and messaged her a couple of times as well. I’d even thought about going over to her apartment, but I figured I would give her a chance to get her thoughts together. She would eventually understand that that kiss — if you could even call it that — had meant nothing. Less than nothing.

She has to.

I can’t even fathom the idea that Lara might come between us this way. It’s just wrong on so many levels. I won’t let it happen.

I glance one more time at my phone. Still nothing.

With a sigh, I decide to start going through my actual emails. I’ve only looked at Lovemail all morning. I haven’t even looked at the coverage from last night’s launch.

Then again, I haven’t exactly minded avoiding that. Part of me is dreading reading the reviews. I’m sure there will be at least a couple panning the new collection — Lara will surely be one of them, especially after I’d laid into her last night after Hannah had run off.

I throw my phone down on the desk and open up my work laptop. The first thing I notice is that I have an inordinate number of new emails. I mean, I always get a lot of email, and I know I’ve been avoiding it for almost twelve hours now but still — this seems excessive.

I quickly scan through them — tons of Google Alerts, which I was expecting after last night. But tons of emails from names I recognize — reporters I’ve dealt with, suppliers we deal with, even a shit ton of email from people within the company. A bunch from our HR head, from our legal counsel, from accounting.

I start clicking through the personal emails first. My stomach starts to sink as I read them — everyone keeps talking about a story, asking if it’s true, if I have any comment.

I switch from the personal emails to the Google Alerts, but there’s so much noise that I can’t find what I’m looking for.

Finally I just hop over to Google, type in Loft & Barn, and hit enter.

There it is, right at the top, in the news section.

“Loft & Barn Going Under?”

I start skimming the article.

“Last night, national home decor powerhouse Loft & Barn debuted their new fall collection and it would be a kindness to call the reception lukewarm. Designer and head creative Luke Whittaker’s usual stylistic flare is nowhere to be seen in the new collection. Instead, the pieces represent the worst of modern consumerism. They are cheap, uninspired, and lacking even the basic Swedish chic of Ikea products. To say they would be at home in a strip mall law office is to do a disservice to strip mall lawyers everywhere.

Inside sources say the company’s new direction is entirely the work of CEO Trent Whittaker, who has been pushing Loft & Barn to compete with mass producers and major market players like Wayfair and the aforementioned Ikea. But what this Whittaker brother has overlooked is the skill brought to the table by brother Luke. Where the company could have gone high-end, commanding higher prices and more prestige, if not a greater market share, the CEO has instead taken the company towards nose-diving prices and knock-off quality products.

Paired with the company’s recent decision to scale back retail operations, these moves signal a company desperate to avoid bankruptcy. Indeed, these same inside sources indicate that the company is also contemplating other expense-reduction measures, including potential lay-offs…”

It goes on like that, but my eyes cross and refuse to read anymore.

How in the fuck did they know all this? I had expected some critics to pan the collection — I knew it wasn’t great work but there were people out there who would like it. But to accuse me of forcing Luke’s hand … to mention the layoffs…

Someone had fed them this information. But nobody knew this much about our inner workings except me and Luke.

And Hannah, I realize with a start.

It’s been so long since I confided in a woman about my business concerns, that I’d almost forgotten about the things I’d said to her in confidence.

And the things she overheard, I remember, thinking back to the day we went out to Luke’s. She had heard us arguing that day. Me telling Luke to scale the collection back to something we could pump out in less time and for less money.

I flip back to the article and scroll up, looking for the byline. Panic is racing through me. I silently pray that it isn’t Kevin Hartley. Anyone but Kevin Hartley.

But there it is, in black and white: Article by Kevin Hartley.

The guy Hannah had been talking to last night at the launch.

I don’t want to believe it. Hannah had always seemed so sweet — I had thought she’d be the last person to do something like this. When Lara had done it to me, I’d been hurt — but not entirely shocked. Lara had always been a schemer, willing to do whatever she had to, to get ahead. Hannah just wasn’t like that.

Or at least she hadn’t seemed that way.

I think of the expression on her face when she saw Lara kiss me though, the hurt and betrayal that had been written so plainly across her features.

Maybe she had seen this as a way to get back at me.

I had to talk to her.

I click open the Lovemail app one more time, but unsurprisingly, I don’t have a response from her.

I think about calling her, but I know she won’t pick up. I have to force her to talk to me.

I push my chair back from my desk and stand up. The woman works twelve floors down from me… she’s just going to have to face me in person.

* * *

When I get to the eighteenth floor, I stride through it with purpose — until I realize I have no idea where Hannah sits.

I stop in front of the desk of a blonde girl whose cubicle nameplate says Sloane McAdam.

“Do you know where Hannah Cole sits?”

“Mr. Whittaker …” she stammers, glancing nervously around her. She licks her lips. “She sits right over there but …”

I glance over at the empty desk Sloane is pointing to. There’s no one sitting there, but I can tell right away that it’s Hannah’s desk — the yellow coffee mug with a ceramic bird on the handle, the collection of purple pens, even a picture of her and Ally pinned to the grey fabric of the cubicle wall.

“But what?” I snap.

“She isn’t here.”

“Where is she? Sick?” I feel my nerves start to jangle again. Is she really sick? Or just faking sick because she doesn’t want to admit what she’s done?

“Um…” Sloane is still looking around wildly. “Maybe you should talk to our boss. Charlene. She sits over there.”

“Fine.” I snap. I’m obviously getting nowhere with this girl. I walk past Hannah’s empty desk and over to Charlene’s office. Her face lights up when she sees me but it quickly flattens when she sees the expression on my face.

“Mr. Whittaker! What a pleasure. What can I do for you?”

“Hannah Cole.”

“Oh. Yes.” She smooths down her bleached blonde hair. She looks as if she’s steeling herself for something. Finally she takes a deep breath.

“Ms. Cole is no longer employed in this department. Regardless of her relationship with you, she has proven herself disloyal to this team. I can’t work with an employee I can’t trust, Mr. Whittaker. I hope you’ll honor my decision to dismiss her.”

Disloyal to the team… something turns and cracks inside of me. Maybe I had misread Hannah. Maybe she was more scheming than I’d given her credit for. I knew she and Charlene had butted heads before, but I only had Hannah’s side of the story.

And the hard truth was that someone had given Kevin Hartley that information. It wasn’t me, and it wasn’t Luke. Which only left Hannah.

“Thank you, Charlene.” I twist my tie once. “I will respect your decision. Have a good day.”

I leave the office. I can feel everyone’s eyes on me as I make my way back to the elevator. I hesitate just for a second at Hannah’s desk and then reach out and grab one of her purple pens, stuffing it in my jacket pocket. I look up and see Sloane staring at me, her blue eyes wide. I glare at her and she hastily turns back to her computer.

I make my way back to my office and slam the door, throwing the stupid purple pen down on my desk.

So this is how it ends … betrayed again, played as a fool.

I feel the edges of my heart, the ones that had just started to soften, harden once more.