“She’s my employer, and she’ll be fine,” I say tersely. Tanya immediately seems to regret asking and I feel a little guilty for my attitude. It’s not her fault that Jessica is . . . well, Jessica. “She’s just had a bad day,” I explain as we step onto the next floor. “So she started happy hour a little early.”

Tanya doesn’t say anything, but I see her eyes dart quickly to the wall clock. It’s not even two.

“I’m her personal assistant,” I explain. Obviously I’m not required to start up a conversation with this woman, but I’m feeling anxious and chatty.

“Oh,” she says, pleasantly enough. “That sounds like . . . challenging work.”

I giggle and Tanya tries to suppress a smile before giggling too. “We all have to start somewhere,” she reasons as she walks me past the featureless white-faced mannequins to a collection of dresses. She stands back, waiting for me to make a selection.

But I can’t. I thought I could just grab a dress and be done with this, but now, staring at rows and rows of all these elegant, expensive gowns . . . I can’t even get myself to touch them. It’s one thing to help Jessica shop, but now that I’m confronted with the idea of getting something for myself—something from Saks—it’s just sort of intimidating.

It’s funny if you think about it. I brazenly went after one of the most powerful families in New York, but now I’m standing here, overawed by a bunch of dresses on a rack.

Tanya’s watching me and I can see the flash of understanding when I meet her eyes. “Why don’t I pick a few things out for you and we’ll go from there.”

I nod, grateful for the rescue. As Tanya steps forward, I feel my phone buzzing in my purse. I reach in and see that I have a text from Travis: Where are you?

I step away from Tanya as she goes through the gowns and text back: Jessica wanted to go shopping. She insisted.

I could lie, but what’s the point? My phone buzzes again.

I did not give you permission.

I suppose the point would have been to avoid this conversation.

She wouldn’t take no for an answer. Most of the shopping is for Mrs. Gable. I’m just here to carry her bags.

Ten seconds after sending that text I get a call.

“I told you—” he begins, but I interrupt.

“I have the phone records.” I walk a little farther from the dress section to an area where there’s no one around to overhear me.

“Then why don’t I have them?” he snaps.