I imagined many things, things that set a fire in my heart. It was a fire that scared me, raging brightly enough to threaten my other dream, the one I’d been chasing for what felt like my whole life. Already the edges were singed and smoking, curling away from the heat to save itself.

Already I dreaded every part of my life that wasn’t that bright and sunny dream full of love and belonging and home.

It was madness to consider, a lavish, decadent dream that could never be real. It could never be mine.

Not if I kept moving in the direction I found myself headed. But more and more, I believed Kash was right—my life was not as satisfying as it could be. Somehow, I’d denied myself the knowledge, so entrenched in what was supposed to make me happy that I didn’t realize I was miserable instead.

And the only way out was to make a change so drastic, I couldn’t even speak it aloud. Daydream, sure. But in practice?

That unmentionable thought wrinkled my brow as I exited the shower, and with it, the circle was complete. I’d ridden it around and around like a carousel, and though there was a beginning and an end, there was no getting off. In a few hours, when faced with Addison and the Femmes, I’d start at the beginning. That was probably an ambitious estimate—I was likely to consider it when we kissed goodbye and in the elevator and in the cab too.

But I let myself have that little daydream all the same. It was my favorite way to pass time these days. And now that things had shifted, I suspected my musings would get worse.

We got ready for our day as we always did, kissing our goodbyes in an impolite and irreverent display of affection at the curb before he deposited me into a cab. I smiled to myself the whole way to the office and through the lobby. But at some point before the elevator doors opened on the Archer floor, that smile died a cruel death, forgotten as if it had never been.

I stiffened, steely and cool as I greeted the receptionists and nodded to my coworkers as I passed. Addison was as dark as ever, grilling me on my schedule and the status of the events in my docket. She didn’t micromanage me per se, but she demanded to know everything—literally everything, down to napkin colors and plate patterns—and expected me to relay it to her in every mundane, meticulous detail.

Once that lengthy and unpleasant business was out of the way, I went along with my day in a blur of efficiency and coordination. Everything went perfectly, and I made the mistake of praising myself too soon.

I was at the bakery going over the details of Angelika’s cake when my phone rang.