Her emails filtered in one after the other, the last of which was a message from her editor, Ed.

While her aunt’s voice rolled in the background, the content of what Frieda said didn’t register. In fact, the only thing that registered was next week’s weeknight schedule beaming back at her and the volcano-size eruption bubbling up from her belly.

“Fuck!” Cassie tossed the phone to the table, shot to her feet and started pacing.

Frieda planted her hands on her hips. “Now what?”

“One of the main anchors is out on Tuesday.” Cassie spun, started a trek back toward the table and flicked her hand toward her phone. “They gave the fill-in to Lizbet.”

“So? You’re on vacation. Last time I checked, that precludes you getting called into work unless it’s some kind of massive crisis. And besides—I’ve seen that girl’s work. She’s got nothing on you. You’ll get back to work and things will go back to normal.”

Before Cassie could turn for a fresh loop, Frieda snagged her by the arm and whirled Cassie so she was face-to-face with her aunt. She grabbed Cassie by both shoulders. “Baby girl, you’ve got to stop this. You can say it’s your editor pushing you all you want, but we both know that’s not the case. You have nothing to prove. You’re doing a job you’re good at even if it isn’t the one you really want. One you have an uncanny knack for. Don’t ruin it chasing your parents’ approval.”

“It’s not about approval. It’s about being a grown-up.”

“Really? Because the Cassie I know and love wouldn’t undercut someone to get ahead no matter how good the story might be. When it’s time for you to find a story, you’ll find it. But if you keep chasing and trying to force things to happen, one of these days you’re going to end up with more regret than you can stomach.”

A two-by-four to the gut couldn’t have had more impact. And the truth that rang in the wake of her aunt’s comment was as loud and resonant as a giant gong.

You already have regret.

A lot of it.

She’d known the second she’d conducted her first interview about Sergei that she’d knee jerked by avoiding Kir when she should have simply asked him questions directly. Knew that, while living with her aunt at the ripe age of twenty-five might make Cassie a financial hanger-on, moving out had left Frieda alone when all she wanted was love and company.

On the table, the leather portfolio sat slightly askew, the tip of Kir’s picture poking out of the top.

Cassie slid back into her chair and opened the book. In the picture, Kir’s face was just slightly in profile, his attention and laughter aimed at a giant of a man just out of view. This she’d learned was his partner in whatever it was they did, Roman Sokolov.

Yes, there were times when she’d been with Kir that he’d been demanding. Commandeering, the way a mobster might be. But for the most part, she just remembered how comfortable it had been to be with him. How engaging he’d been. How attentive and focused.