But it was never her money I cared about. The only time I ever dared to ask her to pay for something, it was for someone else. I admire my mother’s mission and I can see all the good she does. But as her daughter, I wish I had gotten just a tiny sliver of the attention she gives to the kids she helps all over the world. I was basically raised by nannies, having never met my father and having no other family alive.

“Lana? Did I lose you?”

As if she ever had me. Or wanted me. I almost laugh. “I’m still here, but I gotta go. Good luck with the school.” I don’t wait for her to respond, knowing there’s no I love you or Take care, honey coming my way. I let the silence of the car settle me as I head toward work.

Luckily, the office of Always Take Fountain—the hipster-chic web magazine I write for, name derived from the famous Bette Davis quote—is only a ten-minute drive from my house. I basically scored the Holy Grail of LA commute times and I’ve never been more thankful for it.

Unfortunately, ten minutes today is ten minutes too long. Ten minutes is just enough time for me to replay the traumatic events from the night before on a loop in my brain. And it’s not enough time to figure out how I’m going to spin the whole breakup situation to the small, tight-knit group of colleagues I’m about to face. Colleagues who are expecting me to come in with a big-ass rock on my finger, not a big-ass hangover.

And I love my team of writer friends. Seriously, they are some of the best coworkers anyone could ask for. But, aside from Natasha, my editor/boss/CEO/mentor, they’re all single and tend to live vicariously through my relationship milestones.

“Careful what you wish for, bitches,” I mutter as I pull into a parking spot.

I push through the door to the wide-open loft space and find it suspiciously quiet. No one sits at the long white table in the center of the room or at any of the small desks scattered around the perimeter. The only people I see are our tech manager Ian and a couple of the behind-the-scenes folks, tucked into their corner on the far side of the room. My Birkenstocks slap loudly across the polished concrete floors, the exposed-brick walls and metal ductwork doing nothing to absorb the sound.

The door to the conference room is closed, which is unusual, and I start to get a sinking feeling in my stomach. I drop my purse on an empty desk and take a couple of steadying breaths. Marching slowly across the room like I’m on my way to the gallows, I tentatively push open the emerald-green door.