“Good. Make sure you congratulate Allegra when you see her. She worked hard for that trophy.”

The direct hit caused me to wince. She acted like I didn’t know how to treat my own daughter. “Of course.”

We said goodbye and hung up.

I sagged over my desk. Tension knotted my stomach and squeezed my lungs, compressing my breath. No, I would not allow this to happen again. The last attack must have been a freak occurrence. Too much stress, too little sleep, too many cups of coffee. I had a thousand excuses for the crippling anxiety that had washed through my body last week and driven me to my knees, fighting for breath. Thank God it had happened when I was alone in my office, where it would remain a secret. But even now, just the thought of another breakdown clenched my muscles in fear.

I closed my eyes, fighting to slow my rapid heartbeat. For a few frantic moments I couldn’t breathe, and I tried not to lose it, but then the air hit my lungs and I gulped it down gratefully.

What was happening to me lately? I’d always thrived in stressful situations, but maybe the Lexi’s Lemonade account was bothering me more than I thought. Maybe after I put in the necessary hours and secured the campaign, I’d stop having these ridiculous attacks.

Yes, I’d just control it for now. Lately my nights were spent staring up at the ceiling and worrying. My body had begun to rebel, and I had no time for it. Next month, I’d see a doctor and get fixed up. It would all be fine.

I grabbed a bottle of water and took a few sips while my mother’s words still churned in my brain. She’d be the first one to crow I told you so if she knew about my anxiety attacks and would probably cite my refusal to spend time on my health and appearance as the cause instead of old-fashioned work.

Even at seventy-five, my mother was beautiful, with firm, smooth skin in a gorgeous olive color; thick hair that had once been coal black but had turned to gray; and a trim, lean build that never seemed to thicken, even with her advanced years. She took pride in her appearance and was always tugging at my hair or begging me to wear makeup.

I’d inherited none of my mother’s fine traits. My hair was pin straight and limp, so I’d begun wearing it short, with a shaggy, fashionable cut. Even my attempts at highlighting failed at coaxing the dirty-blond strands to sparkle, but I invested in a top-notch stylist so at least the color had some range. My eyes were plain brown. Not brown with gold specks, or an inky depth to give them more mystery. Just mud brown.