I squeeze the edge of my desk, watching my boss stroll back across the office, and I will not cry.

I will not cry.

I will not cry.

“This is for the best,” Galen says softly ten minutes later, his voice floating across the room. Like we never stopped talking.

“Uh-huh.” I slip my earbuds in, one by one. No point straining to hear that elevator anymore. “For the best.”

Four

Galen

It has been six days since I saw Kara, and I deserve some kind of award. Is there an Oscar equivalent for moody employers? I’d win the self control category—apart from that one damnable slip, anyway.

Because being away from my sweet assistant for this long… it’s torture. No other way to describe it.

I go to bed thinking of Kara, then wake up from dreams about her. I eat my stupid grapefruit every morning and want to talk to her so badly, it tastes twice as sour as usual.

I linger over every single email I write her like I’m crafting a sonnet, and whenever my phone buzzes, I jump out of my skin.

Kara.

It’s ridiculous that I’ve been driven this low. Forced to this extreme—banished from my own office because I don’t trust myself to keep my hands off her.

I bet she’s found someone else she prefers already. Someone her own age.

Fuck. Don’t want to think about that.

“This way, please, Mr Onasis. We’re so thrilled to work with you today.”

I trail a tiny woman with a black pixie cut across the Titan magazine lobby, draining the last dregs of my take-out coffee. Rain lashes the street outside, and my coat is wet and heavy against my shoulders.

Kara was right. This profile is a good idea, and not only to raise the profile of Onasis Studios. It’s also a much-needed distraction; a way to keep me from pining after her all day from my apartment like a lovesick schoolboy.

They can dress me up in whatever ridiculous outfits they want, as long as it takes my mind off Kara.

“Your assistant is here already.”

I grunt in response, following the pixie-haired woman through bustling corridors and past busy open plan offices. I ordered a temp from the studios to come over and make the notes that Kara usually would. They won’t be anywhere near as competent, but they’ll do, whoever they are.

“Eighteenth floor,” my guide tells me when we reach an elevator, pressing the button as we cram inside. This building is jammed full of crowds and writhing with frenetic energy—the complete opposite to the oasis of calm in my olive tree grove. Everyone is dressed in high fashion and tapping furiously on a tablet or smart watch. “Here we go.”

This is not my first rodeo. I’ve done plenty of magazine features before, because Kara’s right: they’re excellent PR. So I’m not taken aback when my guide leads me into the studio; I’m not intimidated by the giant spotlights and camera rigs and racks of designer clothing. There are dozens of people in the room, ready to watch me play dress up in someone else’s clothes and glower for the camera, but that’s not what stops my heart.