I think back to the day when I got the call from Denise Holt herself, telling me I was her new assistant. As soon as I put down the phone, I started jumping around the room and shouting like a crazy person. She was my idol. And those first few years, she was so good to me—she taught me everything she knew. Not just about the advertising business, but about life. She listened when I admitted things were getting serious with my mathematician boyfriend. He sounds like a keeper, Abigail. She taught me how to dress, how to smile, and how to be confident.

I still remember standing in the ladies’ room with Denise, the two of us giggling like schoolgirls while I attempted to twist my hair into a chignon. I doubt many people besides me have seen that side of Denise Holt. I haven’t seen it in years.

“Please, Denise.” I’m ready to get down on my knees. “You have to believe me.”

When she raises her blue eyes, that twinge of emotion has disappeared. “I’m sorry, Abigail.”

I’ll have to go over Denise’s head. I’ll have to talk to her boss, and figure out if there’s anything I can do. But it can’t be now because a security guard has arrived to escort me out of the building. They don’t even let me go back to my office. The guard marches me right out to the elevators, in front of everyone. I can hear them whispering.

Everyone knows.

I realize at this moment that I can never return to Stewart Advertising. My reputation has been irreparably tarnished. And what sort of job will I land with this in my history?

As soon as I get out of the building, I hail a taxi back home even though I usually take the subway. I need a taxi. I don’t think I can keep from crying for the length of a train ride. As it is, I sob in the back seat the entire way home. The taxi driver doesn’t comment.

When I get back to the condo, I can hear the water running in the bathroom. Sam must still be home. Thank God. I need someone to talk to about this. He’ll know what to do.

He comes out of the bathroom, his hair still damp from the shower, his face smooth and smelling of aftershave. His eyes light up when he sees me. “Abby! What are you doing home?”

It takes him another half-second to notice the tears in my red, swollen eyes. He sprints across the room, his brow furrowed. “What’s going on? What happened?” Before I can answer, he says, “Is Monica okay?”

“Is Monica okay?” I practically scream at him. “Is that the first thing you ask when you see me crying?”