As the week went on, the idea of proving anything to Vivian began to seem laughable. Something was going on with her, and Jules didn’t like it.

She wasn’t looking well. Her pixie never had a hair out of place and her lipstick was always perfect, but there was a tired look in her eyes Jules had never seen before. An outsider might not be able to tell, but it seemed obvious to someone who was at Vivian’s beck and call 24/7.

Meanwhile, Jules wasn’t on top of the world either. The Cut had rejected her Jimmy Choo article, and she was too busy to think about her next effort. Back in college, she’d thought breaking through would be easier. She’d written a lot of local pieces and even landed a guest column in The Philadelphia Inquirer about the rise of student housing costs. Turned out investigative journalism wasn’t her forte, but she’d developed an unslakable thirst for writing nonfiction, gravitating toward pieces on fashion and its cultural significance.

Too bad nobody else seemed thirsty for what she had to offer. Next time, she told herself.

As crappy as she felt, Jules still wouldn’t trade her place for Vivian’s. In the middle of a long Thursday, she walked into Vivian’s office just in time to see her rub her hands over her eyes. Her shoulders slumped. She looked utterly miserable, in a Vivian-ish way.

Jules cleared her throat. Vivian started and looked up.

“Um,” Jules said, wondering why she’d even opened her mouth, “you’re good to go for the meeting with Mr. Tavio tomorrow.”

A sour twist of the lips let Jules know how Vivian felt about that. No wonder. It was obviously a half hour set aside for Mr. Tavio to posture, complain, and waste her time with another power move.

“Wonderful,” she said dryly.

“Uh, yes. Do…you want me to get you some coffee?”

Great. No, stupid. If Vivian wanted something, she’d ask for it. You never offered to do things. She didn’t want to hear your voice when she was trying to—

“Water,” Vivian said and looked back down at the photos on her desk as if Jules hadn’t spoken at all.

Jules made it to the mini-fridge by her desk in record time. When she arrived with the Perrier, Vivian didn’t look at her but reached up and took the bottle directly from her hand. Her fingers brushed against Jules’s.

They had never touched before. Jules fought not to snatch her hand back because she felt the shock all the way through her body, which must mean she hadn’t liked it, right? When you touched someone and felt it reverberate from head to toe, that didn’t mean you liked it.

That’d just be idiotic.