The morning of my first day back, I'm determined to put on a brave face. I wake up at five – much earlier than usual – and spend the next hour preening myself.

Mulan sits on the ledge of the bathtub and watches as I slip on a dress – beige with a killer black trim. It's long but form-fitting, a dress that says I'm ready for the day, even if it turns out to be terrible. My makeup goes on next, more than I'd usually wear to work, but not enough to look anything but natural. If Milo is determined to get back with his ex, I'm determined to show him what he's missing.

Despite my distaste for public transport, the journey to work helps to calm me. I keep my head down, hands clasped in my lap as the subway jolts me back and forth. At one point, when the subway jerks and someone nearly ends up in my lap, I look up. An old woman stares back, with fluorescent pink lips and silver hair scraped back with a vibrant pink headband. For a moment, I stare hard, trying to decipher where I've seen her before, and then it hits me.

My apartment. The elevator. Milo.

Suddenly, my skin turns clammy. I've been so good at losing myself in the familiarity of routine that I haven't had a moment to think about him. But now, this eccentric, spandex-wearing woman has brought it all back.

She nods a little – a subtle acknowledgment – but doesn't say a word. It's one of the things I'd had to get used to about moving to New York, an unspoken rule that we all seem to follow; don't talk on the subway.

My eyes are on my lap for the rest of the journey. By the time I get to the office, my heart is a fast-pounding drum in my chest – one I can't seem to silence. Regardless, I stand straight, pull back my shoulders, and totter up the slippery steps and through those revolving doors.

A man from second and a woman from fourth are waiting by the elevator. I head toward them, acutely aware of the sound of my heels as they clatter against the floors. We all stare ahead, intently intrigued by our reflections in the door as we shoot up the floors.

A few moments in, in a sick breaking of elevator rules, the pair share a look. Maybe it's stupid, paranoid even, but a part of me feels as if they know what Milo did, and inside they're laughing. As soon as they get out on their respective floors, I breathe a sigh of relief. All I need is to get through this day, and the rest of the week will be fine; I'm sure of it.

The doors slide open, and I step into the aisle. Then I freeze. Not just physically but mentally. My mind goes blank, every thought I've ever had suddenly fading out of existence, and as I stare across the office, right at the man I was certain I loved, I can't breathe.

As though he feels my presence, he turns. Those dark eyes find mine, surprised, at first, then slowly they turn as stormy as that storm at the cabin. My skin grows cold beneath his gaze. I'd always thought Milo hated me before, but the look he's wearing is one I've never seen on him.

This is hate.

It's a look that shakes me right out of this trance and brings back the old Kennedy. I head to my desk, taking my time to set out my things while a red-hot fury builds inside me. What reason does Milo have to hate me? Was I the one caught with texts from an ex? Was I the one who knocked down his every defense just to make it hurt more when I finally attacked? No, that was all him.

By this time, Jess is finally setting up her computer. She looks up and smiles, but a quick glance at Milo, who I'm fervently glaring at, makes her pause. Swiveling to me, she says, "Things look tense between you. How was your romantic getaway?"

"It was fine," I say, but already my eyes start to prickle with tears, "we agreed it was a one-weekend kind of deal, though, what with the promotion and everything."

She waits a beat, and then, "Was this his idea?"

"Actually, it was a mutual agreement. If I get this promotion, I'll be too busy for a boyfriend anyway. Plus, Laurelle clarified that relationships with other floor members won't be tolerated."

She goes quiet for a moment, which is very unlike Jess.

"What's wrong?" I ask.

"Nothing," she says, "I'm just going to miss you, is all."

"We don't even know if I've got it."

"Well, if you have," she says. "I just – I hope it won't affect our friendship, you know? You're the only one on that floor I can actually tolerate. Plus, my thirtieth birthday is coming up soon – that's a milestone. If you missed it because you're Miss High and Mighty on floor seven, I'd probably kill you." Despite her jokes, her voice sounds thick like she's getting upset, and it dawns on me that a promotion is somewhat life-changing. New role, new office, new clients. If I somehow managed to earn this promotion, everything would change, including my friends at work.

"Nothing will change," I say because I mean it. "I promise. And there's no way I'm missing your birthday."

"It better not," she warns, "or I'll come up and drag you kicking and screaming back to six."

I laugh, and we spend the next ten minutes catching up about her Christmas. I'm so lost in her stories about burnt turkey and rotten eggnog that, for a while, I do the impossible and forget about Milo. But as soon as we get back to work, I look across the office at him, forced to remember.

Pissed, I finish responding to my emails before heading to the coffee machine. Like clockwork, Milo gets up and crosses the office until he's standing behind me. I tense, too afraid to turn around, so I don't. He makes no effort to talk to me either, so we awkwardly wait as my coffee drips into the polystyrene cup. When it's ready, I lift it and take a deep breath before turning.

Our eyes meet. He towers over me, arms tightly folded as the two of us face off in some kind of staring contest. But as hard as I try to appear indifferent, I'm struggling. Even before our first kiss at that party, things were never like this. It's like he's standing in front of me, but if I reached out to touch him, my fingers would go straight through. He's a ghost now, one that looks and sounds like Milo but doesn't feel like him.

It hurts.

"Tried calling you," he says, his voice clipped.

"Yeah, I've been super busy."

He steps closer. I tense. "Is this how it's going to be now?"

I swallow hard. It's only been a few days since that weekend together, but I've missed the smell of his cologne. His warmth. I've missed everything. "How did you think it would be, Milo? That I'd read those texts and fall at your feet? Been there, done that."

Eyes dark, he lowers his voice. "Maybe I'm out of line here, but I thought after everything, you'd have given me the chance to explain."

For a second, we don't speak. I'm acutely aware of how close we are standing, how every so often, somebody looks up from their computer to stare at us. But for reasons unknown, I can't bring myself to walk away; this is the closest we've gotten in days.

In my head, I'm questioning everything. What if I misread the situation? What if this is just a misunderstanding? What if I'm wrong? It's clear from his frosty demeanor right now that he's just as hurt too because he's right. I didn't give him the chance to explain, and if he does wind up innocent – small if, but even so – it makes sense he'd be upset.

My heart stutters at the possibility. They're the same kind of thoughts I'd had about Lucas – but despite the warning signs  in my head, a part of me wants to believe him. I open my mouth, to say what I'm not sure, but someone calls my name.

I turn and see one of the minions waiting by the elevator. She beckons me over, a sign that I've been summoned by Laurelle, and my heart almost drops out of my stomach. I glance at Milo, whose expression remains stony as he studies my face before swiftly stepping aside to let me pass. Breath held, I give him one last look before heading down the aisle. Patricia's eyes follow me, narrowed into slits as I step into the elevator. They're the last thing I see before the doors close.

The ride up to seventh is excruciating. Not because I don't enjoy my trips up to Narnia but because I know what this meeting is about, and the anticipation is killing me. The doors slide open, and the minion steps into the corridor first before urging me forward. As I head down the hallway, swept up by the back-and-forth swishing of the minion's long hair, I risk a look at my reflection; I look like a lamb being led to the slaughter.

We pass several fancy offices, slowing when we get to an empty office near the end. The office that – depending on how this conversation goes – will either belong to Milo, Patricia, or me. I stop in my tracks, staring through the crystal clear glass with a longing I've tried to suppress.

Inside is an architect's heaven: sharp edges and panels like the lobby of a fancy hotel. The desk is made of glass, the floor a shiny marble that would make my killer heels sound like music to my ears, and already I feel giddy at the thought. Not just giddy but happy, something I haven't felt since realizing my love life was doomed. But who needs love when your office has an unobscured view of New York's incredible skyline?

The minion urges me forward until we're right by Laurelle's office. Panicked, I say, "Usually, you make me sit and wait first." It's what I'd prefer – the wait gives me time to relax my nerves a little – but the minion shakes her head as if I've said something unthinkable. "She's ready for you now."

"Right," I say, straightening my dress, "of course." But inside, I feel like dying. I know why, too – it's not exactly a mystery. Seeing Milo this morning reminded me of why I fell for him in the first place. Now, on a day I should be thinking about my future, I'm thinking about us.

The minion knocks twice and hurries out of existence. When it doesn't look like Laurelle will invite me in anytime soon, I pull back my shoulders and open the door before closing it behind me.

She's at her desk, nose in her laptop as she taps at the keyboard. She looks decidedly browner, as though she's spent her holidays somewhere tropical. I clear my throat, wondering whether she knows that I'm here or if she's lost to whatever's on her laptop.

"Take a seat," she says.

I do, acutely aware of the sound of my heels clicking furiously on her floor. And then I wait. And wait. And wait. It must take ten minutes before Laurelle stops tapping and acknowledges me.

"Despite your mishaps, I was impressed with your application and how you decorated your property," she says. It's not exactly awe-inspiring praise, but it's a lot coming from her. "You're a hard worker, Kennedy, which is why I put you forward for this position in the first place."

She didn't put me forward, I applied on my own, but it seems counterproductive to mention this. Instead, I smile and internally pray that she gets to the point. "I was grateful for the opportunity."

And then the interrogation starts. I figured I'd get some warning before the interview she mentioned, maybe an email or a note from the minion or something, but suddenly, she's throwing questions at me like I'm standing in front of a firing squad. They're not just your run-of-the-mill, why do you want this job either; she wants a five-year breakdown of what I want to achieve in this company and how my promotion will benefit her.

Despite my internal panic, I take my time answering and pray I'm doing a good job. After the first three or four, I develop a knack for the answers she likes by the look on her face, so I adapt what I say accordingly. When we hit her millionth question, it feels like I've just done three rounds in a boxing ring.

I've had enough. Leaning forward, I cut her off mid-sentence and say, "Look, Laurelle, the fact of the matter is, I love this job, and I do it well. If that's not what you're looking for, then by all means, go for somebody else, but you'd be making a big mistake."

It's the kind of forwardness men like Lucas get away with in the office, but women, not so much. I hold my breath in the following silence, cursing Milo's name for unraveling me today, and prepare for a hasty exit.

"All right," she says, "it's yours."

I don't say anything for a good three minutes, mostly because I'm certain she's just playing with me at this point, but also because I'm speechless. Finally, I say, "Don't you need to interview Milo and Patricia?"

"I spoke with them this morning," she says, "and as efficient as they are, you're a much better fit for this floor. Pack up your things and be ready for our board meeting in twenty."

I wait for that feeling of pure joy to hit, but it doesn't. Instead, I feel panicked."You want me to move up here now?"

Her eyebrow arches. "Have you got something better to be doing?"

"No, of course not," I say as I rise. "Thank you so much; I won't let you down."

"I hope not," she says and returns to her furious typing.

The walk back to the elevator is painful. I should be ecstatic – I am – but having to pack up my things in ten minutes is a hard pill to swallow. Once the move is finished, that's it. No more coffee breaks with Jess or bumping into Milo at the coffee machine. No more leisurely board meetings where nothing of importance is discussed; my life on floor six will be over.

Laurelle sends the minion with me. Something in me thinks it's some kind of power play like she doesn't want me talking too much to the others. I hold my breath on the elevator ride and try not to keel over.

"You should know that Laurelle doesn't want you to mention this to anyone," she says. "Just pack up your things and don't say anything."

I turn to her, mouth open, and blink. The idea that she wants me to walk into that office and not say a thing is ridiculous. "I think they'll notice me packing my desk in front of them."

"It doesn't matter," she says, her eyes on the door, "those are Laurelle's terms."

"Those people are my friends," I say, "I'm not going to walk in there and ignore them."

"They're not anymore, and I'm just telling you what Laurelle expects," she says. "Do with it what you will."

We don't speak for the rest of the way down, and when the doors slide open, she stays near the elevator as I walk to my desk, acutely aware of how everyone has stopped what they're doing to watch me.

I avoid their gazes, including Jess's, and start to pack up my things. It feels less like I've just earned myself a promotion and more like I'm heading to death row. But I can't do it; I can't just walk out on the people I care about and not even say goodbye. Who knows when the next time I'll catch up with Jess will be? So I walk around the desk as she gets to her feet and throw my arms around her.

"I'm assuming you got it then," she says, and while happiness brims in her eyes, she's looking at me like she's lost me. For some reason, I feel like I've lost her too.

"Yeah, I did," I say, smiling, "she wants me to move up there now."

"Well, get on up there," she teases, "and phone me later to let me know how it goes."

I nod and then do something I shouldn't; I turn to look at Milo. His eyes are firmly on mine, his expression masked behind his stoicism. Even if I wanted to believe him now, even if it turned out he did nothing wrong, it doesn't matter. The thing we both knew would eventually happen is happening. I'm moving to seven while he's still on six.

It's over.

As if he knows this, as if he has resigned himself to giving me up, he nods briefly, a farewell nod, and turns to his computer. I swallow back the lump I feel brewing and head toward the elevator.

The whole ride up, I smile. I'm happy. Of course I'm happy, this is all I've ever wanted since I moved to this company – why wouldn't I be? In a few months, I'll actually be able to afford my rent, and I'll have access to clients on a much larger scale, clients with million-dollar properties. I'll have more control over what I take on, what times I work, and I'll have a much better chance at working on my relationship with Laurelle. This move will be good for me: life-changing.

I'm happy.

A/N

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