For the next few hours, I have no idea what to do with myself. My office feels too big, big enough that I could lie down on the floor and do yoga if I wanted. Big enough that I can spin and spin and not bump into anything. Big enough that I can't help but feel alone.

I get up and do another lap of the office before settling at the window. This view will never not take away my breath. My mother would say it's just another concrete jungle: billboard after billboard and cookie-cutter buildings obstructing an otherwise endless blue sky, but to me, it's so much more than that. This city means hope: hope to dream and discover and prosper. Hope to be more than we ever thought we could. If there is one thing I love about being on seven, it's the view.

It feels like forever before I head back to my desk. That feeling of uncertainty creeps in again, settling in my bones. Maybe it's the fact that it's been less than an hour, and this place has yet to feel like my own. Yes, that's definitely it.

Determined, I get to work rectifying that. After color-coding my notebooks, I work on sharpening my pencils and organizing my folders. It's therapeutic, in a way, to focus on this, like I'm organizing my way to peace and prosperity. This role will be good for me; I can start a new chapter in an otherwise lackluster book.

I can forget about Milo.

At one point, the others appear at my door like a group of Amazonian Warriors, desperate to glimpse a look at their new member. I scan for Lucas, relieved to find that he's decided not to join them, so at least I don't have to worry about seeing him. 

I get to my feet and walk over, managing to trip on the ridiculously slippy, polished floors. If Milo were here, he'd say something like, That's typical of you, but now the only voice here to say it is the one in my head.

The girls share a look as if to say, who hired this clown before the blonde upfront steps forward and offers her brightest smile. "Hey," she says, offering a hand, "I'm Miranda."

"I'm Kennedy," I say as I take it, "I'm excited to be working with you all. You got any advice for me?" I mean it in a jokey way like maybe there's a bathroom we try to avoid or the coffee machine splutters and covers your shirt, but instead, they take up shop in my office and delve into media-worthy gossip.

"Laurelle has two boyfriends," the redhead, Charter, says giddily. "And the best part is that they don't know about each other. One time, we tried to orchestrate them showing up to the office at the same time, but it fell through."

I blink back, unsure of what to say to that, but it doesn't matter; they're already moving on to the kiss between Allie and the mailman. If I thought the gossip in six was nasty, seven is a whole other level. 

"What was it like on six?" Charter asks. "God, every time I see that Milo I want to jump his bones. I was so convinced he'd gotten the promotion when he came up here this morning." She looks over as if she's realized what she said. "Not that I'm not happy you got it. I think you'd be a better fit up here anyway."

Through all of her babbling, only one thing stands out. "Milo was called up here?"

Miranda slaps some lipgloss on and nods. "Spent forever talking to Laurelle."

"What about Patricia?" I ask. "Was she called up here too?"

"I don't think so." She turns to the mirror and fixes her hair. "Do you know if Milo is single?"

Something territorial kicks in. Sure, Milo and I aren't technically together, and anything between us is dead and buried with this sudden promotion, but I still don't want them lusting after him.

"He's seeing someone," I say, "has been for a while. I mean, relationships between six and seven are forbidden anyway, right?" I don't know why, but I half hope one of them says that I'm wrong, that maybe there's hope for me and Milo.

"Right," Miranda says. "That reminds me – weren't you the girl Lucas dumped before moving up here?"

I swallow hard, trying my best not to take offense at her tone, but it's hard. "Yeah, I was." 

"That's why he didn't want to come over," she says. "I guess that's gonna make things up here a little awkward." 

If my death glare could kill, Miranda would be dead by now. "Well, we should probably get to work," I say, "I don't want Laurelle to think I'm slacking off." It's a cover for the fact that talking to them is the last thing I want to do right now, but they buy it. After saying goodbye and giving me a cactus, I sink into my chair and huff out my last remaining breath.

I manage to finish a little bit of work before growing restless again. Needing my hit, I head to the coffee machine and press for a coffee. As I wait, I half keep expecting Milo's presence behind me, but there's no one around.

I take my cup, blowing on the top until the steam dissipates, and take a sip. It tastes like heaven, as always, but a part of me wonders if I had the chance to go back to six, to give up this office and coffee and job, would I take it? No, this is just a case of cold feet. New job, new role, new people – it's normal to want to return to the old.

I just need to give it some time.

Back at my desk, I get busy answering emails and looking at our property list. This is the part that I love the most, so right now, I feel in my element. If I can hold onto this feeling for the rest of the day, I'll be fine.

As I work on my client list, an email pings through the uncomfortable silence. I'm so used to the idle chit-chat down in six that being able to hear every thought in my head is unusual. Grateful for the distraction, I maximize the screen, my heart dropping down to my stomach when I see it's from Milo.

Dear Kennedy,

Congratulations on your new promotion.

All the best,

Milo.

For a good three seconds, I just sit back in my chair and reread those words. All the best. It sounds so final, as though this is the last time we'll ever speak. It probably is. I lean forward again, fingers hovering over the keyboard as I think about what to write. If this is the last time Milo and I will ever speak, I want to make it memorable. But Laurelle no doubt checks correspondence, and anything other than a warm thank you might make her suspicious.

I start to type Dear Milo, but the thought is interrupted by the minion stopping by to tell me about the meeting. "Just a second," I say, focused on my screen, but whatever I wanted to write is now gone, lost in my thoughts.

Dear Milo,

Thank you for your good wishes. It was a pleasure working with you, and I wish you all the best for the future.

Kind regards,

Kennedy

I close my laptop and get to my feet, following the others down the hallway. The room for the board meeting is far more lavish than the one down in six. The walls are green, covered in art that must have been expensive, and leafy plants line every surface. Despite the modern feel elsewhere, this room is like a zen garden. Laurelle stands at the front with her papers, looking severe. I hadn't expected she'd be the one to deliver these meetings, but as I sit here trying not to do anything stupid, I feel a little starstruck.

The awe is lost the moment Lucas walks in. He's wearing a suit, the crisp, expensive kind that he couldn't afford before his promotion, and stands in the doorway domineering the room, not in the subtle, sexy way that Milo does, but in an arrogant way. 

After scanning the room, his eyes fall on mine and remain there. I feel my cheeks burn under his scrutinizing gaze but refuse to give him the satisfaction of letting him know. Instead, I turn to Charter and the others, who are embroiled in some story about the weekend as I sit here feeling like the new kid at school who has yet to make friends. Downstairs, Jess and the others will be sitting in their meeting, my seat beside them vacant. I wonder who they'll promote from five, whether Jess and the others will like that person as much as they did me – if Milo will.

"Right," Laurelle says, "let's get started."

I'll give Laurelle one thing, her meetings are nothing like Paul's. She's to the point and efficient, every word carefully picked to drive home her points. There's a viewing coming up, one that three of us will be working on together, so we're to promote it to our biggest clients. I scribble it down word for word in my notebook and underline it three times. It's my first real task since being on this floor, and I'm determined to make Laurelle proud.

The rest of the meeting is short and sweet. I get to my feet, straightening out the creases in my dress, and make my way back to my office. Lucas catches me in the hallway, calling out Kenny in a way that makes my blood boil. I turn around, painting on the same bright smile I've been wearing all day. 

"Everything okay?" I ask. 

His eyebrow arches at my chipper tone. "I just wanted to congratulate you," he says, stepping forward. "I was going to come by earlier, but I was on a call." 

"Thanks," I say and start to turn around.

"I have to say–" he grabs my shoulder, spinning me around until I face him, "–I didn't think it would be you that got the promotion, but–" he reaches out now, tucking a strand of my hair back, "–I'm glad it was." 

For about three long seconds, I don't say anything. He's looking at me like he misses me, like I'm not the same Kennedy he threw to the side to score his promotion, which sickens me. And the worst part is that if I were the old me, I'd have eaten it up. But as it stands, his backhanded compliments and longing looks don't mean a damn thing. 

"Thanks," I say and head to my office without looking back. I still can't get used to this floor, can't walk past the mirrors without glancing at myself and wondering who is she? And as I sit at my desk, spinning idly around in my chair, this all feels too good to be true.

Paranoia kicks in as I think back to what Miranda said. What reason did Laurelle have to talk to him first but decide to go with me? Unless it wasn't her choice. Unless Milo did the unthinkable, the one thing I'd never have wanted him to do, and turned down the promotion. 

The idea that he would do such a thing feels worse than if he'd gotten the promotion. At least then, I would have known it was because I wasn't good enough and not because he let me win. Now I feel empty, as though I don't belong on this floor – I'm not worthy.

Despite the fact I should be working, all I can think about is how much I want to scream. Not just scream but scream at Milo. It builds in my chest, growing and growing until the thought of strangling him feels like a reasonable idea. When I can't take it any longer, I reach for my phone and text him to meet me in the janitor's closet. It's the same closet where we'd kissed, the closet that led to our subsequent trip; now it's the closet I'll kill him in.

It's a risky move. If anyone catches me, I can kiss this sweet new job goodbye, but I also know it's the only opportunity to have it out with him. I just need it out: out of my system, out of my life, and then I can finally move on.

I let out an expanse of air through my nostrils and get to my feet like a mob boss about to make a kill. Shoulders back, I tell the others I'm heading to Starbucks and do they want anything? By the time I've made my rounds, I've got an order list as long as my arm and a sweet alibi. In less than three seconds, I'm over by the elevator and repeatedly pushing the button. Is he already waiting in the janitor's closet? Does he think this is some last-minute rendezvous? If so, he's got another thing coming.

I'm nervous. Why do I feel nervous? I step into the elevator, palms sweating, and press for the ground floor. A glance at the camera makes me wonder if, somewhere in this gigantic building, a cameraman is watching my every move. Maybe he knows exactly where I'm going and who I plan to go there with; maybe he's got the popcorn ready.

By the time I patter across the lobby, I've worked myself into a state. Does he think I wouldn't have got the promotion on my own? That he needs to step down for me to step up? Or did he think he was performing some grand gesture of love to make up for texting his ex? Trying to understand the inner workings of Milo is like trying to complete a Rubik's cube – I can't for the life of me do it.

I reach the door, looking quickly to the left and then the right before inhaling a lungful of air. Quick as a flash, I open the door and close it behind me. Milo is leaning against the wall, tie already loosened like it's been a hard day, but he quickly straightens at my entrance.

For a moment, we don't speak. Despite the fact we saw each other this morning, it feels like a lifetime ago. I step forward, a step that puts him on instant high alert as those icy eyes snap to my lips. The closet is so small that only a hair's breadth of space lies between us. I try to look taller, forcing myself to look into those eyes without a shred of affection.

"Missed me already?" he asks.

His voice cuts right through me. It's deep and husky, a voice that could get away with anything, but this time, I'm not going to let him. "You wish," I say, congratulating the heavens for making me sound strong. Unaffected. "I came here to tell you that was an asshole move." I'm on a roll, my heart like a steady drum urging me on, telling me to take back control; I'm all too happy to oblige.

His face gives nothing away. "I've made a lot of those lately. You'll have to be more specific."

"You know, the part where you turned down the promotion on seven. I mean, Jesus, Milo. If you think I'd ever want to win this way, you never really knew me at all."

Something dangerous crosses his expression. He steps even closer, so close, in fact, that I can see every pale ice fleck in his eyes as they narrow. "If you think I'd concede, you never knew me either."

I falter. In all my rage, I had never considered what I would say if I turned out to be wrong. "You didn't turn down the promotion?"

His mouth remains tight. "No, I called the meeting with Laurelle to speak with her about a client. You got that job on your own, Kennedy."

"Oh." A part of me feels bad now like I've just rubbed it in. "Well, good. I don't mean good obviously. It's not good for you. I just mean–" I stop talking because everything leaving my mouth is word vomit. "I'm sorry to have bothered you. Enjoy the rest of your day." I turn on my heel, about to set off for my inconvenient trip to Starbucks.

"Not so fast." Milo pulls me back my hand, spinning me into his chest. I hate the way my breath catches. Hate the way every nerve in my body demands to be touched. Hate the way I can't stop looking at his lips. "Are we going to talk about that night?"

That night, the one I've been desperately trying to forget. I can't even look at him as I say, "I'd rather not."

But clearly, he doesn't care about that. "I invited her to the cabin months ago," he says. "Before you and I were ever–" he stops like he still doesn't know what we were, and neither do I.

"I don't want to hear this," I say.

"You need to hear it." He tugs me closer, then turns us around until I'm trapped between the wall and his chest. There's nowhere for me to run to, nowhere for me to hide from the truth. "Or maybe you don't. Maybe you need to see it." In one quick move, he reaches into the pocket of his trousers and pulls out his phone, unlocking it with his thumb. I'm about to tell him this really isn't necessary, but he's clicking her name and shoving the phone in my face.

I cover my eyes with my hand like a child before curiosity gets the better of me. In one quick sweep, I've taken the phone from his hands, and I'm scrolling to the top, which doesn't take long. The first message is from her, dated a few months ago, just like he said.

Anna:

Hey, Milo. Long time!  I've been thinking a lot these few months and just wondered if you wanted to meet up for a drink to talk?

Milo:

About what?

Anna:

The way we ended things, I guess. I've been doing a lot of soul-searching, and I feel terrible about what I put you through. I still have some of your stuff in my apartment, thought now would be a good time to meet up.

Milo:

What stuff?

Anna:

Some clothes, a few old records, that watch your dad gave you...are you free this weekend?

Milo peers over my shoulder as I'm reading, his expression much darker. "That watch is the only reason I agreed to meet with her – it's why she brought it up. She knew it was of sentimental value and wanted to use it as leverage."

I nod and carry on reading. After agreeing to meet, the conversation tails off until a week later, when Anna gushes about how great it was to see him again. Milo barely responds to her message, but I can't tell if that's because he wasn't that interested or just Milo's style.

"Why did you keep messaging her?" I ask. 

He shrugs, and I swear I see a slight glimmer of shame behind an otherwise unreadable expression. "It was familiar, and when she invited herself to the cabin, I just ignored it." Reaching out, he uses his thumb to scroll down the screen. "All of this was before you and I ever kissed. I stopped replying months ago, and so did she. The last thing I said to her was I didn't want her to come to the cabin."

I get to that message, surprised to find her reply was: I'm busy that weekend anyway, I'll see you some other time, as if not going was her idea.

"I hadn't messaged her since," he says, "her message at the cabin was completely out of the blue."

I stop scrolling and hand back his phone. Every fiber in my body wants to believe what he's saying, and deep down, I do. Maybe it's the sincerity in his eyes or the fact that I've never felt this way before, but I believe him. I believe him, and I hate it. "I trust what you're saying," I say, "but it doesn't change anything, especially not now I'm on seven. I mean, maybe this is for the best." I take a deep breath and then, "Maybe this was how it was always supposed to be."

He's silent for a beat too long. A cloud of smoke seems to settle in his eyes, brewing behind the surface. "You don't believe that."

"I do. Some things just aren't meant to be, and this–" I gesture enthusiastically between us, "–was one of them."

He lowers his head until he's right in my face, his eyes like beacons of fury. "Bullshit. Have you ever asked yourself why you were so quick to bail that night without first hearing my side?" he asks. "It's because you're scared. You're scared to put yourself on the line in case you end up getting hurt. And if you aren't going to be honest with me about it, at least be honest with yourself."

I swallow hard. He has this way of opening me up until all of my secrets spill out. "Okay, you win. I'm scared. It doesn't change anything, Milo. This needs to stop – we both need to move on."

His voice is metallic. "What if I can't?"

"Milo," I whisper, and somehow my hands find their way to his waist. I think I mean to push him away, to put some space between us, but the end result is that neither of us moves as I clutch at the fabric of his shirt.

His body responds almost instantly. One hand comes up to the back of my head while the other finds my thigh, his fingers leaving a trail of heat down the outer line of my