I've spent the last three weeks working day after day, and night after night. And you'd think that after almost an entire month of such an irritable schedule, I'd be tired of it by now. Fortunately for me, but unfortunately for the construction team and my assistant, Mel—I am not.

     It's around 3:45 in the morning when the alarm clock on my bedside table goes off. Only once, might I add. I switch off the blaring alarm, not bothering to escape the cloud of covers harboring my body into my bed. This happened most mornings.

     My alarm would go off, then I'd spend the next half hour blankly staring at the ceiling while I map out the next twelve hours in my head before even attempting to get up.

     Then, I'd send Mel a good morning text message along with whatever coffee and breakfast I was in the mood for. She would respond with a got it, boss, and it would be delivered in under twenty-five minutes.

     In those twenty-five minutes, I would take a lengthy warm shower, then dress myself in whatever business casual outfit I saw fit for the day. Next, there was priming my face with light makeup and a heavy red lip and lip-liner—my signature finishing touch I've been told.

     The second to last step in my morning routine was my hair, my long and high-maintenance hair. I'd run a wide brush through the blonde strands and watch as a few fell onto my lap. That was the downside of renovating and expanding your restaurant, you're under a ton of stress and you start to lose hair.

    After that, I'd heat up a curling wand and tweak a few, but not all, pieces of my hair to give it some much needed volume. Volume that I wish came as easily to me as it did to others. But that wasn't something I was looking to get into at around 5 in the morning.

     Lastly, I'd clean up whatever mess I'd left around while getting in both my bedroom and en-suite, ensuring that whenever my cleaning lady would come, she wouldn't have to do much.

     My breakfast was always something simple and quick. Which was ironic considering that I'd made my way as a pretty successful chef in Chicago and New York. Most people would probably be unpleasantly surprised when realizing that I didn't give myself the same treatment I granted everybody else.

     Because who the hell has enough energy to make themselves a five course meal first thing in the morning?

     As I reached into a cabinet to retrieve a jar of peanut butter, my cellphone buzzes from inside of my dresses pocket. I reach into the deep pocket to pull it out, and am not surprised when seeing that the text message is from Mel.

     They're all out of oat milk, the first message reads, rendering me already pissed off. And soy bean. Do you want anything else?

     I drop the jar of peanut butter down onto the marble countertop, a fire already being lit in the pit of my stomach. What the hell was I supposed to do now? I always started off my Thursday mornings with either a latte with oat milk or soy bean.

     Tell them to kiss my ass, I angrily wrote, only half joking, just get me an iced tea.

     You got it!

     Mel was a good assistant. A little rocky in the beginning, seeing as I'd hired her straight out of college, but nonetheless good. She didn't talk much, didn't ask many questions, and never talked back. It was like having a pet that never rebelled—so fucking refreshing.

      Our dynamic is a bit funny seeing as she's only a few years younger than me, but mentally, it feels like decades. She grew up in a small town over in Ohio—or Oregon. I actually had no idea. But, whatever backward conservative plank had raised her had done the job.

     My assistant before Mel was a nightmare. She'd gone to some party school on the west coast and had absolutely no idea how to make a spread sheet. I'd spent half of our time together explaining how to simple everyday tasks.

     And when she found out I swung both ways, she would not stop hitting on me. Needless to say, she was fired. And I filed for a restraining order the next day.

     Once I finished making myself breakfast, I sat down at the same chair I always sat in. It was on the very end of my very large dining room table. I wasn't exactly sure why I had such a large table. When I bought the apartment, the realtor said that the place came fully furnished.

     This was a score at the time. With expanding the restaurant, it's not like I had a lot of time to think about decorating, anyway. She had seemed so excited for me when she said, this place will be great for when you settle down and start a family.

     Start a family? What a joke.

     Five-years-ago if someone had said that same thing, I would have been all for it. Twenty-three-year-old me had such unrealistic when it came to starting a family and settling down.

     I was sure that I'd meet the right man or woman and we'd fall in love and get married and make many, many babies. I, of course wouldn't have them, because hell no. But if I happened to marry a woman, I would gladly let her take on that role.

     And if I married a man—which was very unlikely—he'd just have to deal with the fact that I didn't feel comfortable giving birth.

     The sound of my front door being pushed open interrupts me from my irrelevant thoughts and feelings about starting a family. Fucking dinner table.

     A disgruntled Mel appears from down the hallway, her sneakers padding down the hardwood flooring. She sends me a lopsided grin, earning a quirked eyebrow. "I'm sorry, Cher," she gets out, arms full of coffee and her handbags. "The line was insane and they were out of almost everything."

     I sit back in my chair, staring up at her with an expecting stare. "Well, what did you bring me?"

     "Oh!" She shouts, I take in a deep breath. Be nice, Cher. "I got you a vanilla latte with almond milk. And a bagel."

     I reach out for the latte, not bothering with the bagel. Mel stands there with it extended and the brightest damn smile I've seen today. "Thank you, Mel, but you know I can't have that." I do feel a little bad at rejecting the bagel she's bought out of the obvious kindness of her young, stupid heart.

     She closes her eyes, inhaling deeply. "That's right—I'm so sorry, I'll toss it."

     "Don't," I say, she seems stuck. "You have it."

     She takes the seat beside me, plopping down with a huff. She reaches into the brown bag and takes a bite of the plain bread.

     "What's on the agenda for today?" My question is heavy, like I don't really want to ask it. Which is true. Whenever I ask this question, it's followed with a long and exhausting answer.

     Mel reaches into her pink handbag, lifting out her thick binder that carries out the schedule of the last few months, and the many months to come. She pulls it open, searching for today's date.

      "It's the fourteenth." I say, hoping to help her find the date quicker.

     "Right," she sighs out, clearly embarrassed. Her dark brown strands of hair getting caught in her chapped lipgloss that stains her lips. I resist the urge to grimace. "Um, well you've got a meeting with the construction team at 8:30, then another one with the interior design team at around 11:40, and Shelby's receptionist says that one will run a few hours later than we expected so please—eat and caffeinate beforehand,"

     "Then, you've got a meeting with one of our investors at Georgino's, that Italian place on 5th for dinner and to go over some of the investment and expansion details," an involuntary groan slips out of my throat before I can stop it, Mel looking up at me in curiosity. The investor I'd be meeting at Georgino's is some wannabe mafia member with a beer gut who doesn't know how to look a woman in the eye instead of in the boobs.

     Meeting with him was always such a pain in the ass.

     "Oh, and you got a direct email last night from a Cindy Burke, it was an invitation to a ten-year-reunion event in San Francisco. A high school called St. Joseph's High School. Did you go there?" I can physically feel my entire physique freeze at the mention of the hell hole I spent four years in.

     Has it really been ten years since graduation? It didn't feel like a day over three.

     Mel's solidly green colored eyes bore into mine, expecting a straight forward answer. "Uh, yeah. Who did you say sent the email again?" I ask.

     "Cindy Burke," she answers, "she said she was the class president of '93 and that she's organizing a weekend long reunion at a hotel down in California. What should I respond?"

     "Nothing!" The abruptness of my answer has Mel jumping back slightly, dialing back her intrusion. This was a habit of ours. She'd get comfortable and start asking one too many questions and I'd get defensive. "Um, don't say anything, j-just forget about it. I'll take care of it."

     She audibly swallows a lump in her throat, her hands tightening around the thickening binder. "I'm sorry, I didn't know this was such a sensitive topic for you, Cher—"

     "It isn't," I say stoically, dropping my fork onto my breakfast plate. The metal clatters, breaking Mel and I's vulnerable eye contact. "You should go and do whatever it is you do before meetings. I need to prepare talking points for that dinner with Mr. Gallo."

     She nods, standing from her chair and gathering her mess. She tucks a thin piece of hair behind her ear, eyes meeting mine one last time before she leaves at last.

     Once the front door has solemnly shut, I reach out onto the table for the ashtray that always sits there, simply minding its own business. There's a cigarette there from last night, which was a hard night, I needed that damn cigarette.

     And now, I need it again.

     After lighting the other end of it, I press the tip against my lips, inhaling deeply—there was no way in hell I'd be going back home.

The pressure was awful. I'd give anything just to be able to sit back again, and breathe. But of course, my editor-and-chief made absolutely certain that I didn't get to do so. "Shit!" I held the outer edges of my trench coat closely into my chest, teeth chattering impatiently.

My heels stood closely to the edge of the curb as I watched every damn yellow cab pass me by without a second thought. Couldn't they see that I'm a cold, wet, and late woman standing in the rain who had under twenty-five minutes to get a story to her editor?

I stuck out a hand, watching as rain lathered at my fingertips and slid down the arm of my coat.

Ugh.

Like a miracle, a cab pulls into the curb and parks itself there. My red-painted lips stretch out into a wide grin, as I step down the tall curbside and pull open the yellow door.

I slide my handbag in first, before shutting the door behind me. The man driving doesn't say anything, so I don't say anything—other than the address I was headed to and a light joke here and there.

With a light buzz coming from my trench coat pocket, I pull out my cellphone and press the answer button, not really bothering to check and see who's calling.

"Rebecca Reyes." The professionalism seeping out of my lips is almost nauseating, and it even earns me a funny look from the cab driver.

"Beck!" The voice on the other end calls out, "where the hell are you?"

The voice of Carey, my editor's assistant has my heart shuddering inside of my chest. I knew that a direct call her was never a good thing and it usually meant that Doug was completely done with me. I wondered if this was going to be another one of those times where he'd threaten to fire me.

Just as the yellow cab turns onto the busy street where my corporate office stood proud and tall in all of its skyscraper beauty, the car stops.

"I'm sorry, Carey, I'm almost there I swear, just tell Doug that I need another ten minutes!" My voice drips with desperation and embarrassment.

The cab driver twists the key in the ignition several times, before cursing lowly to himself in a foreign language when it doesn't budge.

"Please, if I ask him for another ten minutes, he'll fire me, then he'll fire you! Just get back here, alright? He's already going on his rant about how nobody is responsible enough to work under him. Just hurry up!" Carey disconnects the call at that, and I swear I can almost feel the swarm of tears about to fall down my cheek.

The cab driver still hasn't restarted the engine. "Um, sir, is everything okay? Because I really need to get going—"

"No, the car won't start." He doesn't give much of an explanation.

I sit up in the backseat, gripping onto the headrest in front of me. "I, um—I can see that. But can you maybe get it to start? Because I am already running late and my job is completely on the line—"

"Look," he spits, turning his torso completely to send me a sharp glare. "I'm sorry that this is inconvenient for you but the car isn't going to fucking start. So, you can either call another cab, wait, or walk. It's your choice, princess."

My jaw falls at his tone, a sharp fire being lit in the pit of my chest. Princess? Really, I was a princess? If only he knew the amount of pressure that I'd been under since last week when I was assigned a stupid fucking story that Doug knew that I knew nothing about.

I don't bother responding to the very rude man and slide out of the backseat—making sure that I don't forget my bag.

I place the leather handbag on top of my head, before making a beeline toward my building. My heels scrape against the concrete as I grimace. These very expensive shoes are now probably all scratched up on the bottom now.

What a waste.

Just as I've finally made it into the building, the cellphone in my pocket begins buzzing again. I groan, kicking my steps up a few notches. My heels rattle against the tile of the plain building, earning curious glances from those standing in the lobby.

My hair is ruined, the once silky strands now stringy and drenched. The coat that once kept me warm now just as soaked as the rest of me.

Carey's eyes find mine from her placement behind the receptionist desk. She does a once over my soaked figure, her features drowning in pity.

"Oh, my gosh, Beck, what the hell happened?" Her hands come out to cover her mouth partially, as she suppresses that stupid look on her face.

I clutch onto my handbag even tighter, a shaky breath escaping my now smudged red lips. "J-Just call Doug and let him know I'm coming up, alright?"

Carey nods, leaning down and pulling the telephone up to her ear. I watch as she dials 2, then waits. "Mr. Rhodes, Rebecca's back and she wants to speak with you—right, of course, I'll let her know."

She ends the call, eyes lifting up to meet mine. "Uh, he says you can go right up to his office and um . . . don't bother bringing your story up. He says he's got everything he needs."

My heart falls. He's got everything he needs? That sounds like I've just lost my job for good, and there isn't anything I can do to redeem myself. With a broken and lopsided smile toward Carey, I nod and don't even bother rushing off to find the elevator.

There's no point.

I press the button 27 and listen as the metal machine lets out a painful ding. Moments later, I'm slowly stepping onto the elevator and sending Carey one last bleak stare as the doors close.

I stare down at my hand the entire ride up. My fingers are now certified raisins and have shriveled up due to the cold. I watch the diamond that sits peacefully on the ring finger of my left hand, my heartstrings being pulled once thinking of the memories that are attached to it.

Then, I shove the hand deep into my pocket. That's something I can't get into right now. Especially since in about two minutes, I'll be unemployed.

Once I've stepped off the elevator, I gather harsh and judging stares from the editorial department who all look at me with an I told you so stare.

Assholes.

I'm then met with the hard and cold steel doors leading into Doug's office. I lift a hand, fully intending to knock as politely as possible, when the doors are being pulled open before I have the opportunity to.

Doug doesn't say anything when he opens them at first, merely turning and leaving the doors open, obviously telling me to follow suit. I do, making sure that the doors are firmly shut behind me so that nobody out in the halls can hear me being fired.

"Have a seat, Rebecca." Shit.

I do as told, crossing one leg over the other to maintain at least of of my dignity.

Doug plops down onto his office chair, a cigarette hanging from between two of his skinny and manicured fingers. He takes a drag, releasing the smoke almost directly into my face. I resist the urge to cough.

"Before I hired you, I called all of your previous employers and made absolute certain that you would be a good addition to my magazine," he takes another drag, peppering up his obnoxious French accent. "I was told that you were a good person, and a hard worker. I didn't care too much about the good person part but . . . I was intrigued on how hard of a worker you actually were.

"Then, they said that sure, you could be a little eccentric and ditzy at times but you were a good writer. So, despite my gut feeling, I hired you," another fucking drag of his cigarette, "I started to regret my decision the first day you were late and your excuse was that your little kitty was sick. Then, I really fucking regretted my decision when we are twelve hours away from a deadline and I've still not been delivered my Fashion Icon story!"

I can't help but flinch when he raises his voice, the veins that are visible above his black turtle protruding out of his neck. I understand his anger, but I'm not sure I understand how violent he can be sometimes.

My story this week was to interview some celebrity fashion designer who lived all the way in Manhattan. So, after two round trips there and back to Chicago, I was unpleasantly exhausted and barely had enough information or sources to complete the story, let alone get it delivered on time.

Not to mention, the woman was terrible and dodged almost every question I asked about her line coming out in the Spring.

"Mr. Rhodes," I begin, almost at a loss for words, "I apologize that my story is late but I do have it with me, so if you would please just hear me out—"

"Rebecca, I've spent the last year-and-a-half hearing you out, I'm done! You're done! Get the hell out of my office! Go!"

Tears begin to fall down my cheeks before I can stop them, a sob catching whatever words I have left in the back of my throat. I can't believe I did this. My first real job, I've bombed and was just fired. I thought that going to college and then going to graduate school would be all that I needed to keep a good job.

I guess when your heart isn't in something, other people can feel and see it, too.

I stand from the chair, and run down the hallway back toward the elevator—ready to leave all of this behind.

Just as I step back onto the elevator, with mascara running down my cheeks and pieces of wet hair sticking to my forehead, my cellphone buzzes in my pocket.

I pull it out, sniffling while I do so. With a heaving chest, I open up the email notification that's just come in.

High school reunion?