The moment I get to the office, I'm in trouble. I step into the elevator with Charlie from three and Sandra from four. They both stare ahead, but when they think I'm not looking, share a look behind my back. So, it's official. Everyone in this building has heard: I'll be booking my flights tonight.

They get out on their respective floors, leaving me to suffer in peace. I stare at myself in the door's reflection, straightening out my gray dress. I'd almost forgone the Russian Red lipstick today – it reminds me too much of Milo – but my petty side sees it as a fuck you to Lucas, so for now, the lipstick stays.

The doors open up, and I step into the aisle. Milo is already sitting at his desk, typing away on his computer. I walk right past him and don't turn around until I'm sitting at my desk. He's got a phone to his ear, no doubt discussing a property with a client, but he doesn't once look at me. It's weird to think that I know how he tastes or kisses. Before the party, we barely ever spoke; now I've felt the inside of his mouth.

Opposite, Jess waves a hand in my face, waiting for the details. While I'd offered a brief summary when she'd called me on Sunday, she doesn't know everything – I'd like to keep it that way.

"So?" she says.

"So, nothing," I say back, checking my emails. "I made a horrible mistake, for which I'm probably going to be fired for."

Laurelle's rule is this: whatever you do outside of the office reflects back on the company, and if it reflects badly, you're gone. While my relationship with Lucas was just about tolerated, something tells me hooking up with Milo in a public elevator crosses the line. 

Jess leans back in her chair, staring at the wall. "I know it was my idea and all, but I just can't imagine what he'd be like to kiss. He's so serious and neat. I can imagine him being horrified by a little lipgloss ending up on his collar or something."

I sigh because if I don't give her something, she'll be relentless. "Let's just say he's different when kissing." The thought of his lipstick-stained mouth comes back, and I suddenly feel hot. "I need to concentrate, Jess. Shush."

Despite the easiness of our conversation, we're working in chaos. The office is in the middle of a huge renovation, which means the sound of drilling and yelling is constant. The only people with any space – and peace – are the lucky ones upstairs on seven. 

For the next two hours, my phone rings off the hook. While this time of year is usually our quietist, we've been inundated with clients this week. If it were up to me, I'd skip Christmas entirely, but it's hard when I'm sitting in Santa's grotto. Tinsel adorns every surface, and a floor-to-ceiling Christmas tree proudly flashes its garish blue lights – a reminder of my perpetual loneliness. 

At least I'm not alone in my misery. Across the office, Milo glares at the tinsel around his desktop. For reasons unbeknown to the rest of us, Milo has never liked Christmas. As soon as Halloween passes, he transforms into an even less tolerable version of himself, and this year is no exception. 

I tilt my head and watch him. He looks like a giant hunched over his desk. He's taller than most, so his long legs don't fit beneath the table very well, making him forever look uncomfortable.

I know how you taste, I think. 

He looks over. Pauses. I know how you taste. 

I look away, instead focusing on sizing up my competition. Harry sits in the corner, tapping away on his computer while simultaneously readjusting his Harry Potter-style glasses. He's been a six a little longer than I have, which gives him the edge, but as good as he is at the analytical side of things, he struggles with building strong relationships with clients, giving me the edge – one I hope Laurelle has noticed. 

Then there's Patricia – good old Patricia. While she joined the Sixes a few months after me, she's competitive by nature, which means she's happy to go the extra mile for her clients, even if it sets her back. If anyone can give me a run for my money, it's likely to be her, but I try not to let it deter me. With Lucas out of the picture, I'm singlehandedly paying the rent for our shared apartment, meaning if I don't get this promotion, there goes my home; failure is not an option. 

At some point, our courier, Ryan, strides in wearing a Santa hat, a cherry-red sack slung across his back. "Ho, Ho, Ho!" he says, handing out his mail. "Merrrrrry Christmas!" He gets to our cubicle and waves around his head, making his Santa hat jingle. Jess glares at him and motions with her hand. "What?" he says, handing her a wad of envelopes. "Where's your Christmas spirit, Jessy?"

After a few more glares, he finally gets it. He slips off his Santa hat and tucks it behind his back, flashing a sympathetic smile. "Sorry, Ken. I forgot you and Lucas, well, you know." He doesn't need to say it, because we do know: Lucas dumped me.

I force a smile and say, "It's fine, Ryan. Celebrate all you want." He carries on down the aisle with the same Christmas spirit, handing out letters like presents.

Jess shakes her head as if to say, Look at this guy, before turning to face me. "My invitation still stands, you know. You can always spend Christmas with Rob and me."

I must look like a deer caught in headlights. As much as I love Jess and her fiancé, Rob, the last thing I want to do is spend Christmas with them. They drink too much and argue even more, making the whole thing awkward.

"I'll probably just head back home and spend it with my parents." Even as I say it, I know it sounds pathetic. By my mid-twenties, I'd expected to already be working on Seven, spending my Christmas with my adoring boyfriend in some German Chateau, not with my parents.

Of course Milo chooses that moment to walk past. He's heading to the coffee machine, which he frequents more than most, but pauses to look at me. "Nice lips," he says, then strides toward the coffee machine, tapping his foot as he waits for it to pour.

He's wearing fitted black trousers and a pale blue shirt that brings out his icy blue eyes. He pairs every outfit with a muted, patterned tie. It always starts off nice and tight, but by mid-morning, has almost always been loosened. As though he feels me staring, he turns and raises a single eyebrow. It's his go-to sarcastic look, his shut-down look. Whenever he looks at me like this, I feel like I've just been scolded.

"You know he's up for that promotion, don't you?" Jess says. "Last minute decision, apparently. Must be pressed for cash."

I turn to look at her. I hadn't known this, but the idea of now having to compete against three coworkers, not two, fills me with dread, not least because I now know how one of them tastes. Casually, I say, "Really? Well, the more the merrier." 

"Why am I getting a sudden sense of Deja Vu?" Jess teases, which earns her a side-eye as I get back to work. 

Our weekly board meeting is scheduled for eleven. I'm almost glad, despite normally hating these things, because the longer I'm stuck in a meeting, the less time there is for Laurelle to drag me into her office, kicking and screaming, and fire me for being unprofessional. Five minutes before, I walk to the coffee machine and pour an Espresso. Paul is in charge of running these meetings, and he tends to ramble: I'll need all the coffee I can get.

Jess and I head in together and take our seats. Despite the severe, monochrome decor, these meetings are pretty relaxed. We spend a few minutes making small talk while we wait. Next to me, Jess is engaged in a conversation with Pete, our floor technician guy. He's telling her about the gin factory he visited on the weekend, and as a lover of alcohol, Jess is busy writing the address down on her phone.

As usual, Milo doesn't talk to anyone. He leans back in his chair, fingers laced behind his head, and watches the clock. I don't know how he gets away with it. If I sat here completely disinterested in my co-workers, people would gossip. But no one gossips about Milo Woods – I guess you can get away with it when you look like that.

Through the window behind him, snow falls in soft, papery flakes. I grew up in LA and spent most of my childhood praying for snow, which was why, when I moved to New York soon after graduating, I was excited for winter. Suffice to say, the novelty soon wore off.

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

I look to the head of the table, where he's already taken his seat. His hair is just as disheveled as the party, and his clip-on tie has been pushed to an angle, verging on falling off. As he struggles to find a document on his laptop, I glance at Milo and find him already looking at me. Not at me, but my lips. I suddenly feel silly for wearing all of this red lipstick. What am I trying to prove? 

"So, listen," Paul says, adjusting his tie, "I know it's nearly Christmas, and we're all on the wind-down, but  we've still got a few more weeks and a hell of a lot of work to get through."

I'm looking ahead, but I still feel Milo staring. I gulp my coffee, using it to wash off some of this lipstick, but it's so hot that I jerk. Coffee spills all over the table, and everyone stops. I apologize profusely while dabbing at my mouth, and Paul carries on. Subtly, Jess reaches into the pocket of her pencil skirt, pulls out a tissue pack, and slides it toward me.

Paul talks about client bias while I mop up the table, stuffing tissue after tissue in my cup. When I force myself to look at Milo, he shakes his head.

I hate him.

It's almost twelve when that thing I didn't want to happen happens. One of Laurelle's minions is waiting outside of the boardroom for me, and I know this is it: I'm a goner. I slowly titter towards the elevator, ignoring the stares of my co-workers. When I pass Milo's desk, I think he's going to look up and acknowledge me, but he doesn't.

The ride to the seventh floor is like the journey through the closet to Narnia. The doors open, and suddenly I'm transported into a mystical wonderland that only ever features in my dreams. Everything is sleek and mirrored, from the walls to the tables to the state-of-the-art coffee machine. The hallway is long, and several doors veer off into fancy offices made entirely of glass. If it weren't for this weekend, this could one day be me.

I head into the main lobby and grab a coffee from the fancy machine, taking a seat on the sofa. Intricate art adorns all four walls, and I'm busy trying to work out what they are when Lucas walks past. 

He freezes at the same time I do. For about a second, he looks at me like I'm a Martian that's crash-landed into his domain. "Kennedy," he says and forces a smile that suggests he's both surprised and confused by my presence. "What are you doing up here?"

I don't say anything for a good three seconds because I'm stuck in the past, transported to those moments when his looks were tender and I was the most important thing to exist. Now those same eyes are careful as they regard me, and worst, filled with disdain. 

 "I have a meeting with Laurelle," I say. It's hard to tell whether or not he's heard about what happened with Milo, but I'm inclined to believe he hasn't.

"Ah," Lucas says like it all makes sense, and I don't miss his frown as his gaze briefly falls on my lipstick. "You're one of the sixes going for the promotion." 

He says sixes like it's some kind of slur despite the fact that just three months ago, he'd been a six, too. "Yeah, I am." I try to sound confident, but my voice comes out small. Pathetic. 

His eyes soften, and it's the kind of look you might give a child who is trying their best but not yet good enough. "Word of advice: it can be very intense up here. Are you sure you're ready for that kind of pressure? I mean, there's a reason you didn't get the promotion last time, right?"

His words are like the lashing of a whip. I don't have time for a not-so-witty retort because I am summoned by Laurelle's assistant. I take a deep breath and get to my feet. Whatever happens in that room, don't cry, don't cry, don't cry. 

Lucas carries on down the hallway as I head to Laurelle's office. After opening the door, the minion scurries away and I step inside, eyes wide with childish wonder. I've only been in here twice, but each time had looked different, just as it does now. The walls are dark gray, covered in mirrors and ornaments and art, but in a quirky, tasteful way. In the far corner is the desk, and behind it, the queen of Narnia herself.

I hover in the doorway, but she doesn't look up. "Are you going to stand there all day?" she asks. "Take a seat."

I do as I'm told, squaring my shoulders before looking right at her. Women like Laurelle can smell fear. "You wanted to see me?"

In my head, I'm preparing my exit speech: I understand, Laurelle. I want to apologize for bringing shame to the company. It has been a pleasure working under you for the last few years. Please accept my sincerest apologies. I'll go pack up my things now, never to be heard from again.

"Yes." She doesn't look up. Laurelle is one of those people who are so busy, they don't stop typing when they speak. "I wanted to talk to you about your application."

"Oh?"

Finally, she looks at me, pinning those brown eyes on mine. They are small and narrow, but powerful. Wise. When I first joined the company, she told me she'd moved to the US from England, hence her strong accent and stiff upper lip. She always wears pantsuits and keeps her dark hair scraped back in a severe but efficient bun. See, if you can't make people like you, then you make people fear you.

"As you're probably aware, you're one of several candidates I'm considering for this position, and all applications are very strong," she says.

Immediately, I think of Milo, but not as I know him. I think of him pinning me against the elevator, his fingers gripping my outer thighs.

"With the renovations going on and with this time being so busy, I'll be postponing interviews until after Christmas. During this time, I'll be giving you more work and new clients to gauge how you handle the extra pressure. The other candidates will be receiving the same. I'd like to meet with you all tomorrow morning to discuss further, and I'll have a document ready for you by eleven am at the latest."

I beam at Laurelle, not that she sees it. She's back to looking at her laptop. "Thank you, Laurelle. I'm grateful for the opportunity."

She nods but doesn't speak. I get all the way to the door before she says, "Oh, and Kennedy?" I turn back around, and those wise, dark eyes are back on mine. "Given that this is the second time you've been involved with a co-worker, I'm going to assume that no one has ever given you the following advice–" she pauses a moment, those dark eyes boring straight into my soul, "–you don't want to shit where you eat."

I swallow hard and thank her for her time before getting the hell out of dodge. The ride down to six is depressing. Now that I've tasted the finer side of life, I'm determined to get that promotion. I walk back past Milo, whose pale eyes follow me as I get to my desk. With any luck, he'll have forgotten what happened at the party, and we can put this whole mess behind us.

Throughout the day, the others are called to meet with Laurelle while I sit at my computer, eagerly awaiting her email. When Jess and the others head home for the evening, I stay at my desk, eyes on the screen, and half-wave them goodbye. These past few days, I've been staying later than usual because I'm trying to impress Laurelle. So has Harry, Patricia, and Milo, which is why come six p.m., we're the only four left on this floor.

When seven hits, Patrica and Harry cave, waving us goodbye before heading home. I glance at Milo, watching him from my cubicle. He sits at the opposite end of the room but faces me, so we can see each other. It has almost become a game: who's going to leave first? Who's going to crack? It's nearly seven-thirty, but I don't have a life, so I can stay here all night; what's his excuse?

Finally, he breaks. He starts to organize the space on his desk, then stands and slips on his coat. I smile from my cubicle and slip on my own, stuffing my phone in my pocket. Together, we stride toward the elevator. He reaches for the button, but I beat him to it. Maybe it's silly and completely immature, but I want to get one over him.

We step inside, and I catch a glimpse of the pair of us in the polished, mirrored doors. It's like night and day looking at us. Black and white. Good and evil. He's so serious and smart-looking, like some kind of stormtrooper; I am the opposite.

It's intentional on my end. I've been in the realtor business long enough to know that the more approachable you look, the easier it is to win over clients, so that's what I do: I put on pretty dresses in pale pastel colors, I keep my dark hair long and slick, and I make sure there's always a smile on my face. The lipstick is new, though – my little way of rebelling.

Milo clicks the ground floor, straightens his tie, and then glances at my shirt.

"My eyes are up here," I say.

His eyes flit upward lightning-fast. "I'm not staring at your breasts. You've got coffee on your shirt."

"Oh." I look down, and he's right. There, between the buttons, is a big splodge of coffee. I fold my arms. "It was an accident."

He looks straight ahead. "You seem to have a lot of those, Kennedy."

I hate the way he says my name. And I hate that he thinks I'm some big goofball. And while I'm hating things, I hate him, too. To change the subject, I say, "So, I heard you're going for the promotion."

His expression doesn't change. "Last-minute decision."

"Well," I say, "may the best candidate win."

His lip twitches in what I think might be a smile, but then the doors slide open, and we step into the lobby. When I turn, it is gone.

Outside of our building is chaotic and cold. We stand between the doors and the steps, taking it all in. The snowfall from earlier has dusted everything in a powdery white, from the streets to the rooftops. I might even think it pretty if weren't for the hordes of Christmas shoppers.

We descend the steps, and my heel catches on the uneven concrete, making me wobble. Milo grabs my arm in a flash, his grip strong and firm as he keeps me in place. His eyes flit to mine, his brow beginning to crease. "Why are you like this?"

I sidestep his grip and ignore his rude comment, giving him a wave. "See you, Milo. Have a great evening."

He walks away, shaking his head, before disappearing around the corner. I catch an Uber back to my apartment, which has felt empty since Lucas moved out. As soon as I get in, Mulan hops off the counter and rubs against my leg. At least someone still loves me.

As usual, the moment I climb into bed, I get out my phone and scroll through Lucas' feed. He looks so nauseatingly happy that instead of feeling sad about our subsequent breakup, I'm struck with this sudden rage. Not just rage, but motivation. I'm going to work hard, get that promotion, and prove him wrong about me. 

A/N

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