Days passed in a blur of chores and typing up reports and answering emails.

Violet sent an intricate thank-you note. Reece included a message of his own. Axel's secretary wired all the final checks for vendors, as well as a slight bonus for me, "for working in trying times." I had no idea if Axel was the one actually sending me this—he never spoke of a secretary—but I gave a generic response and continued on with my day.

On the third day after coming home, when the jet-lag finally subsided, I agreed to go to coffee with Chi.

I knew what was coming—the dreaded explanations—and it broke me down to see Chi so enthusiastic as I met them at our usual haunt in West Hollywood. It was ten in the morning, and while I was fairly awake, Chi had much more energy than I could muster.

"Why the long face?" they said, seeing my half-hearted attempt at a smile as I joined them at a table. They'd ordered me a latte, and savored something that looked like a mix between a cappuccino and an iced mocha. "You should be jumping up and down. The wedding was a fucking smash hit."

I smiled, though I was sure it ended up as more of a wince. "It was. Got a little bonus for it, too." It wasn't anything significant enough for me to quit L.A. Love Wedding Planners and find a better place to work. But it would fit nicely in my near-empty savings account. "Great reviews. Violet was thrilled."

"Okay, so?" Chi sipped on their drink, leaving a foam mustache above their plump lips. They looked so refreshed, in contrast to me. Hair sleek with water from their shower, high-waisted blush pants, a ruffled top with a high neck. They were fresh off a New York City runway, dashing and gorgeous as ever. "What's the issue?"

I'd struggled to throw on a pair of acceptable jeans and a t-shirt and tie up some Converse shoes. Nights of tossing and turning, nightmares and sex dreams about Axel, a few horrifying images of Olivia prying back into my life...I wasn't in good shape.

It'd taken me half an hour to somewhat conceal the bags under my eyes, and to put on a decent enough coat of mascara to not appear sick. And twirling my messy dark mane into a passable bun was more excruciating than I'd ever expected brushing hair to be.

But if I didn't agree to see Chi, they'd have shown up at my studio and dragged me out of bed.

"Baby girl," they said, reaching across the table, their palm warm atop mine. "What's going on? I expected you to tell me you were moving in with him by now. You're free to be together, and I know you both wanted to try something." I hadn't given Chi the full details, but I'd hinted in a message when landing in L.A. a few days ago that Axel and I were trying something out. "So what happened?"

I cringed, and their hand wrapped tighter around mine. "I'm...still working for him." The coffee rushed down my throat, burning it, but I was too numb to react. Too many nights of yelling at the top of my lungs in my dreams had taken a lot of my physical feelings away. "His other sister, Estelle, is getting married, too."

"What?" Chi's eyebrows raised as they leaned backward. "And how does that—" They gasped, smacking a hand to their mouth. "Oh, shit. And Estelle wants you to plan. And he's paying, so..."

I crumbled in my seat with a heavy sigh. "Exactly. He's my boss again, and the rules are back in application."

Chi tutted and fished inside their bag, coming out with a rose-gold flask. "Here," they said, unscrewing the top and handing it to me. "You need some of this."

"Please," I shook my head, "you have no idea how much I've consumed in the past few days. I can't."

They insisted. "It's Baileys. Not rosé or vodka, which I know are your depression go-to's." Before I could stop them, they poured a few drops into my latte. I closed my eyes and shook it off, choosing not to protest. If Chi wanted me to diffuse my feelings with some booze, so be it. "Trust me. It'll take the edge off. A little. Temporarily, but it's better than nothing."

I offered them a tiny smile of relief. Working for Axel after all the emotions would destroy me; but Chi would be there. Chi would keep me on my feet, as they always did.

As if reading my mind, they nodded. "I got you, Vivi. We'll get you through this. And maybe after it's all over..."

I let out a disheartened chuckle. "Doubtful." I lowered my voice. "Axel Levine, the most eligible bachelor in the country, waiting for me? Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

Chi opened their mouth to speak, but my phone buzzed, blocking whatever lies they'd been about to spew to make me feel better.

When I saw the name on the screen, I panicked.

Brent Bowers — calling

"Fuck," I said, standing so I could run to a quieter area of the café. "It's the boss."

Chi sat up straight and made the sign of the cross. "Good luck. My prayers are with you."

I hurried outside, pausing on the not-as-busy-as-usual sidewalk. "Hello?"

"Vivienne?" It was, to my surprise, not Mr. Bowers' voice, but his assistant, Julie. And calling me by my first name, surprisingly; she never did that. "Sorry to give you a heart attack. He told me to call from his extension."

I released a lengthy breath, reassured that Mr. Bowers' annoying croak wasn't on the other end. "No worries. What's up?"

"Well," her voice was rigid, more so than usual, "to be blunt, he's pissed."

Julie rarely spoke so openly about our unpleasant boss, especially not with me. I was the black sheep in our company, the one Brent despised for no reason, but strangely kept on the payroll.

Julie, as his assistant, was often forced to repeat his cruelties to me. She had such a good poker-face that I couldn't figure out whose side she was on, if anyone's.

"Wow," I rubbed my forehead, "is he...uh...telling you this right now?"

"He's in a meeting." She laughed. "I'd never speak like that in front of him. Anyway, he's pissed because you haven't checked in. He sent that email yesterday, did you get it?"

"I did." I gulped. "And I responded with my report a few hours later. Did he not get it?"

"He must have. But he's still pissed, apparently. He wants you to come in ASAP."

I wrinkled my nose. It was customary for planners at my firm to take a week off after a wedding was concluded. In my case, with the heavily planned Levine-White wedding, Mr. Bowers accorded me two weeks off.

Why would he call me in after hardly three days of rest?

"When?" I peered through the café window to find Chi staring at me, fear and intrigue written all over their features.

"He only said ASAP." Julie went silent for a moment, then breathed into the receiver. "Look, he didn't offer up dates or times, but the sooner you get in, the better. He mentioned something about a debrief in person, and how urgent it was. I mean it when I say he's pissed."

"Like," I sucked my lips in, "he's going to fire me, pissed?"

I hated that for a split second, I wanted that. If Bowers got rid of me, I wouldn't be able to plan Estelle's wedding. Which would leave me free to...

"I don't think so." Shuffling came from her end, and voices echoed through the speaker. I could almost hear her perk up and shift her demeanor—which meant Mr. Bowers was now within earshot. "So get over here as quickly as you can, Miss Clarke. I wouldn't delay past today." She hung up before I could confirm or deny.

I reluctantly left Chi at the coffee shop after downing my drink. I needed to rush home and change into something more work appropriate. Thankfully, the office wasn't too far from my studio, so I might be able to make it in just after noon.

Decked in one of my customary pantsuits—black, fitting for the funeral I was about to attend; my own—I rushed into the high-rise, glass-walled building that housed L.A. Love Wedding Planners on its tenth floor.

Downtown L.A. was a breeze for me to navigate, as it was where I spent most of my time for work. It was also a favorite area of mine in my days of dating Olivia.

The ding of the elevator snapped me out of my trance as the doors opened to the black, white, and red-themed level. Heart-shaped carpets and red-shaded lamps dangled from the shiny black ceiling. The oversized reception counter stood in front of the dozens of offices of all the planners. My office was off to the left side, more of a closet than an actual work-space.

Mr. Bowers' spacious locale was down a hall to the right. Haven, the ever-neutral receptionist, gave me a pained look as she gestured at me to go straight to him, while answering a phone call. She disliked me, as did most of the staff—so for her to give me such a pitying glance meant this wasn't good.

None of them had any reason to be so cold to me. I always assumed it was Mr. Bowers' grudge, that he asked them to bully me, or else. But what was his grudge with me? I never delved deeply enough to find out. He hired me when I needed the money, and I got strictly enough to get by while doing something I loved.

I didn't think I'd love it much longer once he was done berating me for whatever odd reason he'd come up with today.

I passed open doors where folks stopped what they were doing and watched me walk. It was like a catwalk of death, and Mr. Bowers' office was the final step, the edge of the cliff that I'd be forced to jump off.

I didn't want to jump, but knowing him, he'd put me in a position I couldn't fix. Julie hadn't seemed sure what his intentions were, but I felt it, deep inside.

He was going to fire me. Because of my poor performance at the Levine wedding—it didn't matter the rave reviews, he'd unearth some sordid shit to reprimand me. Or because he'd gotten wind of Axel and I. Who knew? The man was evil, down to his core, and if he had means of getting me in trouble, he would.

As I cautiously approached the end of the hall, his door was wide open. Too open.

Brent Bowers sat behind his enormous white desk, typing up a storm on his fancy Mac desktop. He didn't tip his chin up as he waved me in. "Close the door," he said, his voice taut and annoyed.

Door-closing was a good sign. If he was firing me, he'd want it open so everyone could hear.

If he weren't so crude and frustrating, Brent would be considered a handsome man. Tall, well-spoken, a graceful stance, an elegant walk.

He was the kind of guy you'd picture sitting in an elaborate office on Wall Street, or standing atop a podium to give a political speech. Evilly good-looking, his words laced with poison. He was rich, though not on Axel's scale, and it showed in the always pristine suits he wore, the impeccably styled short brown hair, the array of golden watches over his wrists.

Though I was his favorite target, he was unpleasant to everyone in the building, especially women. The men in our company were treated with more respect. Brent was sexist, and didn't even try to pretend otherwise.

But L.A. Love Wedding Planners was the most talked-about wedding planning company in Los Angeles, and to quit it and work elsewhere was a downgrade. Brent had ins, contacts across the globe, and found the most high-profile, rich people to organize weddings for.

He simply didn't like to give any of those weddings to me.

Julie wasn't at her station right in front of Brent's door. Her chair was empty as I arrived. Even as I peeked through the partially see-through glass walls—made of a cloudy material that allowed one to see silhouettes, but no more than that—I didn't notice her there.

She was a pretty girl, hard to miss; most women in the firm were. Brent's requirements were for us to be classy, beautiful, and wear nothing but tailored pant suits and skirts on the shorter side. And of course, he insisted we be well-endowed in the breast area.

Prick.

Julie, though, was smaller, shyer than any of us. I always presumed it was because she was his assistant, and he didn't want her to look as nice as everyone else. He wanted to ensure she knew her place, which was beneath him.

Everyone was beneath him.

"Sit," he said, gesturing at the red-cushioned chair across from him. He still didn't look at me, his fingers focused on the keyboard in a frantic race to finish his train of thought.

Only when I'd lowered onto the cushion, crossed my legs, and pressed my spine hard against the chair's back, did he lift his chin and notice me. And glare.

"Julie told you how furious I am?" He joined his hands atop the desk, turning slightly to face me.

I swallowed, but did my best not to show any apprehension. If I did, he'd eat me up and throw me out the window. "She did."

"And?" One eyebrow raised. "Did you want to know why?"

To feign stupidity would irritate him. To speak too bluntly would irritate him. There was no right way to approach Brent Bowers when he was angry.

"I assume it's because of the Levine wedding?" I set my hands in my lap to hide how my fingers were shaking.

"Clearly," he said, narrowing his gaze. "You have nothing to say? No apologies to make?"

I rolled my shoulders. "The event went well, Brent. I received compliments from the bride yesterday—"

He smacked a hand to the desk, keeping his glower on me. "I don't give a shit that the bride thanked you. I reviewed all the pictures." He grunted as he typed something up on his keyboard, then turned the computer screen to me. "We're getting slammed for not having enough snaps of celebrities."

I tried to hide my frown. Seriously? He was mad because we hadn't gotten sufficient proof of big-name famous people at the wedding of someone who was, in most opinions, already quite famous?

"I...don't see the issue," I dared, regretting the words before they even left my mouth.

Brent's nostrils flared. Such a subtle thing, but so small, so snide, it made me want to recoil and hide behind my chair.

"Celebrities are the best publicity, Vivienne. I don't know how many times I need to repeat this. You're not used to high-profile weddings like these, obviously, but you've heard me speaking of this before." He clicked his tongue. "You should have intervened and pushed the photographer to capture more of the VIP guests. Not all these random bums with cheap versions of designer dresses."

I would have gasped at his comments, but these weren't new for him. He demeaned anyone below him, anyone he deemed to have less money than him. A truly selfish, narcissistic man; but unfortunately, he was a tycoon in the wedding industry. It'd be easier if he didn't know shit about planning, but he'd put together some of the most notorious weddings in the past decade or so. He was, as much as it hurt to admit it, a genius.

"Um," I cleared my throat, "there were tons of NDAs signed, though."

He rolled his eyes and groaned. "Vivienne, please. There are ways to work around those. Again, someone with your lack of experience—"

His phone rang, interrupting us. He lifted a finger, the wait a minute sign, and picked up.

"What?" He was curt, conveying how irritated he was at someone stopping his tirade against me, his favorite victim.

Whoever was on the other line—I presumed Julie—was speaking too fast for me to properly hear what they were saying. I made out the words "here" and "immediately" and watched as the color drained from Brent's usually reddened cheeks.

"Fuck." He stood up abruptly and buttoned his suit jacket, his fingers fumbling. He was stiffer than normal, and I almost gathered a sense of fear about him. His lips kept bunching and unbunching, and he hurried around the desk as if he needed to reach the door to escape a fire.

I twisted in my seat to witness whatever was going on. Someone big and important must have popped in to see him, without notice. A celebrity, an investor, maybe his mother—I tried not to laugh at that last thought.

"You," he swung around as he made it to the door and pointed at me, "stay right where you are. This concerns you, too. Fuck." He returned to the door, swiping his hands through his hair, taming it. "I bet he came to sue us. Or give us a warning before he brings us down." As he opened the door, he craned his neck to allow me to see his snarling, in profile. "All because of your shitty handiwork."

He stormed out, down the hall, and I furrowed my eyebrows.

He? Me? What was all that about?

He left the door open, and I glimpsed Julie for a second as she peeped into the office, her dark blonde hair framing her pallid face. She gave me an "are you okay?" look before scurrying back to her chair.

Footsteps came from around the corner, in the direction of the reception desk. I half stood up to witness who was coming, who Brent was bringing along with him. Who was—

I fell back into my seat, my jaw dropping.

As Brent came into view, he was accompanied by another man. A tall, charming, devastatingly handsome man. No mistaking that perfect gait, the subtly unkempt dark ginger hair, the classic navy suit wrapped around his flawless physique.

And those eyes, decipherable even from afar, staring straight at me.

Axel?

Axel Levine was here. And he intimidated every person he passed. People who'd been at their doorways to watch hurried back into their offices with squeaks and squirms.

Axel followed Brent into the office and closed the door behind him, leaning against it.

Brent flurried to his chair, mumbling under his breath.

I'd never, not once, seen my boss so distraught. It would have been exhilarating had this happened under other circumstances.

Axel said nothing to me, and wandered farther in, his gaze on Brent. "So," he started, his timbre deeper and more alluring than I remembered.

"Mr. Levine," said Brent, an evident tremble in his tone. He motioned at the chair beside mine, and I clamped up at the notion of Axel sitting so close to me.

I still had wet dreams about him, and there he was, materializing as if I'd wished him here.

But he couldn't be here. We couldn't be near one another.

Axel was a VIP, and seemed to know his way around. He didn't gape at Brent's eccentric decor as if seeing it for the first time. If anything, he was unfazed by the overwhelming luxury of it all. Likely thought it was insufficient compared to his luxury.

For once, someone is putting you in your place, Brent.

Brent's smile was too wide, too fake. "I'm sorry she is in here with us, but I was finishing up reprimanding her for—"

"—no." Axel refused the seat and stood on my other side, arms crossed. To feel his presence, get a whiff of that scent I thought I'd erased from my memory, for his arms to bulge so near me...

I lost my will to speak. My heart thumped a million miles a minute.

Axel Levine was next to me, scowling at Brent Bowers. I'd spent days adrift in dreams about him, and he was there.

"She is within her right to be here." My pulse was wild as he tensed beside me. "Because I came to hire your firm again for my other sister's wedding, Estelle. And I want," he twisted to me, while still talking to Brent, his eyes glowing like ambers in pale water, "her to organize it."

☼☼☼