The weekend was a ghost.
Walking through the lobby of the Torres building on Monday morning felt like crossing a border back into a country where I didn't speak the language of 'we' or 'possessive kisses'.
I had spent the commute practicing my neutral face, smoothing my charcoal pencil skirt, and tucking the memory of the kitchen island into a locked box at the back of my mind.
I stepped off the elevator and the first thing I saw was Julian's office door. It was wide open.
He was already there, looking through a stack of mail, a cup of that London tea steaming on his desk. He looked up as I passed, and for a split second, I felt like he was checking for a glow on my skin or a change in the way I carried my shoulders.
"Good morning, Madelyn." He called out, his voice pleasant and morning-bright. "I trust you had a restful weekend? You certainly look... refreshed."
"Very restful, thank you, Mr. Torres." I replied, my voice a perfect, level pitch.
