“Don’t,” I whisper to myself, clutching my bag tighter as I force my feet forward. “Do not do this here. You are a professional.”
The lobby of Breakline Media Group greets me with its usual polished chaos—glass walls, exposed concrete, and sleek furniture that somehow always smells faintly of citrus cleaner and expensive coffee.
Normally, I love it here. I really do. This place feels like home in a way very few spaces ever have. Today, it feels like I’ve walked straight into hell with a hangover. The lights are too bright, the hum of conversation too loud. Someone laughs nearby, and the sound slices clean through my skull like a blade. I wince and lower my head, weaving my way through the open-plan office on autopilot.
“Morning, Kate!”
I lift two fingers in response without looking up.
“Rough night?”
Thumbs-down.
“Birthday hangover?”
I pause long enough to glare accusingly at the speaker before continuing on, the simple act of walking requiring far more concentration than it should.
My desk comes into view like a mirage—familiar, comforting, and cluttered in a way that feels personal rather than messy. Photos taped along the divider, a half-empty mug I forgot to empty yesterday, and a stack of printouts from my last piece, annotated in my handwriting.
I drop into my chair and let my head fall back against it with a low groan. A second later, the click of heels approaches, and I don’t need to look up to know who it is.
“Kate Elizabeth Ellington,” Addison’s voice announces brightly. “You look like absolute shit.”
I groan and drop my head forward, resting it on my desk. “Please don’t shout.”
She laughs—the sound is warm and unapologetic—and I feel her presence settle beside me. I smell her before I see her—clean, expensive perfume, a hint of vanilla, and something sharp beneath it.
I lift my head just enough to take her in. Of course, she looks flawless.
Her dark hair is swept up into a sleek ponytail that somehow still manages to look effortless. Her makeup is perfectly done—defined eyes, glowing skin, and lips a muted rose. She’sdressed in tailored trousers, ankle boots, and a crisp blouse that probably costs more than my entire outfit.
I glance down at myself and wince. I look the complete opposite.
She sets her bag down on my desk, grabs my hand and steers me toward the break room like a woman on a mission—one hand at my elbow, the other already reaching for the coffee machine before we’re even fully inside.
“Sit,” she orders, pulling out a chair for me.
I collapse into it gratefully, elbows on the table, head dropping forward with another pathetic groan. The smell of coffee hits me immediately—rich and bitter—and my body responds like it’s found oxygen after being underwater too long.
Addison fills the kettle before opening cabinets, pulling out coffee grounds, mugs, sugar packets, and then pauses. “Aspirin?”
I lift my head just enough to nod. “Please. Before my brain leaks out of my ears.”
She finds the bottle in seconds and slides it across the table to me like a drug deal. I take two, washing them down with water she somehow already has waiting.
“Okay,” she says, finally turning to face me fully. “Now tell me why you didn’t text me when you got home last night?”
Last night? More like earlier this morning.
I wince. “Because I fell asleep the moment my head hit the mattress.”
“What time did you get home?” she queries, narrowing her eyes at me.
“Late,” I answer vaguely.
“How late?”
“Late enough,” I murmur, painfully aware that I’m surviving on two hours of sleep. It was all worth it, though—hangover and all.
