Everything around me went black.

I couldn’t believe this shit.

I wanted to click over and shout at my mother, to ask how dare she and my father pull me out of college without even telling me, but I couldn’t. I simply hung up and sat still—stone-faced and lost.

There were tears falling down my face, but I couldn’t feel them. I couldn’t feel a damn thing.

I pressed the power button on my phone to prevent anyone else from calling me and pulled out the envelope Mr. Petrova gave me earlier. I assumed it was a long list of insults, or a new diet, but it was a letter:

Miss Everhart,

I just received notice that you were leaving the university at the end of this term. While I am disappointed in your failure to alert me to this news in advance, I am impressed with the growth you have shown while being in my program.

You are still an average dancer, but considering the fact that your peers are all terrible dancers, I guess you can be somewhat proud of that status.

Behind this letter is a recommendation for the New York City Ballet Company. Due to a few unfortunate circumstances, several spots have opened for their current class. This does not happen often, and you would be quite stupid not to audition.

However, if you do audition and are not accepted, it will only mean that you didn’t dance your best. (Or that you gained another unfortunate pound.)

—Petrova.

I flipped to the attached page and noticed that the deadline to audition was in three weeks, that if I auditioned and was accepted, I would be leaving my current leading role behind and would have to start all over again.

Dancing for the NYC Ballet Company had once been a dream of mine, but after I broke my foot at sixteen, I readjusted my version of a dream career; the competition at such a place would be far too fierce for someone who sat out a complete year, full recovery or not.

Nonetheless, I couldn’t fathom going away to New York City, not alone anyway. And I didn’t think I could leave Andrew without at least getting a much deserved apology.

Sighing, I turned on my laptop and logged into my email, shocked to see his name at the very top of my inbox.

Subject: Mock Trials.

Miss Everhart,

For the third time this week, you’ve alluded to our former affairs in the court room. Although I am not surprised by this, I am quite disappointed.

You may regret the aftermath of fucking me, but I know damn well that you loved every single second that my cock was inside of you. (And before you lie and say that you didn’t, think about the numerous times you screamed my name as my mouth devoured your pussy.)

Maybe if you thought about those things instead of your uncontrollable and erratic “feelings,” your defenses in court wouldn’t be so laughable.

—Andrew

I deleted his email and read Petrova’s letter again.

I needed to research the New York City Ballet auditions tonight.

Malfeasance (n.):

Intentionally doing something either legally or morally wrong which one had no right to do.

Andrew

I opened my left drawer, searching for a bottle of aspirin. I hadn’t slept well in over a week, and I was certain that most of that had to do with the half-assed reports the interns were giving me. That, or Aubrey was poisoning my lunch.

I flipped through her most recent report and groaned as I read her handwritten remarks:

I find it very ironic that you can give us an assignment on the importance of trust and relationships, when you have no idea what either of those words mean.

PS—You did not “devour” my pussy.

I tore off her note and tossed it into the trash, reading the next one:

A case that deals with a boss fucking his employee? At least this boss had the balls to come clean and admit that he actually liked her, instead of tossing her away like trash.

PS—Yesterday’s extra ingredient in your coffee was flakes of melted super glue. I hope you enjoyed it.”

“Mr. Hamilton?” Jessica stepped into my office.

“Yes?”

“Would you like me to send your Armani suit to another dry cleaning company?” she asked. “This is the third time you’ve sent them those pants. I don’t think that brown stain is coming out.”

“No, thank you.” I sighed. “Just order me some new ones please.”

“Will do!” She batted her eyes at me as she left, and I immediately emailed Aubrey.

Subject: Super Glue.

I no longer drink your fucking coffee, but since you’ve once again proven how much of a novice you are when it comes to the law, I’ll be saving your handwritten note so my friends will know who to charge with my murder.

Grow up.

—Andrew

Subject: Re: Super Glue.

You don’t have any friends. I was your only one. And I don’t care if you save my handwritten note because I’ve saved all of your EMAILS—especially the ones that say, “Come to my office so I can eat your pussy on my lunch break,” or “I love the way your mouth looks when you wrap it around my cock.”

You first.

—Aubrey.

I started typing my response—not willing to give her the last word, but I heard Jessica clearing her throat.

“Something else I can help you with today?” I looked up. “I could’ve sworn you just left my office.”

“Word around the firm is that today is your birthday.”

“Today is not my birthday.”

“That’s not what HR said.”

“HR is full of shit.” I looked at the coffee mug on the edge of my desk, noticing that the coffee wasn’t even brown. It was orange. “But speaking of HR, could you have them ban Miss Everhart from touching the coffee machines?”

“Doubt it.” She stepped closer. “Between you and me, we’re throwing you a surprise party in the break room. Like, right now. We’ve been waiting for you to take a break but you haven’t, so...Can you step in for a second?”

“Did you just tell me no about my coffee machine request?”

“I’ll handle it after you come to your party.” She smiled and reached for my hand, but I stood on my own.

“I’ve told your grandfather on multiple occasions that I don’t appreciate his employee birthday parties.”

She shrugged and led me down the hall. “Make sure you look surprised. I put a lot of work into this...I always go the extra mile for you.”

I ignored the way she was licking her lips.

She pushed the door open, and all of the staff tossed confetti into the air and shouted, “Happy Birthday, Mr. Hamilton!” Then they began to sing the birthday song—out of tune and terribly off key.

I walked over to the windows where they’d placed a small white cake with blue candles, and blew them out before the song ended.

“Happy Birthday, Andrew!” Mr. Greenwood handed me a blue envelope. “How old are you today?”

“Seeing as though today is not my birthday, I’m the same age as I was yesterday.”

He laughed, still incapable of catching when I was being short with him. Holding his stomach in jest, he motioned for one of the interns to take our photo.