Stella

“STELLA!”

My heart rate sped up. Nothing triggered my fight or flight like the sound

of Meredith’s voice.

“Yes?” I hid my trepidation behind a neutral expression.

“I trust you can bring all the items back to the office yourself.” She

slipped on her coat and tossed her handbag over her shoulder. “I have a

dinner reservation I simply can’t miss.”

“Of—"

She disappeared out the door.

“Course I can,” I finished.

The photographer shot me a sympathetic look, which I answered with a

tired shrug. I wasn’t the first magazine assistant who’d suffered under a

tyrannical boss, and I wouldn’t be the last.

Once upon a time, working at a fashion magazine would’ve been a

dream. Now, after four years at D.C. Style, the reality of the job had dulled

any shine the position once held.

By the time I packed up the photoshoot, dropped the items off at the

office, and started my walk home, my forehead was slick with sweat and my

muscles were well on their way to becoming Jell-O.

The sun had set half an hour ago, and the streetlights cast a hazy orange

glow over the snow-packed sidewalks.

The city was under a blizzard warning, but the bad weather wouldn’t kick

in until later in the evening. It was also faster for me to walk home than take

the Metro, which freaked out whenever there was so much as an inch of

snow

One would think the city would be better prepared considering it snowed

every year, but nope. Not D.C.

I shouldn’t have been looking at my phone while walking, especially

given the weather, but I couldn’t help myself.

I pulled up the email I’d received that afternoon and stared at it, waiting

for the words to rearrange themselves into something less upsetting, but they

never did.

Effective April 1, the cost for a private room at Greenfield Senior Living

will increase to $6,500 per month. We apologize in advance for any

inconvenience this may cause, but we are confident the changes will result in

even higher-quality care for our residents…

The green smoothie I’d downed during lunch sloshed in my stomach.

Inconvenience, they said. Like they weren’t hiking the prices of an

assisted living facility by more than twenty percent. Like living, breathing,

vulnerable human beings wouldn’t suffer as a result of the new

management’s greed.

In, one, two, three. Out, one, two, three.

I tried to let the deep breaths wash away my rising anxiety.

Maura had practically raised me. She was the one person who’d always

been there for me, even if she didn’t know who I was now. I couldn’t move

her to another assisted living facility. Greenfield was the best in the area, and

it’d become her home.

None of my friends and family knew I’d been paying for her care. I didn’t

want the inevitable questions telling them would raise.

I would just have to find a way to cover the higher costs. Maybe I could

take on more partnerships or negotiate higher rates for my blog and

Instagram. I had an upcoming dinner with Delamonte in New York, which

my manager said was an audition for their brand ambassador position. If I—

“Ms. Alonso.”

The deep, rich voice brushed my skin like black velvet and stopped me in

my tracks. A shiver chased its wake, born of equal parts pleasure and

warning.

I recognized that voice.

I’d heard it only three times in my life, but that was enough. Like the man

who owned it, it was unforgettable.

Wariness flickered in my chest before I doused it. I turned my head, my

gaze traveling over powerful winter tires and the sleek, distinctive lines of the

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