And you weren’t just crying; you were sobbing.”

“I wasn’t sobbing.” I shoot her a disgusted look because even the word “sobbing” is irritating, but I know my eyes are red.

Olivia leans down, puts her face in mine. “Sara heard you.” Sara being another member of Olivia’s team.

I’m beginning to think I’m not ever going to warm up to Sara. She tries too hard to get Olivia to like her.

“I’m over it,” I say, forcing a toothy grin and feeling absurdly like the wolf from “Little Red Riding Hood.”

“See?”

“Hmmph” is all Olivia gives me, but Olivia has no idea how hard all this is for me. No one knows how hard this has been.

There are days I still don’t know how I manage to climb from the bed and stagger into the shower, days when I still cry as I make coffee and try to apply mascara and eyeliner between mopping up tears. It’s just that I’d barely gotten used to the idea of being a bride, and now I’m a... divorcée?

“You need to start getting out,” Olivia adds firmly, her tone no-nonsense. “It’s time for you to be proactive, not reactive.”

Of course she’d think like this. She grew up immersed in the world of professional sports, and everything to Olivia is about offense and defense. If Olivia were an athlete, she’d be a quarterback and a pitcher rolled up into one.

“I’m getting out,” I say, shifting uneasily, knowing that Olivia’s voice carries and not being particularly eager to have the rest of the staff hear my shortcomings. Again. “I’m here, aren’t I?”

It was supposed to be a joke, but she doesn’t laugh. “This is work, Holly.”

“Exactly.”

Olivia rolls her eyes. She’s beautiful. Even when she rolls her eyes, she looks sleek. Sexy. With the ultimate in DNA—Olivia’s mother is a former model, the blonde, glossy type that graced the pages of Sports Illustrated, while her father dominated the Oakland Raiders’ offense, a star wide receiver still talked about in hushed voices twenty years later. Olivia is perfection. She modeled for two years in Paris but hated it, apparently modeling wasn’t challenging, as it did nothing for her mind.

“This is no social life,” she says, leaning against the edge of my desk, her long legs even longer in snug, low-waisted trousers, her black cashmere turtleneck sweater cropped short enough to reveal two inches of flat, toned midriff.

I feel like a slice of Wonder bread. “I don’t need one.”

Her gray-green eyes narrow, squint. She looks at me hard, the same up-and-down sweep she gives decorated ballrooms before handing responsibility over to an underling. “You need something bad, girl.”

Yes. I need my bed with my duvet pulled up over my head, but it’s only Wednesday, and I have two more days before I get to dive back between my covers and stay there for the rest of the weekend. “Am I not performing?” I ask, trying to shift the focus from personal back to professional. Olivia was the one who hired me three months ago. She’d be the one who’d fire me.

Another narrowed-gaze inspection. “You’ve lost your... edge.”

Edge? I don’t remember having an edge. I was desperate when I interviewed for the job, but there never really was an edge. I mentally add “Get edge” to my increasingly lengthy to-do list.

“You need attitude,” she continues. “Presence.”

I say nothing because, quite frankly, I do have an attitude, and I suspect it’s not the one she wants.

“What do you do when you go home, Holly?” Olivia’s fine arched brows beetle.