By the time I walked into Miranda’s office, my relationship with Cade no longer belonged to either of us.
It belonged to sponsors.
It belonged to reporters.
It belonged to strangers who had studied photographs of us standing too close and decided that proximity was romance, that damage was redemption and that a woman’s humiliation could be repackaged into something marketable if the lighting was flattering enough.
Miranda’s office sat on the thirty-second floor of a glass building downtown, high enough above Toronto that the city looked clean from the windows. From up there, traffic became thin lines of colour. People became dots. Mistakes became too small to see.
I hated the view immediately.
I had slept for less than two hours after leaving the bar. Sleep was perhaps the wrong word
