17
Charlotte couldn’t sleep once she returned to her apartment. She lifted a wine glass from the countertop, half-wanting to smash it to smithereens on the hardwood floor. Anger and sadness throttled through her, both working to reign. Quentin had kicked her out of his apartment at four in the morning, like a ragdoll, a plaything he no longer wanted. And he’d given her no real explanation, besides grumbling something about it being an “emergency.”
She couldn’t linger on it. He was just done with her. That had to be it. And now, she was stuck as his intern, probably having to fight to stay relevant at the magazine, when he would probably want her gone at every turn.
Of course, what was worst of all, was that she was falling for him, head-over-heels. When he’d f****d her against the count
