ANDREA'S POV
"Toby, breathe," I said gently, handing the terrified intern a glazed donut from the box brought in earlier that morning. "He isn't going to fire you over a font choice."
Staring with wide and panicked eyes, Toby, a nineteen-year-old finance major who looked like he was about twelve, clutched a stack of files to his chest so hard the paper actively crinkled.
"You don't understand, Miss Rostova," Toby whispered, glancing fearfully at the closed double doors of Maxwell’s office. "He sent the last draft back with red ink. So much red ink. He circled the page numbers. Who circles page numbers?"
"Maxwell does," I said, taking a deliberate bite of my own donut. "He likes order. Just change the font to Garamond, make sure the margins are exactly one inch, and put the report on hi
