On Monday morning, reporters crowded the entrance to Northline.
My coworkers had already cleared out my desk. Clients were asking for a different designer.
I entered through the underground garage and found a cardboard box waiting at reception. Through the glass wall of a conference room, several people who had once stayed up all night revising plans beside me quickly looked away.
My phone was full of comments from strangers. Some said I was smart because I knew exactly whose bed to climb into. Others said I was nothing but a rich man's toy and would be left with nothing once Adrian got bored.
I opened the plans for my projects and stared at the name in the title block. For the first time, I wasn't sure whether I had earned any of it.
I carried the box out through the garage. Half an
