I mostly wallowed in the strange familiarity of my apartment, barring an aimless foray to the Plaza Hotel, where Libby, in her well-intended yet futile attempts, tried to unlock my memory through reiki.
But unfortunately, all amounted to naught-not a sniff of recollection of ever having been there.
Nestled amid Manhattan's concrete zoo, the Quinn & Wolfe Hotel Group HQ is a staggering, seventy-floor strut of glass, ambition, and ego. A steel point juts out aggressively from the top, like a shiny middle finger to the skyline.
Walking into HQ's reception feels weirdly comforting. Everything's the same-the suits are in their suits, the creatives are in their jeans and I… well, I'm feeling pretty sexy in my silk blouse.
I smooth down the fabric, feeling like Wonder Woman in her power suit.
