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The stairwell is cold and gray and empty. I sink down onto the concrete steps and let the tears come.

This is stupid. Why am I crying over this?

He’s my boss! He can fuck whoever he wants! It’s none of my business if he has naked Russian supermodels waiting for him in his office. That’shislife.Hischoices. It’s got nothing to do with me.

But the tears keep falling anyway.

I’m mad at myself for caring. I’m mad at myself for having that dream. For touching myself to the thought of him. For letting myself feelanything,the slightest little morsel ofanything at all,about a man who is so clearly out of my league in every possible way.

He’s a billionaire. I’m nobody.

He has women like Natasha. Women who look like they stepped out of a porn video. Women who know what they’re doing.

I’m a virgin who gets flustered when he says my name.

I press the heels of my hands against my eyes.Get it together, Rae. He doesn’t want you. He wasnevergoing to want you.

The stairwell door opens above me.

Shit, shit, shit!I scramble to erase the evidence of crying from my face, but it’s too late. Footsteps ring out on the steps. Someone’s coming down.

“Well, well.” Kir’s voice bounces off the walls. “What do we have here? Oh, fuck… Rae?”

I don’t look up. “Go away.”

He doesn’t listen. The footsteps keep coming until I can see his shined leather shoes on the step below mine, blurry through my stubborn tears.

“Rae,” he says again, “what happened?”

“Nothing.” I keep my eyes fixed on the floor. “I’m fine. It’s allergies.”

“To what? Concrete?”

I almost laugh. But then another wave of humiliation crashes over me and I have to press my hand against my mouth to keep from making what would surely be a really pitiful sound.

Kir sits down next to me. “Hey.” He bumps his shoulder against mine. “Talk to me.”

“There’s nothing to talk about.”

“Clearly, there is.”

I shake my head. The tears are slowing down now, but my face is a mess. I bet I look like a wet raccoon.

“Is it my father?”

I flinch. He notices.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing.” I wipe at my cheeks again. “He didn’t do anything.”

“You’re sobbing in a stairwell because of nothing?”

“I’m notsobbing.” For the record, I am definitely sobbing. Or I was. Now, I’m just slowly leaking. “I just needed a minute.”

“Okay. Sure. Your minute has begun.” He’s making a joke, I think, as he checks his watch with a flourish. But it doesn’t feel like it comes with ill intentions. He doesn’t push anymore, either. He just sits there next to me, close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through his suit jacket.

Little by little, my breathing evens out. The tears dry up. When they’re gone, I feel hollow and wrung out, like someone squeezed all the emotion out of me and left behind a dry, empty husk.