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I can hardly believe my ears Monday morning as I stand on the tiled marble floor under the vast, quaking chandelier of the foyer. Word has buzzed through the building so quickly the whole place seems to hum.

Giselle. The Giselle. The one who’s shown her glossy face here for ten years. The one who has had her eyes set on the publisher position the past two. One of Ms. Pennington’s favorite pets (because Giselle is more skilled than anyone else here in the art of counterfeiting literary intelligence).

Numbly I take in the news surrounded by a dozen hushed—and in some cases giddy—conversations.

The second I turn the knob on my office door, I’m greeted with an explosion of energy from Lyla. “Did you hear?” she says, practically jumping from her chair and rushing at me like a puppy whose master has come home at the end of a long day. “Can you believe it?”

“Hardly,” I say, bewildered.

Lyla shuts the door behind me. In fact, all the doors on the hall are shut today. The typical, unspoken rule is to have them open, allowing Ms. Pennington to keep an eye on us whenever she spontaneously, much like a warden, walks the halls. But today everyone on our hall is talking about the latest news.

Giselle the Giant has fallen.

And surely . . . surely? . . . not because of me.

“I saw her this morning carrying a box from her desk downstairs. To the first floor.” Lyla’s eyes are positively mirthful. “Honestly, I’m surprised she didn’t just quit. You know how she is. She’d probably rather be unemployed than lose her dignity by being demoted to the first floor. I say she’ll find somewhere else and quit within the week.”

“Where did she go?”

“Trophy. To be an assistant. I just can’t believe it. Harry I could believe. Clyve made sense; his work was always subpar. But Giselle? I mean, she was out with the bigwigs just two nights ago! I saw them!”

And as if on cue, there’s a knock on the door. We both jump, and in the next moment we’re flying toward our desks and jabbing both of our computer mouses to make the screens come to life.

“Come in,” I call out as nonchalantly as I can.

To my surprise, it’s Will.

The ease in his eyes is gone. All remnant emotions from two nights ago, in fact, are gone, leaving only that same hard, exacting expression he wears from eight to six. Even his clothes look tighter and more uncomfortable with their perfectly pressed and sharp angles.

“Savannah. I was hoping for a quick word.”

“Oh. Of course,” I say.

Lyla’s eyes practically become saucers as she watches me follow behind him into the hall. After all, why wouldn’t they? Those have been the words of doom the past twelve months. Anyone receiving them got the inevitable boot.

Who knows? Maybe it’s my turn.

I trail behind Will to the end of the hall, where a single door looms. Two people walking down from the opposite side stop as we pass, practically flattening themselves against the wallpaper with more giant-saucer eyes to let us by. Good grief. I have no doubt that rumors are already spreading. People are probably right now calling dibs for my desk space.

We step inside his office, and as we do so, I hear the door click shut behind me.

I’ve only been in this room a handful of times.

“Please grab a seat.” He motions at one of the two modern-looking leather chairs on the other side of his desk.

As I take a seat, I glance around. The desk is the same auspiciously large, wearied pine as every other desk in the building bought in the 1970s, but everything else about the room is new. The red Persian rug peeking out from beneath the desk and stretching across half the length of the room. The black-walnut bookcase to one side, spilling out books both new and old. The wall behind Will, covered with two windows facing a large maple and its spindly winter limbs. On either side of the windows there used to be frames. Dozens of frames, highlighting a life spent in publishing, documenting nearly every accomplishment for the world, and Harry himself, to admire.

But there are no frames now behind Will’s head. Just a fresh coat of cold gray paint, tinting toward blue in the morning light.

Will takes a breath. “I’m sure you must’ve heard.”

He doesn’t elaborate. After all, he has grown up inside these walls; he must know how fast word travels.

“I did,” I say at last. “I must admit, I’m surprised.”

He nods, not seeming to want, or need, to know more. “I just wanted you to know that I appreciate you speaking with me so candidly Friday evening. The more I can understand the myriad problems going on in this company, the easier it will be on everyone in the long run.”

So that’s what it was, then. My fears—no, I won’t even let myself admit that in thought alone. My suspicions confirmed. He pulled me off to chat more about the company. That even explains the so-called “bet” to make things more interesting: play a game of darts and get all the dirt he can on what’s really going on in the company. And I was just so willing to share every single thought in my head.