Monday

Mondays were the dullest days of the week, a slow trudge through writing, editing, and sorting emails. The kind of tasks that made staying awake feel like a triumph. The office, once bursting with chaotic energy, had fallen silent. The furniture was now muted dark wood and soft, mellow tones. It had been exactly one year since Kaycee and Kirsty—her loyal but dim-witted assistants—left to study at a circus school. Who would've thought all those years of calling them clowns would lead to… literal clown school? Burdine found it ironic, but strangely, she wasn't disappointed.

She thought back on the memories they'd shared. Like their first day, when they'd strolled in 45 minutes late because the smoothie shop hadn't opened earlier, or the time they brought a goat into the office. That goat! Now, the silence felt unnatural.

At noon, Burdine snapped out of her reverie. Time for lunch. Her long legs carried her briskly down the small staircase from her desk to the main floor. She grabbed her purse and coat—it was autumn, after all. Locking the door behind her, she stepped out into the crisp air. Stilesville was beautiful in the fall, rare as it was for the beachside city to look so picturesque. The cold breeze bit at her face, but the vibrant leaves made it worth the chill.

As she walked, admiring the scenery, a skater boy stumbled past, brushing against her.

"Ouch! You imbecile! Look what you've done to my coat!" she shrieked.

The boy froze, wide-eyed. "Sorry, miss! I swear I didn't mean to!"

Before Burdine could press the issue, a deep, commanding voice interrupted. "Is there a problem here?"

She turned to face the speaker. It was Damon. Tall, rich, devastatingly handsome—and rich, which bore repeating. But wait… he had a child with him?

"That kid just… wait. Do I know you?" Burdine asked, narrowing her eyes.

"Name's Thomas. And this is my grandson," he replied with a smirk.

"Grandson?!" she blurted, unable to hide her shock.

"Cloe, do you know this woman?" he asked, turning to the blonde standing nearby.

Cloe?! As in Cloe from Bratz?!

"Sorry, Burdine," Cloe said sheepishly, stepping forward and pulling the skater boy closer. "This is Zayn. He's learning to skateboard."

Burdine's head spun. Damon was Cloe's father? And now he had a grandson? How could I not know this?

"I'll make it up to you," Cloe offered hastily. "A new coat? Maybe a drink—"

"NO! No, no, no," Burdine interrupted, holding up a hand. "I'll handle it. Really. Anyway… see you at the event."

"Event?" Damon asked, looking between them.

Cloe stammered. "Yeah, Dad, I mean, um… we invited Burdine to the speed-dating thing. You know, for rich and hot singles. And she's rich and hot!"

The last part landed like a slap. Burdine stared at him. Damon—or Thomas—whatever his name was. This man. The same man who had once whispered sweet nothings about their future. The same man who'd abandoned her in a luxury hotel. And now he was… what? Playing family?

Her mind spiraled. Was she too much for him? Too poor? Too fake? Her hair, her surgeries—was it all for nothing?

"Burdine!" a voice called out, snapping her back to reality.

She turned to see Polita, an old friend from the Fashion Police days. Polita enveloped her in an overly enthusiastic hug, nearly squeezing the air out of her.

"Darling, it's been forever!" Polita gushed.

The hug was suffocating, the conversation even more so. Polita prattled on about her divorce from Damon—or Thomas?—after 25 years of marriage. Therapy, extravagant vacations, even dog therapy—it hadn't saved their marriage. Yet Polita had no idea Damon had been cheating. Money, apparently, wasn't enough to keep him satisfied. Burdine held her tongue, though she silently fumed.

Finally escaping the encounter, Burdine returned to her office, clutching a black coffee—something far from her usual sugary drink. She sat down at her desk, staring at her computer screen.

Title of the month: "How to Get Away with Spying on Your Ex?"

Her fingers hovered over the keys, but the page remained blank. The memories churned in her head: Damon, their shared history, the lies, the betrayal. Fifteen years. Why can't I just let it go?

The cursor blinked on the empty page, as if mocking her. Nothing came. Nothing at all.