I thought about the latest letter he’d written to The Socialmedialite, about how he loved me, and it made my silly heart do a happy jig and then cry in the corner of despair.

I felt guilt. Ronan had written to The Socialmedialite thinking of her as an impartial third party, asking for advice, baring his soul. I’d read his private thoughts, I’d been lying to him, and I hadn’t yet responded. His words were so beautiful, so moving, so exactly what I’d needed to push me over the edge. Every time I read the letter, I became lost to my feelings—of swelling love and anxious despondency—and my mind blanked. I didn’t know how to respond.

I had to tell him the truth—both about who I was and how I loved him—but I feared losing him. I knew it was partially the fear that kept me silent on both accounts. The other part was giving up my anonymity. Being The Socialmedialite was my outlet. Until Ronan, it was the only avenue where I could truly be myself. If I told Ronan, if he knew, then he would have power over me, and I would never be anonymous again.

The sound of my computer notifying me of a call pulled me from my thoughts. I blinked at the screen and saw Joan’s avatar—which was just a picture of her giant leather office chair—flashing insistently. I took a deep breath and accepted the video call, straightening in my seat and hoping my attention would follow.

As soon as she came into focus, she started to talk. “Annie, we need your help with The Starlet. She’s tossed out our summer plan and wants us to start from scratch. Beth sent her an email, and Dara responded that she’s not used to having to read actual words. I blame your infographics. You spoil the clients.”

“Hi, Joan.” I gave her a half smile, feeling strangely nostalgic for my comfortable life in New York.

“Have you opened the file I sent? Let’s modify it while I have you on the line. I can call Beth in here if needed….”

We settled into our client discussions, no pleasantries, just like old times, and I actually found myself relaxing as we went through the details and proposals. This felt like solid ground. This was my area of expertise, not falling in love with an infamous bad-boy sex symbol on the precipice of dominating the world stage while deceiving him about my secret identity.

All was well—relatively speaking—until the hotel phone started to ring. I ignored it. It stopped, and then it rang again. After the fourth call back, I glanced at my cell phone and found no messages. Whoever was calling via the hotel phone didn’t have my cell number. Joan could tell my attention was split.

“Just, would you get that? They’re obviously not going to stop.”

Relieved, I reached for the receiver. “Hello?”

“Ms. Catrel, this is O’Hare, the concierge. You have a visitor.”

“Uh, well, I’m in the middle of a work call. Perhaps my visitor could leave a message?”

“Ms. Catrel, your visitor is Ms. Brona O’Shea, and she is quite insistent that you’ll be very interested in an envelope currently in her possession.”

My face must’ve betrayed my confusion and surprise because Joan’s voice was shrewd and her glare sharp as she demanded, “What? What is it? Who is that?”

My gaze flickered to the computer screen, where Joan was leaning forward in her chair, and I said into the phone, “Please send her up.”

“Right away, Ms. Catrel. Patricia will escort her to your apartments and will be happy to serve tea while the two of you have a…visit.”

“Thank you, O’Hare.”

I held the receiver to my ear for a full five seconds after the concierge had clicked off, my eyes on the glass top of the desk, going through the likely scenarios of what Brona had brought with her in the envelope. Obviously, the most likely answer was that Brona had been bluffing to gain admittance to our rooms and start trouble.

But if she weren’t bluffing and the envelope actually contained something damaging to Ronan, I would need to separate myself from my feelings for him. Whatever it was she’d brought, Ronan was my client. Regardless of what he’d done in his past and how that might influence my rage levels as his girlfriend, I needed to converse with his ex-girlfriend as though I were merely part of Ronan’s publicity team, as his advocate.

“Annie, who was on the phone?” Joan’s impatient question pulled me from my internal pep talk.

I replaced the phone on the charger and lifted my eyes to my boss. “That was the concierge. Brona O’Shea is downstairs and wants to speak to me.”

“I bet she does,” Joan scoffed.

“She has an envelope with her and informed the concierge that it contains something that I will find very interesting.”

“What’s in it?”

“I guess I’ll find out when she gets here.”

“No. We will find out. Keep me plugged in and angle your screen toward the door. It’s a shame I can’t be there in person to negotiate this…Let her know as soon as she walks in that you’re in the middle of a work call with Ronan’s publicity team. She’ll see it as an opportunity. Also….”

I nodded, mostly listening to Joan’s strategy, clicking through my open tabs on my laptop and closing several windows. If Brona would be talking to Joan via my laptop, I didn’t need her to see my Socialmedialite email account or the blog post draft I’d been writing.

Joan detailed her plan while I prepared to face Ronan’s ex with as little outward emotion as possible. However, just as the knock sounded on the suite door, Joan surprised me by saying, “…and of course you might need to play the role of jealous current girlfriend—good cop, bad cop—then I’ll make her think I’m on her side.”