"SHUTDOWN NASA!" A gruff man standing at the forefront shouts through a megaphone. The chant gets so loud, I'd wager tables all the way in Brooklyn are shaking from the vibrations. With the commotion that ensues, I see a couple of news vans pull into park to get the scoop and several NYPD cars pull up.

The security unit manning the perimeter of the Estate hasten to seal off the building lest any of the 'high class' guests get hurt. I am taken along with the snobby diplomats here. I polish off the last of my drink and leave the glass at the bar.

Without even thinking about it, I find myself heading upstairs to get a better look at whatever is going on. I recall one of the windows in August's office has a clear shot of the gate and the farms beyond. But it is only once in three blue moons that his office is open, let alone empty. I try the door anyway, and to my utter surprise, it gives.

I walk in without hesitation. From my elevated angle I can see that there are roughly a hundred-fifty or two hundred people outside the gate. I see cops in uniform walking through them trying to convince them to head home and stop all the commotion but no one bats an eye at them. Rather the chants get louder and more aggressive.

All of a sudden something clicks in my mind. I pull out my phone and type in 'shutdown NASA'. Millions of results pop up. I open the nearest article. It turns out the protests started in lieu of the Loretta 1009 news. Many people sold their houses, property, cars to gain momentary liquidity to use on that last day. To me those seem like stupid decisions to make, but humans aren't known for making the best decisions amirite? Others apparently looted shops, robbed banks in broad daylight and they are now about to face prison sentences they had never before imagined.

I turn off my phone impassively. Sure, these people are in a dilemma that NASA has a part in, but they also made the conscious decision to do whatever they did. A voice in my head sing-songs, "like sleeping with Carter?" Talk about the pot calling the kettle black.

I turn to leave before August finds me here. On my way out, an open file on his desk draws my eyes. It's not the important stamp engraved on it, but the way it's ridges seems creased like he has touched it one too many times. I get close enough to see a name I thought I would never see written more than three times on that document. Maria Von Madris, my mother.

I pick it up hastily and read through my expression getting saltier by the minute. He won't miss this one if I take it. I close the file and start looking for any other related documents but I come up short. I fold it up nicely and in one fluid motion stash it in my purse.

I walk out of the room and go to the bathroom at the end of the hallway. Inside, I stand at the mirror for a minute, enough time for someone to pee, then flush the toilet and let the water run for a moment before I exit the bathroom and join the stream of restless guests downstairs.

It takes thirty minutes before the police disperse the crowd, in which time I reluctantly dance with my father and engage in mindless chatter to keep the fear of getting caught at bay, and then I can go home. I release a huge sigh of relief when the limo that brought me passes the gate of the estate on its way out

I finally breathe easy when the door to my apartment closed behind me. I lay my purse on the kitchen counter and take a bottle of water out of the fridge. After downing half of the water, I look up and catch my reflection on the microwave door. I look too calm for someone who just stole a document that holds vital information about how my mom 'actually' died. I pick up my purse heading to my room.

I pass by the open living room door and reach my bedroom. I almost open the door but subconsciously I acknowledge, with trepidation, that something is off. I do a double take.

I cautiously poke my head through the living room door. I straighten up confused. He shouldn't be sitting on my couch, moreover so comfortably!

"Why are you here?"

Instead of answering, he gets up from the couch and slowly trudges through the living room looking at the art pieces on the wall.

"What are you doing here?" I inquire more forcefully.

"I had to get away from the paparazzi." He turns again to my miniature copy of the Guernica. "Hm, this likelihood seems quite convincing."

He is trying to distract me! "So you thought, 'why not get them all clogged at her house and leave my penthouse undisturbed.'" I say doing a coarse rendition of his voice.

"I don't speak like that," He comments nonchalantly and goes back to sit on the couch. "They don't know I am here. I came disguised" Is that supposed to reassure me?

"Still, can't you go somewhere else? Like to her place?" He looks pained at the mention of his fiancee. He no longer seems comfortable sitting on my couch.

"I can't." He answers evasively.

I hate that even after how she exposed us to the prying eyes of the world, he still can't get himself to say one bad thing about her, he is so protective of her, unlike how he was with me. "You can't be here either." I say resolutely and proceed to walk out of the room. I enter my room and stash the document in a hidden chamber in my drawer.

I open the door, almost running into him. He touches my arm tenderly.

"Can't your home be my sanctum?" He asks, his voice going a notch deeper. I can see him inching closer like he is going to kiss me. Some memories from that day resurface. I almost let him.

I regain my senses and in one motion send him flying out of the door. I bang the door behind him and let out a sigh. I am disappointed at how close I was to crumbling.

I hear him laughing outside. Clearly, this has stoked his humor but this is no laughing matter to me. Let him go to his fiancee.

"I am not leaving." He says with mirth still laced in his voice.

"Suit yourself." I answer and start retracing my way to my room. I pause midstep, "How did you get in?" I abruptly ask.

"I found your spare key on the door frame." He answers nonchalantly like he is unaware that that is punishable by law. I'll have to change its location.

"You should go Carter." I say with a softness to my voice. "I hope we don't meet anymore." Eerily, there is no one on the other side of the door, he has already left, probably without hearing the last part of my speech. Ugh, annoying son-of-a... -lady.

My head hurts like someone was banging on it all night. I get up and rub my eyes, to dispel the tiredness.

My phone's screen lights up. When I see the caller ID, I hastily grab it. "Hello."

"Someone paid the videos off the internet." He says. It is customary of De Laure to skip the greetings.

"What do you mean someone?" I ask with trepidation.

"A Mr. Carter Lozano." He says knowing pretty well how that changes the whole dynamic. Why would Carter pay to get my clips off the internet? "Anything else?' He asks.

"I will send you some files later." I say and he hangs up.

What game is he playing at?

I flop onto the sofa, mentally exhausted. A familiar scent wafts into the air, originating peculiarly from the sofa. I grab the nearest pillow to me and put it under the scrutiny of my nose. His cologne pierces my nostrils, sending a faintly woodsy, ocean-like scent into my system.

I put the pillow down irately, how dare he sleep here without my permission? I grab my phone and for the first time since yesterday, open it. A gazillion messages from perverts who want to get into my pants pops up. I am truly worried about the morals of this country if in just a few hours, hundreds of men want to sleep with a woman they don't even know. I click on the delete all button. I contemplate buying another phone, but I pass. Finally, I refocus on what had made me grab the phone in the first place.

The numbers flow naturally off my memory. I am embarrassed to admit that I still know his number from seven years ago.

I shoot him a text, "I have enough DNA to get you convicted." I click send hoping the message conveys as much warning as I intend.

Almost instantly, he replies with laughing emojis.

Clearly my message didn't get through his dense skull to his brain, "I am serious. You shouldn't have slept here." I reiterate.

"I am in a meeting right now, see you at home." Home?

I check the time and hurry to bathe. After getting dressed, I enter the kitchen to find a mouth watering plate of bacon, a chocolate drizzled bagel and an aromatic pot of coffee.

My anger at Carter ebbs in the presence of these treats. Why does he have to cook so well? My enamel dances jovially when I bite into the bagel. I finish the meal with only crumbs on my plate. I walk out of the door satiated and pleased.

When I arrive, the lobby is still in a sorry state of obliteration. I gather corporate is being difficult in mobilizing money to repair such a hefty project. I make my way gingerly until I reach a clearing that has been made before the elevators.

Instead of taking my usual ride to the eighth floor, I stop on the second floor, the editorial area. With every step, people stare at me. Even though some do me the courtesy of laughing and talking about me when I am not around; I can feel their judging gazes on my back whether they say it or not. I pass them deftly upholding a graceful air despite the turmoil inside my mind.

Hoping for an escape, I hide in my cubicle never to come out for anything. Inside, I quickly realise that being an editor sure is redundant work. For someone from a top-tier position like myself, sitting in front of a screen sorting through articles isn't all the fun it's cut out to be. I am overwhelmed by a sudden respect for the editors who pore over substandard, borderline trashy, pieces trying to make princesses out of their pauper selves.

Honestly, I am almost blowing my brains out when Donald makes his presence known in my already asphyxiating cubicle.

"I see you're having a great time." He might be astronomically dense or just being sarcastic, but I think the former suits him quite well.

"I've never been better." I plaster a smile on my face which he licks up instantly.

"I knew you'd be pleased." He is beside himself with pride. "Corporate thought I should lay you off on the spot but I proposed this as a way to teach you a lesson." He says and grips my chin like a reprimanding parent. I turn my head away trying not to make it too obvious that he repulses me. Inside, I am torn between being grateful to him for saving my ass or blasting him to hell as he should be.

"Thank you." I reply. I can't shake the feeling that I now owe him and the way he is smiling shows that he is going to collect sooner or later. I mentally shudder at what that might entail.

"Anything for you," He replies with a wink. "Well, don't have too much fun." He says and makes an exit.

"I won't." I reply to no one in particular. I plant my head on the table firmly sealing my lips onto the cold bark surface to restrain any cries of frustration from getting out.

At the stroke of five, I close my computer, collect my belongings and make a fast exit out of the building. I join the stream of home-goers without anyone stopping me. I decide to get takeout on my way home. Chen's Plaza is my go to place for the best Chinese takeout there is in the whole of New York. From the jingling bell above the door, the fluffy and snug mats that are laid out with a short trademark Asian table where meals are served, Mr. Chen's place could easily be my second home.

Chen engages me in a conversation as he makes my noodles and bao. I pretend I do not see him when he sneaks me an extra packet of fried rice to go with the meal.

He smiles a narrow reassuring smile and hands me the food. I pass him the bill and prepare to leave. A hand grasps mine, out of instinct, I am terrified, poised to strike, I meet eyes with Chen's and he motions for me to open my hand, I do. He lays the bills there and folds my fingers around them. "Keep it." He says.

"No, you need it." It's a tug of war as he adamantly refuses to receive the money and I also refuse to take it back. Finally, I slap the money on the counter and make a hasty exit so that he can't call me back. Outside, I take a peek through the window and see him stash the money in the tip jar while shaking his head with amusement.

I eat my dinner at the counter as I read the latest news. I leave Carter a note telling him there is food in the fridge.

I go to bed afterwards but I can't fall asleep for a long time. I lay awake as my mom come flooding in. I get the files from the drawer and start reading through.

Affidavits, memos, bank statements and other documents, most of them from four years ago. I send copies to De Laure for guidance.

I catch the sound of a door opening and immediately stand on alert. I hear heavy footsteps walking through the apartment. My right hand feels its way into the bedside table where the Glock is kept. I pull it out and with a hand on the trigger, wait for whoever made the mistake of breaking into my house to come here and meet their end.

But then, I hear Carter's chuckle. My finger relaxes on the trigger and I put the gun back where it originally was, finally relaxing. I collect the papers and return them to the drawer. I snuggle into the bedsheets fall fast asleep.

My alarm rings and I turn in my sleep. I pat the side of my bed trying to stop the deafening sounding before it breaks my eardrum. A broken bedside lamp later, I manage to hit stop on my phone's screen and burrow deeper into my mattress. I am accosted by a sweet unidentifiable scent. The thought that Carter made food for me again, has me smiling to myself. This new Carter is so much easier to fall in love with. Though we both know that won't be happening anytime soon. Or ever.

I storm into the kitchen and make a beeline for a plate laid out on the counter. Mere steps away from reaching the food, I notice a presence in the room. Those amused green eyes rake my uncivilized outfit, I feel self-conscious for a while. But then the food's pull wins over my civility. I proceed toward the counter, hoist myself onto a stool and immediately take a generous portion of the omelet into my mouth.

Carter is looking at me the whole time, but I try not to let on that I notice. After a while he gets up from the dining table and goes behind the stove, in my direct line of vision. He starts to gather ingredients from a well stocked fridge and sets them out to make another omelet. He must have gone shopping because the last time I had rosemary in my fridge was before my mom died and she used to coerce me into buying it.

"How are you doing?" He asks casually but I can tell from the glint in his eyes that he already has a hypothesis or two.

"Fine." I answer. His eyes roam my face for any hint of contradiction but I do not give him that pleasure. "Aren't you going to work?" I ask out of the blue.

"I am. I had to make breakfast for my host first." He teases.

I do not let his humor affect me, "How long is this host situation gonna last?" I stuff the last of my omelet into my mouth and sit back, utterly satisfied. I know he is sleeping in my guestroom, but he is not supposed to be in my house in the first place.

"For as long as you can enjoy my cuisine." He says motioning to my empty plate. I shoot him a glare for food-shaming me this early in the morning. He raises his arms, a sign of surrender, but laughs all the same.

"I have to go out. Lock the door when you leave." I say and get up.

I walk to the door before I remember something I wanted to ask him. I catch him ogling my backside before he realizes it and pretends to be looking at a photograph beside the door. "Chipotle or Chinese?"

His mind seems to draw a blank for a moment before he answers, "Chinese?"

"Great." I reply and walk out feeling a little too happy for having such an effect on him.