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When her team called her Saturday morning, all at the office except for her, she’d texted back, citing the flu. Showing up on Monday with a beaten up face screamed that she was a big fat liar. Ed turned ashen and felt responsible for not walking her home, but she made sure to laugh it off, lying that the police had already arrested them and it hadn't been that big of a deal. Much scarier than it looked.
    Another lie.
    The intercom buzzed. Selina dragged in a breath and answered. “Yes?”
    “It’s Patricia’s birthday,” a laughing voice called out. “We’re having cake. Get out here!”
    “Be right there.”
    She stood up from the chair, dragging her sweaty palms down her smart Jones suit. Why was she so nervous? They had cake at least once a week, since it was office tradition and they employed hundreds of people. She tilted her chin up with determination and walked into the conference room.
    “There she is!” Tom and Ed motioned her over, and her assistant began shouting about forty being the new thirty. A large sheet cake sat on the table, with shots of champagne in plastic glasses being passed around. Black balloons were tied to the chairs, and a withering, dried, black rose made up a centerpiece.
    Selina held up her hand in acknowledgment, forcing a smile at the cheers and claps attacking her ears. Usually she adored participating in celebrations with her co-workers and took the role of cake cutter. Sweat pricked her brow. What the hell was wrong with her? Her throat locked at the idea of squeezing in between the mass of bodies to get to the cake. Why was she acting ridiculous?
    “We got cooties, Rogers?” Tom shouted out. Laughter broke out.
    Patricia, the birthday honoree, raised her glass in the air. Short, dark curls flopped about her face in artful fashion. “She wants a break from cutting! Screw you, Tom! Next time you get me a black rose let’s see if your lunch order ever gets delivered correctly.”
    Whistles rang out. Her heart pounded so hard she wondered if everyone could hear it. The noise continued as they cut the cake, teased each other, and drank the bubbly liquid. Her back pressed against the wall, and suddenly a hard, muscled arm dragged across her chest, brushing her breasts.
    Selina froze. Terror chopped through her. A silent scream rose to her pursed lips and then she was pushing the intruder away, backing away to safety. Drew Coleman, one of the top salesmen in the unit, raised a brow and lifted both hands in the air.
    “Sorry, Selina. Just trying to get some cake.”
    She tried to laugh it off and make a joking remark. The words got stuck, and feeling on the verge of a panic attack, she ducked her head and raced out of the conference room.
    The moment she shut the door behind her, her legs gave out. Selina sank into the matching leather armchair, much smaller than hers, and buried her face in her hands.
    What was happening to her? She wanted normalcy. She wanted to forget. But she was so damn jumpy. Even at lunch, she’d tried to venture out to the deli with her team, but the thought of walking down the street close by the incident twisted her stomach. When she headed past the main lobby, the noise level jolted her. Dialogue, keys tapping, laughter, phones ringing. The only place she felt safe was in her office, but the isolation caused a different fear.
    The weekend had been a blur. With bright sunlight streaming through the windows, she'd felt a bit stronger and capable. Dante vanished with the night, until she wondered if she'd made him up with her subconscious in order to get through a traumatic experience. So, Selina pushed him out of her mind and made herself go through the rituals of a Saturday. She decided to lay low and heal from the night’s traumatic events.
    Wash. Dress. Eat breakfast. She'd tried cleaning her apartment but her muscles ached. Instead, she'd worked most of the day on her laptop, sipping tea, television blaring for company. She buried Friday night's