He looked up at me, eyes narrowed. “ ‘Mr. Smith’ is probably best.”

I choked on the words I wanted to say, On my first day here you stared at my tits and told me to call you Anthony, but instead said, “Sorry. Um, Mr. Smith.”

Anthony unfastened the buttons of his suit jacket and took his seat, pulling a stack of papers toward him, contracts that had been flagged with red and yellow tabs where he should sign. “Given your rather unprofessional behavior in New York and since . . .” he began and my stomach evaporated. “Rather, given your long-term fascination with a vice president of the firm and your recent pursuit of him—”

“My pursuit?”

He flipped through some files, not even bothering to look up at me as he spoke. “I am required to ask you to either keep your relationship with Mr. Stella purely professional, or leave your internship with Richardson-Corbett.”

“What?” I gasped, lowering my shaking body into the chair across from him. “Why?”

“It is clear to several of us in management that you’ve behaved unprofessionally,” he said, reaching for a pen. “You’ve been distracted, and your efforts have been mediocre at best. Beyond that, I needn’t elaborate.”

“But that’s not f—”

Fair, I almost said it, but snapped my mouth shut tight. I wouldn’t add behaving like an adolescent to my growing list of transgressions.

Trying again, I said, “Would you please explain why on earth this has been a topic of discussion beyond just between myself and Mr. Stella? We haven’t broken any rules!”

“Miss Miller, please do not presume you have the right to question any decision I make regarding this firm, and whom I choose to employ.” He scribbled a signature across a page and the sound was enough to put my nerves on edge. “As an intern, you qualify as a temporary worker in the UK, and therefore I am not obligated to explain anything to you. But seeing as you’re young”—and there was that thing he did, where he packed a gut punch worth of insult into a single word—“I hope this might be an opportunity for growth. Your conduct of late, though not necessarily qualifying as gross misconduct, has been lacking. Having had this latest . . . distraction with a vice president of the firm brought to my attention—”

“I haven’t done anything wrong,” I repeated. “Not smart, I’ll admit. But not outright against the rules. I do not report to Niall.”

“Niall,” he repeated, smiling down at his papers. “Yes. Well, regardless, this is the type of situation that has a tendency to run away from all of us, and we in management think it best if you end your relationship, or forfeit your internship.”

I could feel my face heat with angry tears. Young girls cry; I didn’t want him to feel justified in his insult. I blinked several times, determined that no matter what happened, I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing what this was doing to me.

“Can I speak to Mr. Corbett?” I said as smoothly as possible. “I think I need someone else to explain what’s happening.”

“Richard has given me the power to make any and all decisions affecting my department.”

Fire lashed through my blood. I couldn’t hold it back. “So, to be clear, you urged Niall to get a leg over on me, and now you’re firing me because you think he has.”

Anthony’s head whipped up, eyes full of blazing authority. “I dare you to say that again.”

“Clearly,” I said, seething, “I choose to leave the internship. This has been one of the most unreal conversations of my life.”

“In that case,” he said absently, scribbling another signature, “I’ll put a letter in your file. I’ll see that you have a copy before you leave.”

The rain had stopped and I took a walk to clear my head, far enough away that I could hear the chimes of Big Ben in the distance. Out of instinct I reached into my pocket to find my phone, only to realize it wasn’t there. I’d left it on my desk before talking to Anthony, thinking I was just going down the hall but then rushing out before I could get it. I wondered if Niall had made it in yet, if he’d come looking for me, if he’d called.

And that’s when I realized how far this had gone, and that maybe there was a kernel of truth to what Anthony said. My first thought wasn’t about my job or the fact that I was five thousand miles away from home. It wasn’t where would I live? How would I buy food or pay the electricity bill? It wasn’t about my fucking spot at Oxford, either, or how long and hard I’d worked, or how much I’d sacrificed to get there.