She looks over at Eddie and then down at my plate before looking back into my eyes. “You sure? You didn’t eat much,” she states; obviously, since I probably had maybe four full bites.

“Yeah. Ivy tends to do that to me. I’m going to go clean up.” I don’t wait for them to ask any more questions; I gather my plate and walk into the kitchen, scraping the food into the trash before washing off the plate.

Well … at least I didn’t have to pretend to actually eat it any longer.

THE NEXT DAY, WHEN MY alarm starts blaring, I wake up with a sense of dread over the news that Ivy might just be back in the office today. It doesn’t matter that I’ve changed mentally and physically since the last time I saw her. It doesn’t matter that in that time, I’ve gained some of my confidence back. I’ve been stronger. At that moment, the feeling of hate and fear instantly pushes me back once again. Hate for her, but even that is overshadowed by the hate I feel toward myself for being so weak that I forget every step I’ve made to better myself over the last six months. And fear that being around her again is going to cause me to slip and forget the strength I’ve earned.

Physically, I’ve worked hard to shed some weight and have dropped a solid fifty pounds from my body. I no longer look in the mirror and hate who I see looking back. I don’t love it, but I’m getting there. I had been a size twenty for so long that sometimes I still struggle to see the size fourteen I’ve earned through basically starving myself of the food I crave and maintaining daily—sometimes twice a day—trips to the gym. Getting ready this morning, though, no matter how hard I try, I see the old me. I feel the same helpless self-loathing I had for so long. Just because of Ivy and what her return could mean.

I know the problem. I know why I see the old me. It’s taken months of deep theory to understand that it is a trick my mind plays on me. I have a preoccupation with finding my flaws. All of this stems from suffering from what my doctor calls body dysmorphia. I’ve made the vision I see for myself a product of the imagined flaw. Even realizing this and working daily to overcome it, I still find that it’s easier said than done. A week after my divorce was final, she started me on anti-depressants, and with the help of our sessions, my journaling, and a lot of extensive therapy I had been able to put it behind me … for the most part.

To be honest, I’m mad at myself for allowing Ivy to bring me back down to my lowest of lows with just a thought.

You’re better than this, Willow. You’ve come so far. Don’t let her take everything you’ve earned from you. You aren’t weak anymore. No one has that power over you but yourself.

I dress with care, picking one of my more flattering black dresses and black pumps. The dress hugs my ample chest, covers my arms to the elbow, but more importantly pleats at the skirt to hide the slight roundness of my stomach I can’t seem to rid. Even I feel pretty in this, so hopefully, it will add some much-needed confidence to my mentality going forth today.

The ride to work, like always, is uneventful. The ascent to the floor of Logan Agency’s offices has my pulse spiking. I try to mentally prepare myself, but when I step off the elevator and into the glamorous lobby, I lose every ounce of careful preparation. Like a sixth sense, I just know she’s here. As if Ivy’s very being has left her twisted vines of evil behind with every step she takes.

Why would he bring her back? God, really, I can be so stupid. Why wouldn’t he bring her back? She’s his pride and joy.

“Hey.” I jump when Kirby’s voice calls out to me from behind Mary’s desk, the floor’s main receptionist. Mary, an older woman who has been with the agency from conception, gives me a kind smile and wave before lifting the ringing phone from the cradle.

“What’s up?” I ask, shifting the weight of my purse and giving Kirby a small smile.

“You look pretty, Will,” she praises.

“Thanks.”

“You know, don’t you?”

“That she’s here?” I ask. Kirby’s eyes soften before she nods. “I know. It’s okay, Kirb. I’m not worried about it.”

Lie. Big freaking lie.

“What can I do? I can start a small fire in the break room? We could be out of here before you ever saw her face. Run off to Mexico? Drink those yummy tropical drinks until we pass out in a drunken stupor?”

Despite my unease, I laugh. “Nothing you can do. I just need to get it over with. Rip off the Band-Aid. Who knows, maybe she’s going to be happy to see me.” I laugh; the sound hitting my ears is as fake as it feels coming out.

“We could quit,” she continues. “I wouldn’t mind being a kept woman and staying at home all day,” she jokes, trying to lighten the dark mood that has settled over me.

“You would be bored out of your mind, and I wouldn’t be able to pay my bills.”

“Right, well … it’s a suggestion. If you want to run, just pull the fire alarm or something … I’ll follow your lead.”

“I love you, Kirby Quinn.”

“I know. And I love you back, Willow Elizabeth.”

Might as well get this over with. I give Kirby a hug and walk around the corner to begin my walk down the west wing of our offices. This side, the whole west end of the floor, belongs to my father. One long, narrow hallway full of pictures of the popular signed models he’s had over the course of the agency, no doors, and dim lighting with little spotlights on each picture. The other wing of our floor, being the meat of operations, is full of offices, studios, and chatter from all angles. But not here … nope, this hallway is long and silent.

That is until I hear her high-pitched giggles carrying down from the open door of my father’s office. I reach the end of the hallway and walk around to my desk tucked in the corner. I always thought its placement was my father’s way of placing me away without actually losing sight of me. Keeping me close, but far away at the same time—which really makes no sense because, from the way his eyes go hard every time he’s within a few feet of me, I’m not sure why he would even want to have me around. Hell, I’m not really sure why he even gave me a job to begin with.

My area is basically just the outer room to his huge office. I have no windows and the only natural light is from the glow of his office of glass. All the lighting around me is dim. What isn’t coming from a few strategically placed lamps comes wholly from his office’s walls—even when set to the fog privacy setting. His whole office takes up the back half of the room, paneled in floor-to-ceiling glass on my end and the one inside his office. But like now, when he has the fog-like setting turned on, those glass walls make this room almost dungeon like. My desk takes up the right side of his outer sanctum. The other side of the room has two chairs, one leather loveseat, a sleek glass coffee table, and one longer console table against the far wall. A huge television flashes pictures of the talent he’s held or holds under the Logan Agency’s name. The room my desk is in is used only for clients to sit while they wait for him to call them in.