I prayed any moment someone would barge into Rufus's office and save me.

Anyone would do—a secretary or a coworker, a raving street person, even a fire marshal alerting us that the entire building was ablaze would be preferable to my current hell.

I'd missed my usual train after returning to my flat to shower and change my clothes. I'd had only meant to quickly rinse off the invisible grime I felt form the previous night, but even with the steaming water cascading down my body, I still felt somehow dirty.

One round of lathering hadn't felt like enough either. Thirty minutes later, I stepped out of the shower, my skin red in blotches from the temperature of the water and my fervent scrubbing. I dressed without much care, figuring a person was not expected to look fully put-together while filing a harassment claim, and ran for the tube.

I was nearly an hour late to work, but rather than trying to sneak to my desk to avoid my boss's notice, I strode straight into his office.

During my commute, I had planned exactly how the conversation would go: I would march straight into Rufus's office before losing my nerve and tell him exactly what had happened the night before; I would give him an honest and detailed account, all the while my voice would remain steady and my eyes clear; and Rufus would listen, offer me sympathetic words, and then immediately call the HR department before phoning the police.

What I had not planned was for Rufus to be waiting for me.

I hadn't planned for my boss to already know everything I had been rehearsing to tell him, and I certainly did not plan for him to hand me the society section of the morning's paper with a picture from the bar last night and a caption that read: Prince Thomas starts drunken brawl in popular East End nightclub.

All of the words I had planned to say slowly slipped away as I silently lowered myself into a nearby chair, my eyes glued to the incomprehensible article before me.

Rufus, on the other hand, had many words at the ready—though none of them had to with filing a report with the police or even with the magazine's HR department.

"He attacked me," I finally managed to whisper.

Rufus froze. "Prince Thomas did?"

I shook my head, still gazing down at the paper I held loosely in my hands as if it might suddenly disappear before my eyes. "Th-the man."

"Marcus Baylord," he said with a sigh.

I glanced up at the name and noticed Rufus's shoulder sag slightly as if disappointed.

I nodded slowly, the specifics of the so-called writer drifting back to me. His book, which had some pompous title I refused to commit to memory, had been one of the worst pieces of writing I had ever been assigned to cover.

I closed my eyes and let the paper fall into my lap as I attempted to produce the speech I had meant to give Rufus earlier. "He approached me about my review. He became aggressive very quickly, and then he grabbed me and—"

"And Prince Thomas stepped in?"

I slowly opened my eyes to find Rufus staring expectantly at me. He was now barely in his chair, his whole body was leaning out toward me, and there was something in his expression I couldn't place. It felt almost... wolfish.

"I want to file a report, Rufus."

A knowing grimace slipped over his features as he leaned back into a more casual pose. "I completely understand your impulse, Emma, but you must think about the big picture."

I blinked. "The big picture?"

He nodded before emitting a heavy sight. "You file a report and maybe something happens with it."

I lifted my eyebrows. "Won't he be barred from appearing in any of our future publications?"

"If they believe you," Rufus shrugged.

"I-It was in public," I stammered. "There are photographs of—"

He cut me off, the wolfish grin pulling at the corners of his mouth. "Don't you see, my dear, we have to make them believe you!"

'They' and 'we' bounced against the walls of my brain as my mind helplessly tried to identify who 'they' and 'we' could possibly be: The HR department? The police? The bloody king of England?

Rufus leaned forward, his words tumbling out faster now and causing my heart rate to inexplicably rise. "Write about it, Emma, and make them believe you!"

Feeling my eyes begin to water, I shook my head frantically. "I don't understand."

"Tell the world your truth and that guy will never get published again!"

"He never should've been published in the first place!" I exclaimed, my voice pitching slightly. "He was a shit writer!"

"Exactly!" Rufus beamed as he jabbed a finger towards me. "Expose him for what he is and clear your boyfriend's good name!"

I felt my mouth hang open as I gaped at him. "You're serious?"

He nodded, suddenly quite somber. "These types of scandals are quite serious, Emma, especially for the monarchy."

"But he's not the monarchy! He's Tom. Just..." I loosed a trembling breath. "My Tom."

Rufus suddenly slammed his hand down on the arm of his chair before lunging toward his desk for a pen. "That's brilliant! Perfect inlet quote!"

"No!"

Suddenly I, too, was standing, the paper fluttering to the floor.

"We'll tie the title to it, somehow," he said, ignoring me. "I'm sure editing can think of something clever."

My heart pounded relentlessly against my chest as my head began to swim with unmoored questions I'd yet to name let alone answer.

"No, Rufus, there's no quote, no title because there's no article!" My voice was louder now, its pitching and trembling giving way as my panic transformed into self-preservation masked in an impenetrable layer of authority.

"But Emma—"

"No, I refuse!"

Rufus stared at me for several moments before eventually shaking his head. "Emma, dear... I wasn't asking."

I stepped forward, joining him at the corner of his desk. "Rufus—"

"Our staffer was attacked for her work," he said, his tone preposterously indignant. "We have the right to report on it—"

"I was attacked!" I cried, not caring as my eyes once again filled with tears. "Me!"

"So naturally you will be the one to write it."

"But—"

"No buts, Emma," he said, once again picking up his pen. "I am your supervisor and I am assigning you this piece. You should be grateful for that. It's front-page stuff."

Grateful.

I balled my hands into fists, barely resisting the urge to throttle him. I could feel every nerve in my body begin to tremor with rage, but I was relieved to hear my voice regain its calm strength. "And if I refuse?"

He laughed.

The bastard bloody laughed.

"You can't refuse. It's in your contract: I assign; you write. That's how this works, that's how journalism works. Now get to it," he added with a nod towards the door.

I gazed at Rufus, my editor and until I walked into his office this morning, my trusted mentor. I turned silently on my heel and strode toward the door, snatching up the morning paper on my way out.

My feet carried me to my desk, where I mindlessly logged into my computer and opened a new Word document.

I perched my fingers on the keyboard and merely stared at the blinking cursor.