I briefly glanced at my phone's locked screen before returning my attention to the spreadsheets of last month's fundraising scattered across my desk and sighed.

Emma had said she would call me after her interview this morning finished. It was nearly two in the afternoon and I still hadn't heard from her, but I wasn't surprised.

It was her fourth interview this week and nearly her seventh or eight this leaving The Print.

Even though she had claimed to not want to continue in her career as a book reviewer, the first several jobs she applied for were similar to her old position.

I tried my best to be supportive and to swallow my growing anxiety over my girlfriend applying for jobs at various media outlets.

It's her profession, I reminded myself, and I can't begrudge her for that.

I made a habit, whenever my doubts started to rise from internal whisperings to near shouts, of rereading her published reviews and articles. As I did, her words would float off the page and their syncopated rhythm would soothe my fried nerves.

Emma isn't a hack gossip columnist, they would reassure me. She's a nerd, who quite possibly loves books more than life itself.

However, despite Emma's undeniable bibliophilia and herculean efforts in applying to position after position, a strong CV and an impressive portfolio of work, Emma didn't receive a single reply from any of the hiring managers of the initial roles to which she had applied.

After two weeks of snubbing, she sent off another round of applications for less desirable roles at less reputable media organizations. I could tell it hurt her pride, but she maintained a stiff upper lip, which, truth be told, only made me feel guiltier.

No matter what Emma said or how many times she said it, I still blamed myself for her losing her job.

In the weeks since it had happened, the press eventually died down as I'd promised her; however, we could occasionally still be caught in the society pictures every now and then when we went out, which was increasingly less frequently as we both began to suggest staying in.

I had hoped Emma would have better luck with her job searching once her name and face were out of the papers, but her resounding silence that afternoon was evidence enough that she hadn't.

I had become uncomfortably used to Emma's new quietness. I used to ask her about the interview she had, but she would always subtly change the topic of conversation to something else. I didn't notice it at first, but eventually I realized what she was doing and stopped asking.

Emma had surprised me at the office after the first interview she had been able to arrange since her resignation. I excitedly asked her to lunch, idiotically pronouncing my desire to hear all about it. She smiled tightly and asked if she could have a brief word with Cynthia instead...

Neither of them shared the specifics of their conversation, but Cynthia's grim expression and curt remarks were enough to give me a solid impression of the editor-in-chief's less than honorable interest in hiring Emma.

"Fucking leaches," Cynthia had hissed, and then muttered something about "busybody gossipmongers."

I inhaled deeply through my nose, attempting to refocus myself on the spreadsheets before me. The numbers running across the pages charted the foundation's fundraising from the previous month and made projections for the upcoming quarter—neither was looking very good. Compounding to this was the impending summer season, which always saw an uptick in aid requests. We would have to double down our efforts if we were going to meet the increasing need, and, as the founder, I knew I had to lead the charge.