That was four years ago.
Since then, I went to work, paid rent, bought the same cheap coffee from the same gas station, and answered “I’m good” whenever someone asked how I was.
People liked that answer.
It saved them effort.
Then Marina Collins walked into my life carrying a project binder, a Starbucks cup, and the kind of calm that made every room less stupid.
She was thirty-one, a project coordinator at Whitmore.
Not my boss.
Worse.
She was the person who made bosses look organized.
Every deadline, permit issue, client tantrum, contractor delay, invoice problem, and last-minute “Can we just change one tiny thing?” eventually landed on her desk.
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