was a series of tasks

oy from the fountain at the Met Gal

shbulbs of paparazzi cameras blinding me while socialites whispered

a sunset Victoria Vance once posted on Instagram

ing the color from a pixelated, filtered photo until my

erver crash that was his fault, accepting full

ed my own reputation, painting myself as incompetent. Julian

he Program was my record-keeper. Each c

alled me. "The Obsessed Assistant." They saw a working-class girl so desperate for a

y wrong. I was despe

t remained. The 100t

glittering backdrop. He was staring at a photo on his desk. A photo of

id, his voice flat, devoi

ut I could feel a hum of anticipati

me, and for the first time, I saw something other than cold command in h

the host' s neural pathways over seven days. The pain would be, in the doctor' s words, "unimaginab

say the rest. He

ural nanite procedure to crea

ver me. It was over. The finish line. My

aid, my voice cle

s replaced by a complex, bewildering emotion I couldn' t decipher. He thought this was

nius, but h

ive you anything. A permanent position. A vice pres

led. "Okay

eady waiting for