June.

Pathetic. Pathetic. Pathetic.

You’re so pathetic, June.

The words echo in my skull like a mantra as I pace the lobby floor. My pulse hasn’t slowed since they carried Hermes out on a stretcher.

He’ll be alright, right?

My palm flies to my cheek, slapping it lightly. "That’s what you’re thinking about? His well-being?" I whisper to myself, shaking my head.

God. His fiancée — aka my new boss — just announced they’re getting married in a week.

A week.

It’s over. I ...