You Protected the Wrong Girl
Language: en
The blister on my heel burst just as I wrapped up the final on-camera interview of the afternoon. Russell—my boyfriend of three years, who insisted we keep our relationship strictly confidential at the network—walked right past my desk holding a fresh Band-Aid and headed straight for Whitney’s cubicle. "You torture your feet just to show off in four-inch stilettos," he muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite. "Serve you right if it stings." A chorus of knowing chuckles rippled through the bullpen. "Our supervising producer is such a softie," someone teased. "If you care about her,…