Walking into the Full Circle office is like stepping into a gladiatorial arena where the weapons are low-key drags and the armor is emotional detachment. I saunter toward the reception desk, my heels clicking rhythmically on the polished floor.

Brendan, our receptionist extraordinaire, greets me with a smile sharper than my winged eyeliner. he’s the kind of guy who could tease the truth out of Ron Hall from Love Island UK—if you know, you know—which is precisely why he’s the gatekeeper of our little heartbreak factory.

“Morning, Aria,” he chirps, his fingers dancing over his keyboard like a pianist. “No messages, but I’ve got some hot tea.”

I arch an eyebrow, intrigued. “Spill it.”

He leans in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Word on the street is, we’re about to land the Benson account. It’s bigger than Gretchen’s shoulder pads.”

A smirk tugs at my lips. “Already on it. My therapist would cringe if she knew how deep I’d been in Bensen’s business.” And by that, I mean I’ve spent the last twelve hours in a caffeine-fueled deep dive through the cesspools of gossip blogs and social media hellscapes, dissecting every pixel of Isaiah Benson’s very public split from Regina Blanton.

But as I waded through the muck of Benson’s breakup, I stumbled across a headline about Pedro that hit me like a sucker punch from karma itself: “Pedro Olivera Seeks Major Funding from Tech Giant.” Seeing his name made my chest tighten faster than a corset at a Victorian costume party. he’s back, making headlines, while I’m here trying to pretend our Zoom breakup—complete with the Pizza-head filter disaster—was just a bad dream induced by too much late-night cheese.

Brendan’s brow furrows, clearly catching my momentary lapse in emotional armor. “You okay? You look like you just remembered you don’t have a therapist.”

I snap back to reality, plastering on a smile so bright it could guide ships to shore. “I’m good. This account is mine,” I say, ignoring the therapist jab.

As if on cue, Malu, the office’s resident Brazilian bombshell, struts by with her signature blend of confidence and obliviousness. I offer a polite “Good morning,” but she breezes past me like I’m as invisible as my therapist, Dr. George Glass. Brendan laughs as he turns aback toward his computer screen.

Before I can even process Mallu’s snub, Gretchen bursts out of her office like a tornado in Louboutins. With seven divorces under her belt, she’s got the kind of romantic history that would make even Shakespeare say, “Whoa, dial it back a notch.”

Mallu changes her tune faster than Ron changes his mind about Lana; suddenly, she’s all smiles and sunshine as she chirps, “Bom dia, Gretchinha!”

Gretchen eyes flicker with that trademark “not today” look. She points at Mallu, then at me. “You. And you. Conference room. Now.”

I exchange a glance with Brendan. We both know what’s coming—the Benson account.

My heart does an Olympic gymnastics routine as I follow Gretchen, with Mallu sighing behind me like she’s being dragged to the principal’s office. As we take our seats around the Scandi-minimalist conference table, the tension is thicker than a bowl of Bircher muesli.

Gretchen cuts to the chase. “As my top two rebounders, I’m sure you’ve both heard about the Benson account.”

I sit up a little straighter, mentally picturing the digital whiteboard in the common area that displays our rebound success rates. I’ve been at the top of the leaderboard for months, and I’m not about to let that slip.

But then Gretchen’s next words hit me like a balance beam to the crotch. “I’m giving the Benson account to Mallu.”

All those sleepless hours, all that meticulous research—not to mention the drive-by trauma of seeing Pedro’s headline—all of it flushed down the toilet of broken dreams. I want to tell everyone to wake me up when September ends.

Mallu starts gushing gratitude like a burst fire hydrant, but Gretchen cuts her off mid-stream. “Save it, sweetheart. Go on, I need a word with Aria—privately. Confidential account stuff.”

Mallu hesitates, a flicker of doubt crossing her perfect features. Did she just get the Benson account as a consolation prize? Is there something even bigger on the horizon for me? But Gretchen’s steely gaze leaves no room for questions. With a final, uncertain glance, Mallu exits, her confusion palpable.

As the door clicks shut behind Mallu’s retreating form—no doubt already practicing her victory strut— Gretchen turns to me, her expression more unreadable than the comments on an Elon Musk tweet. “Now, about this other account…”

I brace myself, wondering if I’m about to be Thanos-snapped out of existence like our former colleague Jenna—who crossed a line by falling for the very guy she was supposed to reunite with his ex. But nothing could have prepared me for Gretchen’s next words.

“It’s Jessica Farrow,” Gretchen begins, her tone casual despite the dollar signs flashing in her eyes. “Maybe you’ve heard of her—some lifestyle influencer. She’s looking to get back with her ex, Pedro Olivera. A tech millionaire CEO behind some hot new AI startup everyone’s buzzing about.”

And just like that, my world tilts on its axis, leaving me dizzy and off-balance. Gretchen’s words hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, but I can’t let it show. I force myself to keep my expression neutral, swallowing down the rising tide of panic. My palms grow clammy as I release the grip on the chair and casually reach into my bag, pulling out my phone like I just received an urgent message.

“Thanks for the info, Gretchen,” I manage to say, my voice surprisingly steady as I pretend to glance at a non-existent text. “I need to take this—client issue,” I lie, already inching toward the door.

Gretchen’s brow furrows slightly, clearly thrown off by my sudden exit. “Everything okay, Aria?” she asks, her eyes narrowing in suspicion.

“Yeah, yeah, just something I need to handle quickly,” I respond, already halfway out the door, flashing what I hope passes for a reassuring smile.

I make my escape, my heart racing faster than a squirrel’s on espresso. There’s no time to process this bombshell. I’ve got approximately negative time before my “date” with Blake.

Time to slip into character: manic pixie dream girl turned into clingy nightmare, guaranteed to send him running back to his ex faster than you can say “emotional whiplash.” I leave the office, ready to dive headfirst into another perfectly orchestrated heartbreak.

Just another day at Full Circle Consulting, where we turn emotional wreckage into cold, hard cash—one rebound at a time. And now, apparently, we’re adding “confront your own ghosts” to the menu of services. Alright, bet. This can only end well.