Are you saying you would bring it to C.C.?

I didn’t know. Yesterday, I would’ve said yes, but then Maxwell Cole entered the picture, the biggest asshole in the world, and offered me…the world. (Insert visual of me knocking head against the wall.) I could either accept the terms, him being the boat anchor, or I couldn’t. It was an all-or-nothing situation where I wanted nothing to do with him; meanwhile a part of me felt like this could change my life. And I wasn’t talking just about the job.

Surgery. I sighed. It was something I hadn’t thought of in years.

To be clear, I learned the importance of loving myself at the ripe old age of eight when Tania Reilly, my best friend at the time, who had a severe overbite, was verbally accosted by the too perfect, too pretty Lisa Walters. Lisa came up to her in the lunchroom for no reason at all and said, “Joel thinks you look like a dog. And so do I, so we voted you our class pet.” Joel was the official cute boy and every third-grade girl crushed hard on him. But the look on poor Tania’s face when she heard those words wasn’t child’s play. She would probably carry that moment around with her forever. I know I did. But that could also be because I stood up from the lunch table, took my fruit cup and threw it into Lisa’s face. “You’re mean, and mean people burn in hell,” I’d said. Okay. Don’t judge me for that. I was eight, and I’d overheard two other girls talking about something they’d heard at church. The point is that Tania would remember that moment, too. At least, I think she would. The smile on her face told me how good it felt to have someone stick up for her. It made her feel loved. And that’s when I realized how love could insulate a person from just about anything. Especially self-love. It could also help them—me, in particular—make friends for life.

Sadly, though, it had never been enough to win me the other kind of love. I’d never had a date, a flirty smile, or a kiss. No, I won’t bother walking through the parade of tragic stories filled with painful memories—guys laughing at me, making the standard dog jokes—but trust me, they’re there. Ironically, I remember that not even the pretty girls were exempt from this sick breed of torment. And if they couldn’t escape it, what about me?

Which is why I always told myself there were more important things, like family, friends, your journey in life, and the mark you leave on this world. But I think deep down inside I always knew that being genuinely ugly (not just “unattractive” as Asshole had called it) would slow me down.

The uglies of the world simply don’t have it as easy as the beautiful people.

And there was no denying that having men look at me, and want to look again because they liked what they saw, had an appeal.

But the price of surgery, Lily. The price.

There were no words. I would have to endure the worst emotional pain, suffering, and humiliation on a daily basis. I would have to drink buckets of it. Because—no way—would I have surgery on work day one.

Oh no, Mr. Cole will have strings attached. Probably time and performance; I do well for him, be a good little C.C. employee, and he’d buy me a new face. Until then, every time I’d be in the room with that beautiful, hateful, smug piece of garbage, I’d know what he was thinking: She’s disgusting. I can’t stand the sight of her. Please, God, don’t let her touch me.

Who could possibly endure that? From a man they’d once idolized? And why the hell would he want me to? What did Mr. Cole get out of this? He could hire anyone he liked from the top schools, his competition, and any Fortune 500 in the world.

Fuck, the man’s probably a sadist and wants to watch me suffer. So then why was I even considering this?

But as I sat there, staring at my laptop displaying page after page of jobs I could probably get my hands on and blow out of the water, none of them were what I really wanted. Call it something to prove to the world, call it ambition. I didn’t know. But wanting big and bold was who I was. I also hadn’t racked up one hundred and fifty thousand dollars in student loans so I could live like a college student for eternity.

“Lily, you home?” my roommate’s voice called out moments after the front door opened. Daniella and I met through a friend after I graduated and moved to Chicago last year. On the outside, she was a prim and proper associate finance manager for an investment bank, while on the inside, hilariously vulgar. She also looked a little like Katy Perry but with brown eyes, like mine.

“In here, Danny,” I replied from my bedroom, sitting at my vanity, which was an old whitewashed thing I’d found at a yard sale.

She entered my room, which was decorated in classic “Fashion Junky” with stacks of magazines piled in the corner and a huge collage of my favorite outfits pinned onto my oversized corkboard. She plunked down on my bed with a loud sigh, beginning to shed her standard summer work ensemble: black skirt, heels, and a solid color blouse. Today it was green.

She kicked off her shoes and unzipped the back of her skirt, her eyes freezing on my face the moment she looked up. “Oh shit. They didn’t offer you the job.”

“Not the job I wanted.”

She pulled her brown hair from her ponytail and then began rubbing her feet, “Fucking heels. The only reason I wear them is so the guys don’t think they can step on me. So what happened?” She was on the short side, so I got the whole “must wear heels” ridiculousness.

“They offered me…” I debated whether to tell her everything. On the other hand, I could really use an external perspective, and I did consider her among my best of friends.

I decided to go with a partial truth until I knew what I’d do. “They offered me a senior manager role, reporting directly to Maxwell Cole.”

Her eyes bugged from her head. “Seriously? Mr. Pleasefuckmenow Cole would be your direct boss?”

Like me, she had Mr. Cole on her top ten list of men to masturbate to. And yes, before you ask, I had already removed him and replaced him with Boris Kodjoe. A girl’s gotta have a nice even ten on the roster, especially someone like me who only had her imagination to keep her warm at night.

I nodded.

“And you are debating…why?” she asked snidely.

I shrugged pathetically, lacking a proper answer.

“If you don’t want the job, then I’ll take it. What’s it involve? Bringing him coffee? Morning blowjobs? I’ll so do it.”

“Gah! Danny,” I scolded.

She smiled. “What? Don’t judge me for wanting to be his right hand—he is right-handed, yes? Because whatever hand he jerks off with, I want to be it.” She sighed contentedly and stared at the ceiling.

“I don’t think you understand.”

“No? What am I missing? He’s a hot-as-fucking-hell CEO—and we know he’s hot because he posed naked for us ladies in his quest to sell lip gloss,” she shook her head, savoring the memory, “so, so generous. And he’s a successful businessman and all-around awesome guy, and he’s asked you to work for him. In your dream job. What’s the problem?”

How could I put this in a way that would net me the advice I needed, without spilling the extremely uncomfortable and confusing beans?

“He doesn’t really like me,” I said.

“Oh, sweetie.” She leaned forward and placed her hand on my knee. “I know it must be disappointing, but don’t take it personally. He’d be your boss, and he can’t flirt with you or anyone on his staff. That would be inappropriate. Can’t you just be happy knowing he sees value in you and that you could learn from him?”

Okay. My plan for extracting advice from Danny blew. She had drunk the Maxwell Cole stud-spiked party-punch, but I couldn’t fault her for that. Less than twenty-four hours ago, I’d been sipping from the same fountain of delusions.

I looked at Danny, thinking aloud. “He and I have different views on the world, so I’m not sure we’ll get along.”