time to make a mental note to fire the clueless individual who had forgotten to secure the bookshelves to the wall, and then she was falling, falling, falling... One of the points of the heavy golden star smashed into her head and she crashed onto the hard office floor.
She was conscious for long enough to wish the decorator had given her deep-pile carpet. And then everything went black.
She missed the sound of Rochelle screaming and the sight of the camera rolling.
For a brief period of time she was blissfully oblivious to the chaos erupting around her.
Her return to consciousness was slow and confusing. She heard a low humming sound, a whirring in her head. Was she dead? Surely not. She could hear things.
She could hear people panicking around her, even though panic was an emotion specifically banned from her office.
“Oh my God, is she dead? Is she dead?”
“Not dead. She’s definitely breathing.”
Gayle was relieved to have that confirmed by an outside source.
“But she’s unconscious. I called 911. They’re on their way.”
“Is that an actual hole in her head? I feel a little faint.”
“Pull yourself together.” A rough, male voice. “Did you get the shot, Greg?”
“Yeah, the whole thing is on camera. It’ll be a happy day for the headline writers. My money is on STARSTRUCK!”
“Could you be just a little sensitive here?” Rochelle’s voice, sounding traumatized. “She’s badly injured and you’re writing headlines!”
Didn’t they know she could hear them? Why were people so clueless? She had no idea how long she’d been knocked out. A minute? An hour? A day? No, if it had been a day she’d be lying in a hospital bed now, surrounded by a chorus of beeping machines.
Her chest hurt. Why did her chest hurt?
She remembered the bookshelves falling with her.
Someone must have caught them, or lifted them off her. As for the fate of the award—she had no idea. If the pain was anything to go by, there was a possibility it was still embedded in her head.
There was a crashing sound and the doors to her office burst open.
Gayle tried to open her eyes and give someone her scariest stare, but her eyelids felt too heavy.
She heard more voices, this time firm and confident—presumably the EMTs.
“What’s her name?”
Why was he asking her name? Didn’t he recognize her? Everyone knew who she was. She was a legend. She’d just won an award for being inspirational, and if they couldn’t see the actual award then surely they could see the award-sized dent in her skull.
She was going to write to the organizers and suggest a brooch for the next winner.
“Gayle, can you hear me? I’m Dan.”
Why was he calling her Gayle when they’d never met? She was either Ms. Mitchell or GM. Young people today had no respect. This was why she insisted on formality in the office.
This “Dan” barked out some instructions to his partner and proceeded to assess her injuries.
Gayle felt herself being poked and prodded.
“Has someone contacted her family? Loved ones?”
“Her...what?” That was Cole, sounding stressed and confused.
“Loved ones. Nearest and dearest.” The EMT was pressing something to her head.
“I don’t think—” Cole cleared his throat. “She doesn’t have loved ones.”
“She must have someone.” Dan eased Gayle’s eyes open and used a flashlight.
“That’s probably the first time anyone has looked into her eyes in a long time.”
Funny, Gayle thought. Until that moment she hadn’t even realized Cole had a sense of humor. It was a shame it was at her expense.
“Partner?” Dan again, doing something that apparently was meant to support her neck.
“No. Just work. She loves her work.”
“Are you telling me she has no one in her life?”
“Well, there’s Puccini...”
“Great. So give this Puccini guy a call and tell him what’s happened. He can meet us at the hospital.”
Gayle wanted to roll her eyes, but her head hurt too badly. She hoped this EMT knew more about head injuries than he did about culture.
“Puccini was a composer. Opera. GM loves opera. People? Not so much. She isn’t a family type of person. GM is married to her work.”
Dan clipped something to Gayle’s finger. “Oh man, that’s sad.”
Sad? Sad?
She ran one of the most successful boutique consulting firms in Manhattan. She was in demand as a speaker. She’d written a bestseller—soon to be two bestsellers if preorders were anything to go by. What was sad about that? Her life was the subject of envy, not pity.
“Makes her a bitch to work for, actually,” Cole muttered. “I couldn’t go to my grandmother’s funeral because