You Protected the Wrong Girl
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Summary
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.
