"No top ten."

"I don't think so."

The pity and compassion in his gaze is more than I can bear. "I've worked since I was fourteen, George. I got a job at the Queen Anne Bee newspaper in high school, and I was on air before my twenty-second birthday. I have built this career from scratch. No one gave me anything." My voice breaks. "I put everything into my work. Everything. I don't have kids or a husband or a family. I have ... work."

"I guess you should have thought about that before," he says, and the gentleness of his voice takes none of the sting out of his observation.

He's right. I know the journalism business, and, worse, TV. I know "out of sight, out of mind." I know you can't do what I did and come back from it.

So why didn't I know it in June?

I did.

I must have. I chose Kate instead. "Find me a job, George. I'm begging you." I turn away before he can see what this last bit has cost me. I don't beg. I've never begged, not for anything ... except my mother's love. And that was a useless waste of time.

I walk quickly through the hallowed white halls, making eye contact with no one, my heels clicking on the marble floor. Outside, the sun is shining so brightly it hurts my eyes. The sweat on my forehead prickles along my scalp.

I will solve this.

I will.

It is a setback, to be sure, but I am a survivor and always have been.

I flag down my driver and get into the back of the Town Car, grateful for the dark, quiet interior. I have a pounding headache.

"Beverly Hills, ma'am?"

Johnny and the kids.

I want to go to them now. I want to spill these troubles to Johnny and have him tell me I will be all right.

But I can't do it. My shame is overwhelming and pride stops me.

I put on my sunglasses. "LAX."

"But-"

"LAX."

"Yes, ma'am."

I hold myself together one second at a time. I squeeze my eyes shut and say silently: You will be okay. Over and over again.

But for the first time in my life, I can't make myself believe it. Panic and fear and anger and loss are running headlong inside of me, filling me up, spilling over. Twice on the flight home I burst into tears and have to clamp a hand over my mouth to silence my sobs.

When the flight is over, I walk off the plane like a zombie, my red eyes hidden behind sunglasses.

I have always prided myself on my professionalism, and my work ethic is legendary. This is what I tell myself, pretending I don't feel as fragile and thin as a strand of hair.

On my show, I used to tell my viewers that you could have it all in life. I told them to ask for help, to take time for yourself, know what you want. Be selfish. Be selfless.

The truth is I have no idea how to have it all. I've never had anything except my career. With Kate and the Ryans, it was enough, but now I see the void in my life.

I am shaking as I pull up in front of my building. Control feels far, far away.

I open the door and go into the lobby.

My heart is pounding hard, my breathing is shallow. People are looking at me. They know what a failure I am.

Someone touches me. It startles me so much that I almost fall.

"Ms. Hart?"

It is my doorman. Stanley.

"Are you okay?"

I shake my head slightly to clear it. I need to ask him to park my car, but I feel ... buzzed somehow, electrified. My laugh sounds high-pitched and nervous, even to my own ears.

Stanley frowns. "Ms. Hart? Do you need help home?"

Home.

"You're crying, Ms. Hart," my doorman says tenderly.

I look up at him. My heart is racing so fast I feel sick and out of breath.

What is wrong with me?

It feels suddenly as if a semi has driven into my chest. I gasp at the pain of it.

I reach for Stanley, chirp, Help, as I trip over something and crash to the cold concrete floor.

"Ms. Hart?"

I open my eyes and discover that I'm in a hospital bed.

There's a man in a white coat standing beside me. He is tall and a little disreputable-looking, with black hair that is too long in this buttoned-down era. His face is sharply planed, his nose a little hawklike. His skin is the color of creamed coffee. He's part Hawaiian, maybe, or Asian and African-American. It's hard to tell. I see tattoos along his wrists-tribal ones.

"I'm Dr. Grant," he says. "You're in the ER. Do you remember what happened?"

I remember all of it; amnesia would be a gift. But I don't want to talk about it, especially not with this man, who looks at me as if I'm damaged goods. "I remember," I answer.

"That's good." He glances down at my chart. "Tallulah."

He has no idea who I am. That depresses me. "So when can I get out of here? My heart is doing its job now." I want to go home and pretend I didn't have a heart attack. Which reminds me: I'm forty-six years old. How could I have had a heart attack?