-January-

"Look, we're going around in circles and I'm tired of it—just get her booked. We're not raising the offer past five-thousand."

Mercedes slammed her phone down and immediately lowered her head into her hands, letting out a sigh. Not many women sailed through college, received their business degree and became CEO of a successful magazine company they launched, all by age thirty. She had made a name for herself, as well as her unique magazine, REAL—a magazine that prided itself on highlighting women (and men) of different races, sizes and backgrounds. Almost every day in her office was a hellish ball of stress, but she frequently told herself that it was worth it in the end. Over the four years that the magazine had gained traction, her office received countless letters and emails from everyday readers, as well as a handful of celebrities who read, endorsed and have been featured in REAL. The vast majority of the letters consisted of people thanking Mercedes or particular staff members for creating this magazine, and rising above the trend of being a gossip, tabloid trash magazine.

Once upon a time, Mercedes had considered pursuing a gossip magazine, but she decided against it. Tabloid magazines were easy and already excessive on the newsstands. She'd done her research in figuring out what worked and what didn't work; from there she created the kind of magazine she would like to read and see more of in grocery stores and on street vender carts. She started out taking out a loan and renting a small work space, hiring on one of her best friends as official chief editor and unofficial consultant and sidekick. From there, she interviewed and hired the best journalists, editors, and photographers she could find and started a small, functioning magazine company. With the growth of REAL's popularity, came room for growth in the company, and in two years' time she was able to expand her staff and her work space to a very prestige building in a Los Angeles business park.

Two knocks on the door of her spacious office pulled her out of her recollections and frequent affirmation. "What?"

"It's me, 'Cedes," she heard through the door.

"Oh." Her tone immediately shifted to a more amicable one while she raised her head. "Come in."

The door swung open and her best friend and still chief editor strolled into the room, donning black slacks and a slate grey button-up that hugged his biceps whenever he bent his arms. His hair was mostly a dark head of peach fuzz but he habitually ran his hand up the center of his head where his mohawk used to be.

"Hey, so we got that Christian Siriano guy's interview ready to go for next month's issue. Once the photos are ready for print, I'll have the draft of the fashion spread on your desk. Also, Sugar's planning to have the travel review ready for my review in the morning, my editor's note is done, and Santana's on her way back from Sacramento with her interview with the governor."

"Thanks, Puck," she tiredly replied.

He sank into one of the two lounge chairs on the other side of her desk with a concerned look. "You okay?"

Mercedes closed her eyes, drew in a deep breath and as she let it out she opened her eyes again with a smile that never touched her eyes. "I'm just tired. Long day. Lots of crazies who can't make simple things happen without giving me a headache first."

Puck nodded slowly and smirked, "Ah. Well let me know if I need to go light a fire under some asses for you, 'cause you know I will."

"Ohh, yes I do," she agreed chuckling. "Thanks Puck. I got it. But I think I'm gonna call it a day here and try to get some stuff done from home.

Puck nodded more sharply this time, "No problem. I can cover things here."

Mercedes was bent over in her chair, gathering up her purse and brief case from beneath her desk, "I know you can. Just don't let me come back to this being Sports Illustrated two-point-oh."

She sat upright again with her hands full and then stood, smirking at her friend.

"Hey, I keep telling you that it wouldn't be a bad issue. You'd at least up your number of male readers."

"Uh-huh," she feebly agreed, making her way around her desk with her fingers closed around her keys.

"When are you gonna feature your husband? Maybe get an interview on him for the sports article for next month. I bet he'd have loads to say."

She faltered in her haste to leave and kept her back to Puck. "No…I don't think he'd be interested." Her four-inch heels click-clacked across the tile floor and her wide hips swished inside her navy pencil skirt as she walked onward. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Yep! Oh—Mercedes I almost forgot." said Puck, turning around and standing to face her again.

Mercedes stopped and turned on the balls of her feet, staring at him with a silent response.

"HR called. There was a little change-up in the janitorial staff over the past few days so they just wanted to late us know, in case we were here late and saw some different faces."

"Oh…okay, thanks. And really Puck, thanks for stepping up. I'm sure your job will be a lot easier once Tina returns from maternity leave and you don't have to be my assistant too."

"'Course it will be, but what's the fun in a job if it's easy?" he joked.

Mercedes smirked and turned back towards the door. "See you, Puck."

"Later, Mercedes!"

She walked to the elevator, feeling a twinge of guilt for her unwillingness to hire a temp while her friend and assistant was on maternity leave. She knew her reason for not yielding to the typical; when it came to her job, she ran a very tight ship and had a small circle of individuals whom she trusted when it came to those who worked closely with her within the company. And out of the small circle of friends, Puck and Tina were the two she was closest to. She knew Puck could handle it but it honestly wasn't fair for her to burden him so.

The elevator dinged once she reached the first floor. She was wished a 'goodnight by the receptionist and nodded, 'Good night' to the woman in response. As per usual, her eyes briefly glanced over the indoor moniker, mounted in steel letters down the right side of the entrance:

Remembering and
Embracing
All
Lives

That had been the goal of her magazine from the beginning, and she strived to maintain it in every issue published over the past four years. She had done spreads on international fashion, politics, everyday home life, interior design, film, parenting, holidays, the performing arts, lifestyles for various sexual identities and orientations, military families, pets, religions or lack-thereof, and so-on. The topics featured had been repeated from time to time, but the person interviewed for it was almost never repeated—not for the same subject at least.

She did her best to leave thoughts of work on the back burner for her drive home. After reaching the parking lot and setting her things in the passenger's seat of her sleek, dark purple Chevy Camaro, she started up her car and began to backup but found herself slamming on the brakes suddenly. A beat-up '95 Jetta squealed past, nearly scraping the back end of her car. After getting over the initial shock, Mercedes slammed her hand on the horn, and then promptly jammed her finger on the window button to roll it down.

"Have you lost your damn mind? You almost hit me!"

She didn't even know who she was talking to because the driver continued on. All she saw was the top half of the back of a dark blond head, she half-assumed to belong to a male. After he screeched on, she let out a vehement sigh, slowly crept further in reverse, and then threw the car in drive to peel out at an unnecessarily fast speed.

Upon arriving home, her anger from nearly being rear-ended fizzled and a hollow feeling began to take over Mercedes. She parked her car in the assigned space of the penthouse garage, grabbed her things and walked to the elevator that took her straight to the eighth floor. She and her husband shared the floor with one another penthouse, but she made her way to the right and unlocked the door, letting herself in. The home, in all honesty, was not terribly inviting. It looked predictable—like something straight out of the movies that any rich couple with a penthouse would have; steel kitchen appliances, stiff, dark, uninviting furniture, heated tile floors, splashes of dark colors here and there, modern lighting fixtures, and angular wall hangings. She convinced herself that it was expected, or rather, her husband told her so.

"I'm a lawyer—I don't want people over here thinking we live in some kinda zoo with animal print and all that shit," he had gruffly told her. "And we don't need all that dumb decorating crap in our home."

She ceded to his final decision in silence. Sure, a colorful rug or some family photos on the walls and tables weren't necessary, but they would at least allow their home to feel less like an office and more like a warm, personal space. At least that's how she felt homes should feel. But she didn't argue with him further—at that point in their marriage, she had known better than to argue with him.

As she stepped out of her heels and padded to the kitchen, she went to the liquor cabinet and decided to pour herself some Scotch as a post-work relaxer. She downed the content of her short glass, rinsed it out and put everything away before taking herself and her briefcase back to hers and her husband's bedroom. She let her head fall back on her pillow with an exhausted sigh, and closed her eyes, giving herself just a minute, at least, to do nothing and worry over nothing. But once the minute or so passed, she opened her eyes again, sat up and pulled her laptop out of her briefcase. She and Puck made a commitment to include personal notes in every issue of REAL, expressing their gratitude for their reader's loyalty, as well as the guests who appear in each issue. Puck had his finished, and now it was time for her to finish up hers. She pulled open the document and saw that she'd only written two sentences. The text cursor blinked impatiently at her, and after a moment, she sighed and closed the laptop up again, setting it on the floor with her briefcase. She knew a minute of relaxation wasn't enough; a nap was very necessary, so she pulled off her suit jacket, unbuttoned the top of her silver silk blouse and curled up on her half of the bed for a nap.

It took some time for her mind to stop buzzing with thoughts of work, but eventually she was able to slip into unconsciousness. Unfortunately her nap ended much too soon, as she was abruptly jerked awake, her wrist seized away from her. She gasped and snapped her eyes open, bewildered by the impromptu awakening.

"Get up, Mercedes!" she heard a harsh, deep, familiar voice demand of her.

She gasped again, startled and used her free hand to rub her made-up eyes, "Wh…what is it?"

"The hell were you thinking, leaving your shoes in the hall like that? I could've tripped and broke my fucking ankle, comin' home to that."

She sifted through the haze of her sleepy mind and then remembered that she'd abandoned her silver pumps near the front door. "Shane, I—"

"You what?" he barked in an intimidating tone. "Huh?" he asked, begging her to say something else.

"I'm sorry," she uttered in a quavering whisper.

As much as she didn't want to, she kept her eyes on Shane's dark pair, watching and waiting with fearful uncertainty as to what he was going to say or do next. She watched his large chest rise and full vehemently beneath his three-piece designer suit for several breaths. Finally he shoved her hand back to her and demanded through gritted teeth, "Get your damn shoes up and put 'em in their place."

She clenched her teeth behind her grimacing lips and nodded, getting up out of bed. There were so many times where she wondered to herself, when she lost her strength, light and self-confidence behind closed doors, but she never found the answer, nor did she know how to get it back. As she hooked her index and middle finger around the heels of her pumps and carried them back to the bedroom, she found herself pondering this thought with feeble curiosity. She had all but given up on trying to understand when and how exactly, Mercedes Jones-Tinsley submitted to a dual life—a a successful business woman who appeared to have it all to the public, while a truly broken and sometimes beaten woman was caged in marriage that was nothing more than a lie housed under one roof.

Please leave reviews! As always, your reviews fuel me to write more! I know I'm crazy for starting yet another fic but I've had this & another fic idea on my mind for a while, so I figure they ought to be shared! Sorry for any errors. I'll continue this fic if enough people are interested & stay interested.