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That ought to suffice to terminate my employment. As I close the lid on my laptop, I notice the woman next to me – the hear, hear woman – chuckling. She’s read my email across my arm and her shoulders are bobbing up and down as she says, “I like a woman with gumption.”

I hold out my hand. “Sienna.”

“Berta.” She takes my hand then reaches into her large embroidered purse, takes out a rustling packet and asks, “Candy?”

* * *

There aren’t cavemen older than me by the time a case officer steps into the now less crowded holding pen and calls, “Sienna Jamieson?”

He’s a white, middle-aged man with that air of supremacy white, middle-aged government officials in tweed jackets can have. He’s short and skinny. Not so skinny as his noughties tie but still, I’m ready to take my annoyance, frustration and downright grumpiness out on him.

I follow him into an office that’s dated. There are piles of papers, files and archeological finds like a hole punch covering the space, as if he hasn’t heard of the invention of the computer. The windows are lined with cheap horizontal shades. Why, I feel positively warm and fuzzy inside, not.

“My name is Mr Mantel. Take a seat.”

He sits into his desk chair like a bookend would – rigidly. Mr Mantel? Do people refer to themselves as Mr anything this side of the year 2000?

I screw in my smile in the name of my visa and sit where he’s gestured, opposite him. I practically fall into the seat, which instinctively I feel is purposely set five inches lower than Mr Mantel’s.

“Sooooo…” He drums his fingers on his desk. “Bap bap baaaaa.” Then shuffles through a stack of files as if he’s working a cold case in an old detective movie.

“You’re here to update your visa status, Sienna?”

I’m not sure why I’m nervous but I am – like clammy underarms, ball in throat kind of anxiety. “Yes, that’s right.”

“I seeeeeeee.” He takes off his thick-rimmed spectacles and waves them around like an unnecessary hook in a social reel, given he already has my full attention. “Are you here to tell me you’re no longer an employee of Lancer PR, or that you’re no longer engaged to be married to Carl Lancer?”

“I— Ah—” I scoff in disbelief. “How do you know either of those things?”

He slips his specs back on. “I’m a government case officer, it’s my job to know things.” He leans back in his chair and interlaces his fingers in front of his chest. “Also, your ex called me half an hour ago and told me that you’re no longer in employment in this fine State of New York, therefore you are no longer residing legally in this country.”

I gasp. “He did not.”

“I assure you, he did. So, what did you do to tick him off?”

I frown. “Are you allowed to ask me that?”

He shrugs, smug as hell. “I can ask you whatever I want to ensure I do not have illegal immigrants in the United States of America.”

Self-important jackass. I’m Canadian for Christ’s sake. I grew up next door. I draw in a breath and don’t manage a smile but do at least keep a lid on my rising temper. “Well, Mr Mantel, Carl Lancer and I are no longer engaged to be married, not that it’s pertinent to my visa, and I am no longer working for Lancer PR – my choice, given the delicate personal situation.” I lay my temporary employment contract on the desk between us. “But I’m here to file with you my new employment contract as Vice President of Comms for the New York Dragons.”

He frowns at me but retrieves the contract and painstakingly reviews the contents, then slowly lowers the papers and peers at me across them. “Let me get this straight, you’re here to notify the department of your change of employer?”

“Yes. Exactly. All above board and in accordance with the law.”

He taps the keys of his computer, then turns his screen to face me. “So you’re not trying to start a green card application based on your marriage to this ice hockey player?”

I gawp as he hits play on a reel of me, undeniably drunk, and Jax, also very unstable, dressed as minions and getting married.

The ceremony plays out, with everyone on the Vegas trip cheering when Jax Minion kisses Me Minion. And in the present, I cover my mouth with my hands.

How? Why? When? What? Where?

Fuuuuuuuuuck.

Slam! Mantel bangs a metal immigration stamp on my Dragons contract, then on another piece of paper, and hands both to me.

“Three months, Sienna. You’re permitted to reside and work in the country for the duration of your employment contract.”