You hated watching her run herself into the ground. Cece was a perfectionist, a relentless force that would work until she dropped if no one stopped her.

You enter her room late at night and see that she's still awake, hunched over what must be her fourth cup of coffee, dark circles under her eyes.

"Cece. Go to bed," you say tiredly, leaning against the doorframe.

She barely looks up, shaking her head. "I just need to keep going over Caroline's speech for tomorrow, it needs to be perfect."

"You said that about the last three versions."

"And none of them were," she replies still typing away on her laptop.