Cassidy #2
Heat rushes up my neck, my cheeks flushing, and I’m horribly aware of the glands at my throat.
Harlan finally looks up properly, irritation sharpening his expression further. He drags a hand through the slightly too-long dark blonde hair at the top of his head, the movement rougher than usual, before pinning me with a look sharp enough to cut.
“You had to what?” he asks flatly.
My mouth opens, but nothing comes out at all. My brain is not cooperating, no matter how stupid it makes me look.
“Well?”
“I—sorry. I just came straight here when I got the email.”
A frown flickers across his face, there and gone so quickly I almost think I imagined it.
“Sit down.”
I lower myself carefully into the chair opposite his desk, but the movement makes dizziness roll unpleasantly through me. My stomach twists sharply, and I grip my laptop tighter to stop myself swaying.
Fuck. What is going on?
Harlan’s gaze lingers on my face, and I can practically feel the disdain in it picking me apart. The only sound is the gentle whir of his computer fan and the hollow thud of my heartbeat in my ears.
I can’t bring myself to break it, but sitting here is practically torture.
“You look unwell,” he says, his gaze dipping briefly to my throat.
As usual, there’s no question in his words, just a pure statement of facts.
I flinch before I can help it, sucked instantly back to that sick feeling in my chest, the one I’ve been working so hard to ignore. He sets the pen down with a precision that makes my skin crawl.
“I’m fine,” I say desperately, even though the neutraliser suddenly feels too tight on my skin.
The lie tastes dry in my mouth. I can feel my pulse beating below my skin—at my throat, at my wrists, everywhere a scent gland sits close to the surface—frantic with the effort of trying to hide what is obvious, especially to Harlan. He made his feelings extremely clear the other day.
“That seems to be a very common answer,” he replies dryly. “I don’t put much stock in it when I can hear the lies in your words.”
“I’m not lying.” The words come out sharper than intended, and I immediately regret them.
Harlan’s eyes narrow slightly. He leans back in his chair, the leather creaking softly beneath him, and for a second, my attention catches on the way his sleeves are rolled up. The veins on his forearms stand out, blue and stark, and I realise that I am staring.
I drag my eyes away and focus on my hands in my lap, where I’m digging my fingernails into my own palm.
Harlan clears his throat. “Then, perhaps you’d like to explain why you’ve been in the office until midnight for the past three nights?”
“I…”
The word comes out weak and wavering. I feel my cheeks flame, a prickling burn that climbs up my neck and into the roots of my hair. I can’t tell him what I’ve been doing or Gemma will get into trouble, and it’ll be all my fault.
My vision blurs, black spots appearing at the edges, refusing to move no matter how many times I blink.
Maybe I really am getting sick.
“I was just… getting caught up on a few things,” I say, biting my lip.
I really am a terrible liar.
Harlan’s expression doesn’t change, but something in his eyes hardens. He taps one long finger against the desk, the sound unnaturally loud in the silence.
“Getting caught up,” Harlan echoes. If sarcasm could be measured in temperature, his would be below absolute zero. He folds his hands together on the desk, fingers interlacing carefully. “Is that what you want to call it?”
I nod, guilt twisting through my gut. I don’t know what to call it without lying to him.
He doesn’t let up.
“How’s your workload looking now?” he asks, the question so pointed it feels sharp and painful.
I blink rapidly, fixing my eyes on the stack of folders on the desk behind him. Anything but his face.
“Better,” I manage. “Much better.”
“Better,” he repeats.
I nod quickly. “Yes. It’s much better.”
The room feels strangely warm, even though I can’t stop shivering inside my blazer. My legs are numb and heavy, and my mouth is dry as sandpaper.
Harlan taps his pen against the desk with a sound that reverberates straight through my bones.
“And yet, you still look exhausted.”
Something tightens in my chest. The humiliation burns.
“I’m okay.” Each syllable falls out of my mouth softer and smaller than intended, a shrunken, pitiful sound.
I try to make eye contact, but Harlan’s gaze snaps through me, as if he’s looking for exactly what’s wrong with me.
“You’re not.” He says it with a finality that hits right in my chest. No room for my protest, not a single inch of debate.
I hold his stare a moment, then drop it, feeling my cheeks flame. I clench my teeth so hard my jaw twinges.
My heartbeat feels wrong. Too hard. Too uneven.
“I am,” I say again, quieter, like that makes it more true. “I’ve just had a busy week.”
“A busy week,” he repeats flatly, like he doesn’t believe a word coming out of my mouth. I shift in my seat, the plastic edge of the chair pressing into the backs of my thighs.
The air in the office is heavy and strange—sterile, but with a lingering thread of detergent. Everything feels oddly distant.
The lights are too harsh. The silence vibrates through my skull. The edges of my vision blur slightly before sharpening again, and I press my nails into my palm beneath the desk, trying to ground myself.
Focus, Cassie. Just focus.
If I can think about one thing. Just one thing. I can get through this conversation.
“I’m handling it,” I say. “I’m sorry that I’ve disappointed you, sir.”
Harlan’s jaw tightens, the muscle along his cheekbone flexing visibly.
“Cassidy.” His voice lowers slightly, a warning in it. “You’ve been staying here until midnight. Reading documents that are not yours. Accessing files that you’ve got no reason to look at. What am I meant to think?”
How does he know this?
My stomach drops so violently I feel it in my throat.
“How did you—” I start, then stop, because it doesn’t matter. Not really.
The room spins around me, and I grip the edge of his desk to steady myself.
“That wasn’t the question.” His voice cracks through the air. I jolt, my shoulders hunching.