CASSIDY
By the time I make it into the office, the city is still waking up.
Most of Opus isn’t.
And today, neither is Frankie.
The building never really seems asleep, and today, I’m later than I usually prefer.
There are already lights on across half the floor when I step out of the lift, coffee balanced precariously in one hand and laptop bag hanging from my shoulder.
The scent of fresh cleaning products lingers faintly beneath expensive furniture polish and printer toner.
I unlock my office, dump my bag beside my desk, and immediately prop my phone against my monitor.
The screen lights up before I’ve even finished sitting down.
Frankie is early, on the same day I’m running late.
I snort at the irony.
“You’re early,” I chide, stepping back from my desk as I undo my jacket.
“You’re late,” he counters. He’s sitting cross-legged on what looks suspiciously like a sofa rather than a dining chair.
His hair is still damp, and his shirt is inside out.
He’s holding a plate containing what appears to be half a bakery.
I stare at him. “I refuse to believe that is what you’re having for breakfast.”
Frankie looks down at his plate, his face twisting up in confusion. “What’s the issue with my croissant?”
“Your croissant?” I laugh, pulling my chair out and getting seated. “Frankie, you have three of them.”
“So?”
“It’s 7:30 in the morning.” I frown at him. “Do you know how much sugar is in all of that?”
“Your point?”
I shake my head, unable to hide my smile from him. “You’re feral.”
“That’s a strong accusation from someone drinking coffee that could strip paint.”
I glance down at my mug and shrug. I can’t lie; my coffee has gotten darker since meeting Evander.
It’s some stupid idea of trying to replicate his scent when he’s not here. The coffee never quite manages it.
“I have deadlines,” I say instead.
I’m not going to embarrass myself by admitting the truth.
“You have an addiction to coffee, just like I do to fresh pastries.”
“Tomato, tomato.” I wave him off.
“You said the same word twice,” he says with a smirk.
“You understood my meaning.”
Frankie grins. I hate that it immediately makes me smile back because it gives him the win.
Talking to Frankie has always been easy, and it’s no exception this morning.
Even back at university, he’d somehow managed to adopt me within about three weeks of meeting me.
One minute, I’d been a terrified first-year trying to navigate an unfamiliar campus.
The next, he’d been appearing beside me with lecture notes, coffee recommendations, and unsolicited opinions about absolutely everything.
Somehow, not much has changed, and yet, everything has changed at the same time.
“How’s work looking for you?” I ask.
Frankie lets out a dramatic sigh, rubbing the back of his neck. There’s a look on his face I can’t place.
“Terrible.”
“You said that yesterday,” I point out.
Does he actually like his job? I don’t know how to ask without sounding rude, but I’m worried for my friend.
Since reconnecting, I’ve been proud of how well he’s doing, but something still feels… wrong.
“It was terrible yesterday, too.” He shoves the last of his croissant in his mouth, washing it down with some orange juice.
“What happened this time?” I ask. I move my phone over so I can pull my keyboard to me and get signed on.
“Our creative director discovered a new personality.”
I grimace, thinking of our creative director. “Oh, no.”
“Yep. It’s called The Visionary.”
I immediately laugh. “What does The Visionary do?”
Frankie points vaguely with his pastry, shaking his head.
“Everything takes twice as long because every meeting now requires at least one inspirational quote to start us off and for every idea pitched.”
I groan, covering my face with my hand in second-hand embarrassment.
“Tell me which is better. Innovation begins where comfort ends, or disruption is merely opportunity wearing different clothes.”
I bury my face in one hand, laughing hard enough that I nearly spill my coffee.
“Frankie, that’s awful,” I say, still giggling.
Frankie keeps talking.
“Anyway, enough about my suffering. How’s your week?”
“Busy, but good. We had our replacement shoot yesterday, so that’s a relief.”
His expression shifts. It’s subtle, but something feels off about it.
“You sound tired,” I offer.
“I had a late night.”
“Working?” I ask, and he hesitates for a second. Then his expression changes again.
“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, and relief colours his gaze. “I’ll just presume you were out on a date.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Something like that. So, tell me about your first shoot, what was it like?”
I keep the actual shoot details quiet and focus on the things I did and what I learnt. It was an amazing experience, and seeing Harlan and Silas working in tandem was a big pro.
Frankie listens to all of it whilst systematically demolishing enough pastry to concern medical professionals.
Eventually, he leans back in his chair, his juice glass empty, and his plate polished clean.
“So.”
I immediately narrow my eyes. “No.”
“You haven’t even heard the question.”
“I know that tone. I don’t want to know the question.”
He laughs, waggling his brows. “The blanket mystery. Have we discovered anything else?”
I groan, but shake my head. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet, you keep answering my calls.”
“I regret it daily.”
“Liar.”
For a moment, neither of us says anything. The silence settles comfortably between us.
Frankie eventually checks the time and sighs. “Right. I need to get moving, and you should stop pretending to work.”
I gasp. “That’s rich coming from someone eating cakes for breakfast.”
He looks scandalised. “Pastries are not cakes. They’re a different food group entirely.”
“That’s not much better.”
“Go away. Go be productive. Go be amazing.”
I snort but can’t help that my face softens. “You should get dressed and head into the office. Let’s hope you can cope with The Visionary and not get fired.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Debatable.”
He waves at me before pulling his T-shirt over his head. I end the call, but not before I see his bare chest.
It does nothing to me. Not like seeing forearms on one of my guys—
“Whoa, no, Cassie,” I say quickly. They’re not my guys.
Just Evander is.
The others…
My tummy churns, and the office is quiet in an uncomfortable kind of way now.
I’ve got issues, I know that, but damn, am I surrounded by some very attractive men.
Harlan’s email comes through at 9:17.
Subject: Hurry Up
Cassidy,
Come to my office. We’ve got the first drafts from Silas.
Bring any supplier correspondence from this morning.
Not even a sign-off. Clearly, he’s in a good mood this morning.
I stare at it for several seconds, coffee halfway to my mouth. Then I sigh, set the mug down, and start gathering everything he asked for.
By now, I should probably be used to the way Harlan summons people as if he’s an ancient king and the rest of us exist only to scurry through stone corridors carrying urgent scrolls.
Unfortunately, being used to something doesn’t mean it stops making my stomach twist.
Especially not with him.
Lately, there’s been an eerie kind of tension between the two of us. He looks at me like there’s something more to say, something I’m missing, and I just wish he’d commit.
The constant pressure is unbearable. Knowing Harlan, he could keep me waiting months.
Months like this.
I shove the thought away and pick up my laptop, knowing that, for Harlan, my notebook is not and will not ever be enough.
It’s work, Cassie. This is time to work.
Harlan is my boss.
My mentor.
He’s more than a decade older than me. He already knows who he is and what he wants.
My terrifying, brilliant, impossible boss, who thinks a compliment is admitting something is adequate.
He’s not mine to wonder about. Not beyond work. Not beyond all the ways he’s never actually failed me.
Unlike me.
The scent neutraliser tickles my nose and makes my body protest, my scent glands prickling with irritation, but I don’t dare go without. It’s not worth the disgust in Harlan’s gaze.
In his words.
By the time I reach his office, my arms are full of folders, my laptop is balanced precariously on top, and I’ve wedged my phone between my elbow and my ribs.
His door is already open, and I’m grateful.
Harlan is standing behind his desk, sleeves rolled to his forearms, one hand braced on the polished wood as he reads something on his screen.
“Don’t just stand there,” he calls, not bothering to look up from what he’s doing.
I rush forward, my heart pounding, and I move to the sofa that has remained clear since that day.
I place my extra things down on it, as has become customary, then move to his desk with the folders.
“Good morning,” I say brightly.
His hazel eyes flick to mine, and a small sneer pulls at his face. Then his gaze drops to the pile in my arms.
“You brought everything?”
“Yes,” I say, nodding. “Everything you asked for.”
“I asked for specific things. This looks like you’ve thrown everything together in a rush. What kind of organisation do you have down there?”
It’s not one of his worst snaps, but it’s clear Harlan’s not in the greatest of moods today.
I wish I knew what has set him off so I can adjust myself accordingly. Sometimes it’s work or Silas. At times, the worst times, it’s me.
“Everything is organised chronologically, and it only looks a little messy because I had a huge pile—”
“I don’t care for excuses.” He raises a brow at me. “Give me a minute to finish this, and we’ll get started.”
His office smells more lived-in today, still with that thick layer of scent neutraliser hiding most of the scents from me. But there’s the strong scent of paper and musty fabric beneath it. Even an expensive cologne that tickles my nose.
I move over to my little sofa and get myself set up, trying not to cower where I sit.
I know he’s not focused on me, but I still feel the pressure to be perfect, and every tremble in my hands seems determined to triple the number of spelling mistakes I make.
I hate it.