Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Theo
My alarm beeps at five-thirty a.m., same as always.
I eat the same breakfast—egg whites on wheat toast—because that’s what I’ve always done. I lift weights, run the same four miles, shower, and check my emails. Choose a suit, nearly identical to the rest, then head out the door.
For as long as I can remember, I’ve thrived on this meticulously balanced routine. Lately, though, something about it feels off. An unfulfilling boredom that has settled in like a fog, thick, heavy, and hard to see through.
For the first time in a decade, I find myself wanting more. A change. A disruption.
By the time I arrive at the office, the monotony is suffocating.
How have I spent twelve years in this building without realizing how mind-numbingly quiet it is when I’m alone up here?
I swivel my chair, turning toward the view from twenty stories high.
Below, the city hums with movement, people walking to work, collars tucked against the wind, places to go, people to see.
I wonder if anyone else notices the emptiness, or if pretending it isn’t there has become second nature.
Maybe that’s the trick to surviving it, numb yourself enough and the hollow parts stop bothering you.
The city wakes beneath a sky streaked with pink and orange, sunlight threading between the buildings. I try to focus, flipping through reports on upcoming real estate listings and sales, most of them blurring together.
One catches my eye. An old performance venue, flagged for historical designation issues and declining revenue. I recognize the name immediately. It’s the property I’m touring today for a potential redevelopment proposal.
It’s a theater I visited on school field trips, watching local productions of The Wizard of Oz and other shows that had always been a highlight throughout elementary school.
When the elevator chimes and slides open, I do my best to ignore the sound.
My newfound restlessness perks up at the impending distraction, however, anything to break the dull predictability of the morning.
I don’t look up right away, but I can already sense the presence of someone stepping into my controlled world.
It’s the one person who I suspect ignited this realization that my life is nothing but one big continuous schedule.
Knocking on the open door, she steps in, looking like a goddamn dream in a tight pencil skirt and long dark hair twisted into a bun. I know the days she goes to her rehearsals or shows, based upon that bun twisted up on top of her head.
She clears her throat. “Is it okay if I come in?”
I gesture to the open seat in front of my desk. “Be my guest.”
Looking everywhere but me, she holds her hands in her lap and sighs. “Look, I wanted to apologize for my reaction yesterday regarding my paycheck. I may have overreacted.”
I didn’t expect her to come in, tucking her tail in pride, to apologize. Frankly, I don’t like it, because it’s not her. From what I’ve personally seen, Marley James is unapologetically herself. It’s a trait I envy and admire all at once.
Her reaction yesterday made sense. I was out of line, and the entire time I initiated the housing allowance and advanced pay, I was fully aware I was treating her differently.
As a CEO, it’s something I drill into other employees not to do.
So, for me now to be the one showing favoritism, I knew it was wrong.
The overriding other half of myself, however, did not give a single fuck.
She was obviously struggling, and I had the means to immediately fix that.
“There’s no need to say sorry,” I say. I’m the one who’s messed up. Not her. “I understand your frustration and where you’re coming from. If anything, I should be the one apologizing.”
Her eyes finally meet mine, and she blinks. “That was actually immensely easier than I expected.” I see the surprise in her face, and I hate that I put it there.
That somewhere along the way, I made it normal to expect the worst from me.
Pushing off the chair, she rises. “Is there anything you need from me today, sir?”
“First thing would be not calling me sir,” I reply. “Secondly, our junior analyst called in sick, and I need someone to come take pictures of a property while I meet with the sellers. Do you mind calling around to see if anyone else is available?”
She perks up. “Take me.”
My pen pauses mid-stroke. “I can’t take you.”
“Why not? I’ve gone with you twice now. I also happen to know how to lift a camera and press the picture button thingy. It can’t be that hard.”
“You’re really inspiring confidence by calling it that,” I deadpan.
Amused, she rolls her eyes, like my dry humor is both irritating and deeply entertaining. “C’mon, it’ll be fun.”
I sigh, capping my pen and leaning back in my chair. “Fine. But don’t complain when you realize it’s just standing around for hours and taking photos of structural details. This one is a little different.”
She grins, practically bouncing on her feet. “Oh, don’t worry. I don’t bore easily.”
I don’t doubt that.
“Okay, fine. Be ready in a few,” I relent.
The thought of spending the next few hours with her, rather than someone else from the team, doesn’t seem like the worst thing in the world.
Her face instantly brightens. “Let me grab my purse.”
Minutes later, I meet her at her desk, and we ride the elevator down together. With the way I crossed a line with her, I imagined it would be awkward the next time we were alone. It’s not though. Not at all.
Instead of a strain between us, it feels easy. Too easy, as her excited steps click across the marble floors to the glass door exit of the building.
People stare, as always. However, at this point, I’m more convinced that it has to do with Marley being so well-liked around here, and me being … well, not. People do a double take, probably wondering why a pure burst of sunshine is often around someone who sucks the joy out of an entire room.
I’ve overheard the conversations. The digs. It’s nothing new. People think I’m either the antichrist or some corporate overlord who thrives on spreadsheets and crushing small-town charm under the weight of profit margins.
It shouldn’t bother me. It usually doesn’t. It is my job, after all, to do all of the above.
Maybe because this isn’t the first time we’ve left together. Or even the second.
At this point, it’s starting to feel like a pattern.
One I should probably stop.
But I don’t.
For the third time in two weeks, Marley sits in my car. This is three times more than I’ve ever had any assistant ride with me. We’re not doing anything against company guidelines, but it still feels completely unacceptable. It’s also the first time all day that I’ve felt a blip of happiness.
There’s no way not to feel joy when you’re around her.
She makes easy conversation and witty jokes.
She has that way about her to make you feel like her best friend the second she speaks with you.
I know it’s not an act, but I’m also fully aware I’m not special to be treated this way by her.
She’s like this with everyone, from valets to complete strangers.
Pulling out of the parking garage, I clear my throat and turn up the volume to whatever’s playing on the radio to fill the silence. Not that any quietness lasts long with her here.
“Are you allowed to tell me where we’re going?” she asks, pivoting in her seat to face me better.
“A potential investment property. It’s been on the decline for years, and the owners are finally interested in selling.”
“And you’re interested in buying it?”
“Yes,” I comment, gripping the steering wheel. “It may only be to tear it down and build something new, but I’m interested.”
“Hm. Sounds depressing.”
I glance at her. “Depressing?”
She shrugs. “Buying something only to destroy it feels a little tragic. What if it had something left to give?”
“It’s called development. Sometimes you have to clear out the old to make room for something better.”
“Or sometimes the old just needs someone to see its value before deciding it’s worthless.”
“Our profit margin would beg to differ.”
“Okay, Mr. CEO.” She shoots me a pointed look. “What’s the game plan here, by the way? How do we win them over?”
“We don’t need a game plan,” I say. “They won’t want to refuse the amount we’re about to offer them.”
She gasps, mock scandalized. “Well, that’s no fun. No strategy? No underhanded tactics? What if we did a good cop, bad cop bit? I’ll be bad cop, you be good cop.”
“First off, I think those roles would be reversed.”
“You’re right. I’m totally not dressed for a bad cop moment.”
I huff a laugh. “Marley, I don’t think you have a bad bone in your body.”
“Excuse me. I know how to be bad. So bad, in fact, that I’m the worst.”
Don’t get a boner. Don’t you dare get a damn boner, I remind myself.
“Give me an example of a time when you were the worst then,” I reply, knowing this will be entertaining, and trying to tell my dick to stand down at the mention of her calling herself bad.
She taps her fingers on the dash. “Huh. You know, now that you ask, I’m either a saint, or my worst offenses have been successfully repressed.”
I can tell that for the next few minutes, she’s racking her brain for something, anything that has not been completely and entirely wholesome.
The woman is like a Disney Princess. So inherently good and pure of heart that forest animals would probably flock to her.
Once, I even saw her toss a squirrel a piece of leftover muffin from a meeting, because it looked sad and she wanted to cheer it up.
That’s the definition of pure intentions.
She grabs my forearm where it rests on the center console. “I thought of it. A time I did something horrible.”
I glance at her, waiting.
“Once, I called the cops on my own mother.”