2. Elodie
TWO
ELODIE
Transaction declined.
Two little words that punched me straight in the pride.
I blinked at the cashier as she swung the screen back toward herself, her acrylic nails clacking against the keyboard with the kind of irritation that said she’d already decided I was a problem.
A whoosh of embarrassed laughter escaped me. “I am so sorry.” I rubbed my credit card against the material of my slacks, hoping that it might help, and held the card up. “Can you try it again?”
Her bored expression had my heart rate ticking higher, but she sighed and clacked the keyboard. “Okay.”
“Great. Thank you. I swear there’s no reason it should be ...”
Declined.
I glanced over my shoulder as the line in the café grew impatient.
The business card always worked. I was Elodie Darling, for fuck’s sake—top dog at one of the most exclusive PR firms in the city.
My boss, Amy, had founded the company, but we were practically partners.
She never made any decisions without my input.
I attended events with open bars and people whose teeth probably cost more than my rent.
And yet there I was. Broke. In line at a café and contemplating grand larceny over an overpriced chicken Caesar wrap. I swiped a palm down my thigh.
Oh, for the love of espresso shots and emotional stability, please don’t do this to me today.
The woman’s beautifully manicured eyebrow crept higher. “Maybe you have cash?” she said, slow and patronizing, like I was a toddler learning shapes.
My face twisted. Who in the world carries cash?
With a tight smile, I dug through my purse, hoping the incessant foot tapping to my right wasn’t meant for me.
Before I left the office, I’d decided to surprise Mel, our firm’s eternally loyal receptionist, with lunch.
She was an unsung hero at the office, and the thought of doing something nice for her made me feel lighter.
A tiny act of goodness in the world.
I pulled out my personal debit card. “Just use this one.”
I stared at the card as it moved in slow motion across the counter, praying it would go through.
Maybe the bank was randomly flagging the purchase? Maybe Amy forgot to move money around? Maybe my late-night “treat yourself” shopping spree for my corner office had finally caught up to me?
I mean, surely not that last one.
The cashier tapped my card against the screen and forced a smile. I brushed an unruly curl from my face, my mind already running through the possibilities.
There was no way I was actually broke broke.
Sure, my personal checking account was usually only one bad decision away from overdraft, but I wasn’t that irresponsible. Maybe I had hit add to cart like a feral little goblin a few too many times this month, but happiness wasn’t about money.
Except, you know, when you needed money to buy things that made you happy. Like food.
Transaction declined.
Heat prickled at my hairline as my armpits began to sweat.
What in the twilight zone is happening here?
My eyes pleaded with her. “I swear, I have no idea what’s going on.”
Unimpressed by my internal meltdown, the cashier simply stared. “It’s thirty-eight dollars and sixty-five cents.”
My mouth popped open at her complete lack of empathy. “No, I understand. I just don’t have any cash, and I don’t know why the cards aren’t working. Are you sure it’s not a system error or something?”
“It’s not.” She sighed, reaching for my chicken Caesar wrap and sliding it toward her like I might snatch it and run.
In her defense, the thought had occurred to me, but I would never do that.
Probably.
I mean, if I just grabbed it and ran, what was she going to do? Chase me? Tackle me over two eighteen-dollar sandwiches? Unlikely.
Would that make me the kind of woman who committed mild deli-related crimes? Also unlikely.
I sighed. Fine. No lunch. No good karma.
Resigned to go the rest of the afternoon hungry, I apologized profusely to her and the long line that had formed behind me. I gathered what was left of my pride and walked out of the café empty-handed .
As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I called Amy, but it went to voicemail.
“Hey, do you know if we got hacked again? I tried to pick up lunch, and the card was declined.” I left out the part about my own card also being declined.
Leave it to me to not realize my checking account was dangerously low after some late-night retail-therapy sessions.
“Anyway,” I huffed, “I should be back uptown in a few minutes. My toes are killing me in these heels. I can’t believe I let you talk me into them. They are hot, though ... okay, I?—”
The phone cut off my rambling, and I made a face at it. Undeterred, I sucked in a cleansing breath and took in the sunny June afternoon.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Downtown Grand Rapids wasn’t New York or LA, but it had the same overpriced coffee shops and overpriced people.
Amy and I had met sophomore year of college and become fast friends.
After graduation, we had created the most successful event and PR consulting firm in the city.
Together we’d built it from the ground up, and that was something to be proud of.
She was the brains behind the operation—always a shark circling the waters, finding new opportunities—but I was the closer.
As a team we specialized in planning and promoting high-profile events, brand launches, and charity galas in the city.
I knew what our clients needed before they did and could sell any idea, no matter how ridiculous.
A millionaire heiress who was obsessed with her dog? Boom. A pet fashion show where the ultra-rich dressed their pets in custom couture and walked them down the runway for charity? Nothing said giving back like a Yorkie in Gucci.
A lonely high-profile influencer with a tragic haircut?
Not a problem. The I Can Fix Him charity date auction had been one of our most profitable events last year.
Guests bid on “fixer-upper” bachelors—guys with bad haircuts, questionable fashion choices, or chaotic dating histories.
All proceeds went to a relationship wellness nonprofit, and just last month our client got engaged to his date.
I lived for the high of nailing something that seemed just slightly out of my reach. Granted, the fake smiles, endless networking, and crisis management left little time for an actual life, but that was totally fine.
My boyfriend, Brandt, was an up-and-coming attorney, and he was completely unbothered by my late nights and long weekends at work.
By the time I gave up on my heels and hailed a cab, my failed attempt at lunch was all but forgotten. Double Trouble PR had become my entire world, and the occasional nagging sense of unfulfillment was worth it.
I pasted on a smile as I walked into the office building. “Thanks, Ron.” I waved at the elderly doorman as he held the door for me. The ride up to the twentieth floor was quick, and I winked at our receptionist as I sailed past, promising myself I’d surprise her with lunch tomorrow.
“Oh! Ms. Darling!” Mel scrambled out of her chair and chased after me.
“Hey, Mel.” I smiled and kept walking toward Amy’s corner office. “I’m just popping in to see Amy. Something is up with the business card.”
She made a squeaking noise and placed herself between me and the door. “Ms. Fields is busy!” She looked panicked, and her attention flicked over my shoulder.
I tracked her gaze and noticed a few pairs of eyes pretending not to stare from behind their keyboards. I laughed. “It’s fine, Mel. I’ll be quick.”
I eased past the receptionist, pushing open the opaque glass door to Amy’s office, then stopped dead in my tracks.
Before I looked away, all I saw was Amy bent over her desk, ass in the air, while some guy pounded into her from behind.
His slacks were pooled at his feet, and his necktie was flipped over one shoulder.
“Oh!” An embarrassed giggle shot out of me as I turned away. “Shit. Sorry, Aim. I can come back.”
“Ellie.” The strangled voice caught my attention, and my head whipped back around.
“Brandt?” I shrieked, unable to make sense of the scene unfolding in front of me. My stomach caved in on itself, like the bottom had been ripped out of my entire reality.
It wasn’t just any man, but my man.
Brandt. My boyfriend. My everything-was-fine safety net—currently balls deep in my best friend.
Time slowed. My stomach lurched. My brain short-circuited. I mean, sure, I knew men cheated—I had a whole PR client list that proved it—but my boyfriend? With my best friend? In our office?
I was frozen as they both stood taller. Amy tried to pull her tight pencil skirt back over her ass, but it was bunched around her waist, and the thong wrapped around her ankles restricted her movements. She fumbled against her desk as she attempted to fix her clothing.
“What the actual fuck?” I demanded, not caring that I was likely drawing an audience just beyond the frosted glass of Amy’s corner office.
Rumpled, and still fumbling to button his pants, Brandt took a step toward me. “Ellie Belly, I can explain.”
“The only thing I need you to explain is how you thought screwing my best friend in broad daylight was the best way to round out the morning.” I held up my hand and shook my head. “You know what? Never mind. ”
I couldn’t even look at him. My empty stomach rolled.
My eyes flashed to Amy. “How could you?” Betrayal stabbed me in the chest at the realization of what they’d done. I sucked in a breath as my temper flared. “How long?” I demanded.
Brandt attempted to look stricken, and I imagined freezing his balls off with an icy glare.
They both talked over each other, trying to placate me. “It was a mistake,” she said as he mumbled, “A while.”
Humiliated . The word rattled around in my chest as my cheeks flamed.
“I thought I could surprise you. I brought you lunch.” He weakly lifted a brown paper sack and had the audacity to smile at me.