CHAPTER 10 Kimberly
Kimberly
There are moments that split your life in two—the second before you look at someone differently, and every second after.
I was about two seconds from screaming into a pillow. The only reason I hadn’t was because I refused to give Jackson Whitlock the satisfaction of adding emotional damage to his household inventory.
Another week had gone past.
The man was everywhere, operating like a virus that had gotten into every system. He didn't just run the company. He ran the oxygen in the room.
On Wednesday, he booked a meeting at the exact hour I’d blocked for compliance review, then stared at me when I requested a postponement as if I had suggested we liquidate the firm and invest the capital in lottery tickets.
"Ms. Bishop," he had said, not looking up from his tablet, his voice a low, rhythmic grate that made my spine stiffen.
"The calendar is an absolute structure. It is not a suggestion box.
If your previous employment allowed you to schedule your day around the migratory patterns of the local wildlife, I suggest you adjust your expectations. Or your department."
He called my quarterly summary "adequate" in a tone that made the word sound like a federal indictment.
He walked past my glass-walled office four times on Thursday for no discernible reason, each pass accompanied by a single, dark glance through the pane that lasted exactly long enough to remind me he was watching—and not a second longer.
Sophie found me in the break room at noon, staring into my coffee like it held the mathematical formula for survival.
"I want you to know," she said, sliding into the chair across from me, "that I am genuinely happy for your promotion. I think it’s wonderful that you have a real desk and a title and a future.
" She paused, gripping her napkin. "But I need you to understand that your career advancement has come at a deeply personal cost to my mental health. I am now Jackson Whitlock’s temporary secretary, Kim.
I am not surviving the experience. I am not. "
"It’s been two weeks, Sophie."
"Two weeks of administrative waterboarding!
" She leaned forward, her eyes darting toward the hallway as if he might appear through the drywall.
"He looked at me yesterday. Just looked.
No words. No email. Just his eyes, on my face, for four seconds.
I felt my credit score drop. I had to go sit in the handicap stall for ten minutes just to remember my own social security number. "
She dropped her forehead onto her folded arms with a soft groan. "I think he enjoys it. I think he feeds on the panic. Like a man who would definitely be into… you know. The sadistic part. Of the whole leather situation."
I choked on my coffee, the lukewarm liquid spraying across the laminate. "Sophie. Stop."
"I’m just saying! A man that controlling? That precise? That obsessed with temperature-specific beverages? There is absolutely a dungeon somewhere under this building. I would bet my entire 401k there’s a whip with a corporate logo on it."
"His specific psychological abnormalities are genuinely the last thing on earth I want to visualize," I muttered, wiping my chin with a paper towel. "Please never introduce that image into my brain again."
"He doesn’t date, Kim. Nobody has ever seen him with a human being.
Not at a gala, not at a holiday party, nothing.
Don’t you think that’s suspicious?" She peered at me through her bangs, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
"Secret clubs. Underground. With a non-disclosure agreement and a membership fee that could fund a public school. "
I stared at her. "How would I possibly know that?"
"There are rumors that you live with him!"
My mouth hung open. How had this rumor even started?
"I live in the east wing of a house that has its own zip code. That’s like saying I know the personal habits of the elevator because I ride it to the lobby."
"The elevator doesn’t have gray eyes and a jawline that could cut sheet metal," Sophie pointed out, dead serious. "Think about it."
"I’m leaving the room now."
Logan stopped by that afternoon, leaning against my doorway with two paper cups from the artisan espresso place three blocks away—the one that charged eight dollars for oat milk that Sophie was obsessed with.
"You look like someone who could use caffeine that wasn’t prepared under threat of industrial termination," he said, sliding the cup onto my blotter.
"Is it that obvious?"
"You have the expression of a woman who’s been professionally audited by a grand jury for five consecutive business days," he said, taking the chair across from me. "How did you get the Maxwell account?"
"Pure luck," I said. "I met Donald Maxwell once and apparently left an unforgettable impression—at least that's what he told me."
"I heard. Jack didn’t mention it at the leadership meeting this morning, which means you performed flawlessly.
" He grinned, a quick, flashing expression that was too bright for a Friday afternoon.
"In Whitlock corporate language, an absolute refusal to acknowledge your existence is the highest form of praise. "
"Then your brother must think I’m an absolute genius," I said, leaning back. "Are we playing reverse psychology now?"
Logan laughed, the sound loud and unbothered.
Through the glass wall of my office, I caught Sophie at her desk, watching him, chin on her palm, eyes about twice their normal size.
She was mentally selecting a bridesmaid dress, and I'd bet money on it.
She had the dazzled smile she probably saved for historical monuments and expensive yachts.
Logan followed my glance, caught Sophie staring, and gave her a casual, two-finger wave from his temple.
Sophie immediately knocked her entire pen cup off the desk. The sound of plastic rollers hitting the carpet carried through the glass.
"She’s going to sustain a workplace injury," I said.
"She'll be fine," Logan said, turning back to me. "I have that effect on administrative staff. It’s a documented medical condition."
"It’s an operational hazard," I corrected, but for the first time all week, the air felt light enough to breathe.
Saturday morning I drove to Beacon Hill, and walking through the door of our apartment was like stepping back into my own skin.
The kitchen smelled like the cinnamon rolls Katelyn only made when she was convinced someone was failing a class or losing a job.
Penny was buried under a faded quilt on the sofa, a massive paperback vampire novel held three inches from her nose. She didn’t look up when the door clicked.
Katelyn shoved a plate into my hand before I’d even cleared the coat rack. "You’ve lost weight in your face. Sit down."
"I have been gone for barely more than two weeks, Kate. My metabolism isn’t that efficient."
"Your collarbones look aggressive, Kim. Eat the roll."
I sat at the small formica table and gave them the rundown of the last two weeks. I told them about Jackson's scheduling warfare. Katelyn’s expression grew progressively more horrified, her spoon hovering over her tea like she was watching a documentary about an apex predator.
"He sounds unhinged," Katelyn said. "Like a serial killer who went to Wharton."
"He’s not unhinged," I sighed, tearing off a piece of dough. "He’s just… very specific about his hostility. It’s organized."
"That’s worse, Kim. That’s actually worse. Organized crazy is how companies get away with things."
Penny turned a page with a sharp, dramatic snap of the paper. "Is he attractive?"
"That has nothing to do with anything."
"So he’s gorgeous," Penny concluded, still behind the book.
"Penelope."
"I’m just asking for narrative context! Villains are always significantly more compelling when they’re well-tailored.
" She licked a finger and turned a page without once lifting her eyes from it. "It’s a cinematic rule. If he looked like a thumb, you’d just think he was rude. Because he’s hot, he’s an antagonist."
"Speaking of completely inappropriate attachments," Katelyn said, turning toward the couch with the smooth, lethal transition of an older sister who had been holding a card all morning, "how was your check-up with Dr. Reeves on Thursday?"
Penny’s face turned the exact shade of a grocery-store radish. She didn’t lower the book. "He is a licensed medical professional performing a clinical evaluation of my progress. I don’t know why this family treats a follow-up appointment like a speed-dating event."
"Katelyn told me you brushed your hair before you went," I pointed out around a mouthful of cinnamon.
"I brush my hair every day!"
"Pen, it was different, I was watching you the whole time," Katelyn said, her voice all maternal pity.
"Dr. Reeves is too old for you anyway," I added, purely to watch the reaction. "He has to be at least almost thirty."
The book came down with a heavy thwack against her knees. Penny glared at us, her curls wild around her face.
"First of all, nine years is a perfectly standard gap in the modern European dating landscape." She held up a finger.
"Second of all," she said, a second finger snapping up to join the first, "neither of you has had a romantic interaction since the Obama administration, so you are both categorically the last two people on this peninsula qualified to give advice on human contact."
She sucked in a breath. "Third of all, his name is Ethan, he went to Johns Hopkins, and when he asked me what I'd been doing to stay active, I panicked and told him I'd been reorganizing my pantry by alphabet.
" She slumped back into the cushions. "So if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go crawl under the sink and wait for the lease to expire. "
She yanked the quilt completely over her head, transforming into a large, sullen floral mound on the cushions.
Katelyn and I looked at each other across the table, and burst into laughter, cackling at our youngest sister's inability to speak to a man with a medical degree.