5. Serena
Serena
C onference room three is all glass walls and polished mahogany, the morning sun cutting sharp lines across the massive table.
I arrive ten minutes early with a box of warm snickerdoodles and two cups from Bloom & Brew.
Setting everything out feels like preparing for battle, each item a peace offering or a shield, depending on how this goes.
"Let's start with the timeline," he says, reaching for a snickerdoodle. "Eighteen months of development, you said?"
"Yes." I pull up the project folders, grateful for something concrete to focus on. "Complete market research, focus groups, clinical trials. Everything was locked down."
He leans forward to see my screen better, close enough that I catch his cologne—something clean and expensive that immediately sends me back and makes my skin prickle like his hands are resting there.
Focus, Serena.
"When did Radiance launch exactly?"
"Monday morning, 10 AM. With our tagline, our color palette, even Maya's cellular visualization." My voice catches on her name. "It's identical, Caleb. Like they had our entire playbook."
"Because someone gave it to them." His fingers drum against the table in a rhythm that's oddly hypnotic. "Walk me through the access levels."
I turn my laptop toward him, our fingers brushing as he adjusts the angle. The contact sends electricity shooting up my arm, but he doesn't seem to notice. Or maybe he's better at pretending than I am.
"Core team is five people," I begin, forcing myself to focus. "Me as creative director, Maya Bolton my protégé, James Washington our senior designer, Lisa Park from accounts, and Brittany Adams, our coordinator."
"Digital access?"
"I had admin access to everything. Maya and James could view and edit creative files. Lisa handled budgets and media planning. Brittany mostly scheduling and coordination."
He takes notes in that precise handwriting of his and I find myself tracking the movement of his wrist, the way he spins the pen—precise, economical, confident. I force myself to look away. "Tell me about the Radiance recruitment attempts."
I quickly navigate to another folder. "Started eight months ago. Victoria Chase reached out personally through LinkedIn."
"Eight months." Something shifts in his voice. "Before the gala."
Heat creeps up my neck. We both know what happened after the gala. Or rather, what didn't happen.
"Yes," I manage. "Started casual—'love your work' type messages. Then lunch invitations. Then formal offers."
I show him the email progression, watching his eyes darken as he reads through them.
"Triple salary by the end," he notes. "That's aggressive, even for a rival company."
"I never responded to anything beyond polite refusals in the beginning. Everything else went straight to HR, then ignored." The words come out defensive. "I swear, Caleb, I never even considered?—"
"I know." The simple statement hits something deep in my chest. "But from Luminous's perspective, the fact you didn't delete them could look like consideration."
"Or leverage for negotiation," I admit.
"Exactly." He leans back, loosening his tie slightly. The gesture shouldn't affect me, but my body has other ideas. "Show me the access logs that started this mess."
This is the part I've been dreading. I pull up the IT report, the one that makes me look guilty as hell. "These are the files that were accessed in the weeks before the leak."
He studies the screen, his dark eyes scanning the data. "Your login credentials are all over this."
"I know how it looks."
"It looks like you downloaded the entire campaign and handed it over." His voice is matter-of-fact, not accusatory. "But you didn't."
"How can you be so sure?"
He glances up from the screen, and for a moment his professional mask slips. "Because I know you, Serena. You're not capable of betraying people you care about."
The words hang between us, loaded with meaning. I clear my throat, trying to ignore the way my heart is racing.
"Someone used my credentials," I say. "The question is who."
"And how they got them." He leans back in his chair, thinking. "Password sharing? Shoulder surfing? Or someone with admin access who could create duplicate logins?"
"Maya had my passwords," I admit. "I gave them to her last month when I was at that conference in Boston. But it wasn't her."
"Maya is your protégé?"
I nod. "She would never do this to me. We're close—I've been mentoring her for three years. She knows how much this campaign means to me, to the whole team." I shake my head firmly. "Maya's ambitious, but she's not the type to steal. She's worked too hard. And she loves Luminous."
Caleb watches me carefully. "Who else had your passwords?"
"No one. Just Maya, and only because I trusted her completely." The words feel hollow even as I say them. "She's like a little sister to me."
"People we trust can surprise us," he says gently.
"It wasn't her, Caleb."
He studies me for a beat longer, then nods. "Let's get her access logs anyway. Trust but verify. It'll help us rule her out and narrow the field."
He's right, of course. The fact that I want to argue is probably proof of my own guilt—not the criminal kind, but the other kind. The kind that comes with suspecting people you care about.
"So, how do we actually prove any of this?" I ask, trying to focus. "If it looks like I did it, if it actually was my password?—"
"We start with the digital forensics. You know Logan. He specializes in this—he can analyze the server data and cross-reference it with building entry logs. If your credentials were used when you weren't in the building, we'll have our smoking gun."
He glances up at me. "If they press formal charges, I'll need to subpoena everything officially. But right now, we're just gathering ammunition for Friday’s meeting."
He smiles, calm and reassuring. "I'll have Logan run analysis tonight. Meanwhile, you need to prep for the interview. They'll try to rattle you. Don't let them see weakness."
"Is that legal jargon?"
"It's basic cross-examination tactics. Answer only what's asked, nothing more. No explanations. No editorializing." He points at me with his pen. "And if you get flustered, just look at me and I'll handle it."
"Is that how you win all your cases?"
He shrugs. "Most people crack under pressure. If you don't, they won't know what to do with you."
I sip my coffee, needing the caffeine. "I need to know where this is heading. Is the company really expecting me to just roll over?"
"That's exactly what they expect," Caleb says. "It's easier for them if you leave quietly with an NDA than if you fight and expose their security failures."
"If I take a deal, I'll never work in marketing again."
"Which is why we won't let that happen." His confidence is infectious. "We poke holes in their case, gain leverage, then either negotiate your return with a full apology or you walk away cleared with a payout that reflects your actual value."
He smiles, sly and self-assured. "This is chess, Serena, not checkers."
"But what if we're playing snakes and ladders?" I ask, voicing my worst fear. "What if Friday goes badly and they press charges?"
"Then we go to court and we win." His voice is firm. "Discovery, depositions, the full process. Could take months, maybe a year."
"And the costs?—"
"Is something we can worry about later." He glances at his watch and starts gathering his papers. "I need to wrap this up. I have a call with the West Coast in ten minutes."
The abrupt shift catches me off guard. One moment we're deep in strategy, the next he's dismissing me like any other client.
"Wait," I say, suddenly feeling desperate. "Stop putting off talking to me about your fee. What do I owe you for today? And yesterday for that matter. What's your hourly rate?"
He pauses in the doorway, turning back to look at me. When he speaks, his voice has changed. Lower. More personal.
"We'll discuss my fees over dinner. Tonight. I'll pick you up at eight."
I stare, dumbfounded. "D-dinner?"
He doesn't answer, just flashes that irresistible half-smile and is gone before the conference room door closes behind him.
For one panic-drenched minute, I'm certain I misheard. Dinner? Like a date? Or dinner as in ‘I’m too busy to continue this conversation, so you’ll have to talk to me while I eat’?
My brain, wired on sugar and anxiety, immediately envisions both: one involves PDFs and depositions, the other involves me in a little black dress, sweating through my most powerful antiperspirant while I try to chew food in front of someone whose face could sell aftershave.
My mother's voice immediately slices through my brain, "Men like him don't actually date women like you, sweetheart. They might fuck you in private, but a relationship? Please."
I push away from the table. I can't do this. I couldn't do it six months ago. And I certainly can't do it now.
Collecting myself, I dump the last of the snickerdoodles in the trash and sweep up my things.
The mirrored elevator walls throw my reflection back at me—navy sheath dress, too-bright lipstick, impossibly high cheekbones courtesy of the contouring regimen I perfected for press launches.
Add in the anxious overachiever edge and you have the devastatingly accurate picture of a woman about to spiral.
When the doors slide open, I don’t even register the lobby or the lines of glass offices beyond. I beeline for the parking garage, my heels slapping a frantic elegy for my sense of calm. By the time I make it to my car, my hands are shaking so badly I can barely press the ignition button.
Dinner?
I press my forehead to the steering wheel and force myself to breathe. Dinner is not a date. Or maybe it is. Or maybe it’s revenge. Maybe it’s?—
My phone buzzes with a text.
Audrey:
Tell me everything. Did he make you sign your soul away? Do you still think he's hot or did six months avoiding the guy fix your lusty thoughts?
A smile tugs at my mouth as I type back.
Me:
Still hot. More dangerous than ever.
Audrey:
Oh? Did he make you sign anything? If he did, I hope you read it. There are sex contracts, you know. Remember that scene in Fifty Shades…
I laugh, shaking my head at how her mind works.
Me:
No date contract, but he did say we'd discuss his fees over dinner. Tonight. At eight.
Audrey:
SERENA. This is either the best or worst thing that’s ever happened to you—no in-between.
Me:
I KNOW. I am spiraling.
Audrey:
You realize you have to show up this time? No overthinking and bailing.
She's already typing again before the first bubble clears.
Audrey:
I cannot survive another night of you drowning in pajamas, wine and regret.
Also, wear the black dress. You know the one.
I do know the one. The thought alone triggers fresh nerves.
Me:
I can't wear THAT. What if he thinks it's a come-on? What if it IS a come-on?
Audrey:
Of course it’s a come on! But even if hooking up is off the table, you should look hot enough to make him forgive you for ghosting him.
Me:
Are you coming to my place to stage-manage this or just texting from afar?
Audrey:
Can I trust you to answer the door if I don’t?
Don’t answer that. I’ll be there.
As soon as I'm done at work. With hair spray, backup tights, and bourbon!
She's as good as her word. By 7:15, my apartment looks like a fashion disaster site. My bathroom counter is covered with every makeup product I own, and Audrey is standing in my bedroom doorway holding a curling iron like a weapon.
"You're overthinking," she says. "It's dinner. With a man who already knows you stress-bake and quote Taylor Swift lyrics to sound philosophical. The mystery is gone."
"That's what I'm afraid of," I mumble through a mouthful of bobby pins as I try to get my hair to cooperate.
"Six months ago, we had this amazing back and forth—the banter was supreme.
And then I just... disappeared. Only to reappear as the desperate client who needs his help.
What if he secretly hates me and just wants payback? "
"He doesn't hate you." Audrey's voice is gentle as she tugs a section of my hair around the scalding iron. "Honestly? I don’t think he’s stopped thinking about you. Men like that don't waste their time on things they don't want."
I make a face. "Is that supposed to be comforting?"
She laughs, putting down the iron and standing behind me in the mirror, eyeing my reflection critically. "Bennett said he pushed a big client to see you yesterday. That's not nothing."
The black dress hangs on my closet door like a taunt. It's beautiful—simple, classic, fits like it was made for me. But it also shows everything I usually hide. My curves, my shape, the body I've spent years trying to camouflage.
"I really don't think I should wear that," I say for the tenth time. “I don’t want to give him the wrong impression.”
"I’m about to shake you, Serena." Audrey's voice is curt in the way only a well-meaning friend can summon. "You like Caleb. Caleb likes you. You’ve both just spent six months avoiding each other and now you need him. The universe is communicating loud and clear—wear the goddamn dress."
"What if he?—"
"What if he thinks you're gorgeous? What if he's been thinking about you for six months?
What if this is your second chance and you're about to blow it by dressing like my nonna at a wake?
" She eyes me critically, then gives my hair a final fluff.
"There. You look like you're about to close a billion-dollar deal and then seduce the opposing counsel. "
I don't know whether to laugh or throw up. "I don't even know what to talk about with him."
"Talk about your case. Talk about what you've been doing. Or, and this is wild, talk about how he makes you feel." Audrey hands me a glass of bourbon. "There's nothing less attractive than pretending you don't care. Just be honest."
I picture myself being honest: Hey Caleb, you terrify me because you're sharp and funny and you see through all my masks. Also, I have an unhealthy relationship with work and a pathological need to control everything, which is probably why I'm currently being framed for corporate espionage...
I laugh—almost cry—then do my mascara. "Fine. If he wants vulnerable, I'll try."
"Try is all anyone can ask." She hands me my purse and steers me toward the living room just as my doorbell rings.
I freeze. Audrey doesn't.
"Go," she says, practically shoving me toward the door. "Before you hyperventilate and ruin your makeup."
"Audrey—"
"No. No backing out, no panic attacks, no running to the bathroom to hide." She opens the door herself and pushes me through it. "You've got this, babe. Hi, Caleb!”
And then I'm standing in my hallway, facing Caleb Kingsley in his perfectly tailored suit, and all I can think is that I'm either about to have the best night of my life or vomit on both our shoes.
Possibly both.