Chapter 6
After a weekend of stress-eating chocolate-covered pretzels, practicing professional smiles in my bathroom mirror, and mentally drafting twenty different ways to say “good morning” without sounding like I still remember what Jake’s face looks like when he sleeps, Monday morning arrives with the delicacy of a sledgehammer to my chest, and with it comes the day I’ve been both dreading and bracing for, anticipating and resenting, ever since I accepted the offer.
Orientation. My first official day at Lantern Bridge. I’ll meet my new coworkers, learn the lay of the land, find my desk, pretend I’m not vibrating out of my skin.
And then I’ll face my ultimate challenge.
My new supervisor.
“Yay,” I mutter with all the enthusiasm of someone scheduled for a root canal.
I smooth down my cream silk blouse for what has to be the thirteenth time this morning, like the fabric can absorb my panic if I press hard enough. “Okay, Sarah. You’ve got this.”
Claire was right. I’ve worked too hard for this dream to let anything, or anyone, ruin it. Even if that anyone happens to be six-foot-one of heartbreak wrapped in an unfairly well-fitted suit.
When I open the door, I pause, eyes on the hallway. To my relief, the bike and that hideous sofa is gone.
Maybe my neighbor isn’t a complete disaster after all. With a small, satisfied nod, I lock the door and step out, determined not to let anything rattle me today.
Fifteen minutes later, my messenger bag slung over one shoulder, I step into the elevator, my nerves simmering beneath my skin like water on the verge of boiling over. The metal box shudders, then lurches upward, and with each passing floor my stomach tightens, my pulse ticking faster.
Closer and closer to what could either be the greatest opportunity of my career, or the most exquisite form of emotional torture ever devised.
The tenth floor opens onto a bright, modern hallway that feels more like a showroom than an office.
Gleaming hardwood stretches beneath my heels, flanked by pristine white walls lined with the agency’s greatest hits.
Soft recessed lighting spills down in careful pools, illuminating each framed campaign like an art piece in a gallery, curated and polished and meant to impress.
And it does.
I walk the length of the corridor, letting my gaze skim over the visual timeline of Lantern Bridge’s achievements like I’m paging through a history book I never thought I’d get to touch.
Award-winning billboards for national chains.
Magazine spreads that helped redefine beauty advertising.
Television storyboards for commercials everyone can quote by heart.
This place doesn’t just sell ideas. It makes them unforgettable.
My heart nearly stops when I see the next one.
There, perfectly lit and professionally framed, is the campaign I created for Jake’s uncle’s RainSafe Backpack, the one I poured myself into that summer after high school graduation.
The tagline I spent three sleepless nights perfecting.
The color scheme I fought for when Mr. Matthews insisted on “something more masculine.”
My work. On this wall. In this place.
And next to it, there is a small plaque with Jake’s name as the creative lead.
My lungs constrict, like invisible fingers are wrapping around them and squeezing. That—that louse! A new level of low, even for him. He didn’t just break my heart. He took my work, too.
The work I’d been proud of. In those late nights and stubborn drafts, that work became more than a project. It became proof: I wasn’t just playing at marketing. I could build a future with it, brick by brick, idea by idea.
On the wall it hangs, framed and polished and paraded beneath the light like a trophy that never belonged to me, like the sleepless nights, the scraped-down grit, the stubborn vision were always meant to be swallowed whole and repackaged as someone else’s triumph.
Though my knees threaten to fold with every step, I force myself forward anyway, as if my body has decided to stage its rebellion in silence, one tremor at a time.
By sheer will, I make it to the end of the hallway, where imposing wooden doors rise to the ceiling, the Lantern Bridge logo etched into the surface like a seal.
A small cluster of people hovers there, talking amongst themselves. And then I see her, the woman in vibrant red glasses, lifting a hand in greeting, her smile wide and real, like she’s been waiting for me and is glad I finally arrived.
“Hey! It’s you from the interview!” she calls out, bouncing slightly on her toes.
“Yeah, hi!” I manage to return her smile, extending my hand while trying to push thoughts of Jake’s betrayal to the back of my mind. “Sarah.”
“Wendy,” she says, shaking my hand with an enthusiasm that’s almost contagious. “You ready for this? I can’t believe we’re actually here.”
“I know, right?” I say, scanning the area like I’m checking for threats. No Jake. A small mercy. For him.
If I’d spotted him, I might have done something reckless, something satisfying, and called him out for what he is, an idea-thieving, credit-stealing, heart-breaking jerk who somehow keeps walking away clean.
“I was so nervous during the interview,” Wendy confesses, nudging her red glasses higher on the bridge of her small nose. “They asked me, like, a million questions.” The laugh that follows is light but unsteady, as if the nerves are still in there, bouncing around her ribs, refusing to settle.
“All right, everyone,” a sharp voice quiets the chatter, “let’s get started.”
Out of the wooden doors steps a tall brunette, her hair the straightest I’d ever seen. The red dress clings to her like skin, tight at the knees, forcing her stride into a careful glide, her legs brushing together with each step
“I’m Amanda Morgan,” she says. “I’ll be walking you through orientation today. Follow me, please.”
Her smile is polite, yes, but it’s too smooth, too practiced, like something lifted straight from a corporate handbook and sharpened into place in front of a mirror. A woman who probably schedules her spontaneity and has her entire life mapped down to the minute, neat as a spreadsheet.
We trail after her as she marches us through the office, gesturing at departments and cubicles and glass-walled conference rooms with the flat, dutiful enthusiasm of a tour guide who’s recited the same script a thousand times and no longer has the energy to pretend any of it is exciting.
The place is sleek and bustling, humming with motion and purpose, packed with people who look like they’ve found their calling, or at least nailed the art of pretending they have. They move with easy confidence, unbothered, undistracted, like nothing in the world could knock them off course.
I want to be like that.
With the cafeteria in view, Amanda halts and indicates the coffee station with a casual flick, like she’s granting permission rather than making a suggestion. “Grab a cup if you’d like,” she says. “We’ll head to the conference room next.”
Wendy and I trade a look and make a beeline for the coffee station like it’s rations on the last day of winter. I pour myself a cup, and the warm, rich aroma rises in a curl of comfort, brushing my face, stealing one precious second from the anxiety that’s been tightening in my stomach like a knot.
This might get me through the day. Or at least the next hour.
Once we’re sufficiently caffeinated, Amanda shepherds us into a conference room ruled by a long, glossy table, its surface catching the overhead lights with such perfect clarity it looks like a still lake on a cloudless day.
We take our seats, and I force myself to anchor in the moment. I’m here. I’m actually here, sitting at a glossy conference table inside one of the most respected marketing firms in the country.
This is my dream.
But it starts to feel more like a nightmare the second Amanda speaks again.
“Let me introduce you to your supervisor.” She says it like she has zero interest in her current task. “Jake Matthews.”
Nausea slams into my stomach fast, and my hand freezes halfway to my coffee cup.
Walking in with that composed, professional ease, calm and collected, wearing confidence as if it’s stitched into his suit, as if he didn’t leave me heartbroken years ago and walk away clean, Jake hovers over us.
His dark hair is shorter than the last time I saw him.
His gaze sweeps the room, and when it lands on me, his eyes widen, just for a heartbeat, before his expression goes stoic.
I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this. Maybe I should’ve thought twice before accepting Judy’s offer.
I take a sip of my coffee, determined to look normal, but my body decides to stage its own revolt.
My throat catches. I choke. Coffee goes the wrong way and I’m coughing and sputtering, eyes watering, while Wendy pats my back with the brisk, concerned efficiency of someone who’s had first aid training and is not about to let me die of embarrassment on day one.
“You okay?” she whispers.
I nod and wave Wendy off as I drag air back into my lungs, blinking hard until my eyes are dry again. Around the table, faces turn toward me, disapproval pinched into their expressions, like I’ve just knocked over a stack of books in a library and refused to apologize.
Great. The last thing I want is to draw unnecessary attention to myself on day one. Choking to death in front of my idea-stealing, emotionally constipated ex-boyfriend isn’t exactly the professional first impression I was hoping to make.
Jake launches into the company’s history, voice smooth and practiced, but his words wash over me without sticking. My thoughts keep circling everything that’s happened since I moved back and makes it impossible to latch onto anything he’s saying.
My ex-boyfriend is my boss. How am I supposed to survive working under someone who didn’t just shatter my heart, but had the nerve, the audacity, to take my work and call it his own?