Chapter 8
Idon’t know what quickens my pulse more: the hot coal of resentment burning in my chest over a man who claimed my work as his own—even if it was to help his family—or the sick, twisted part of me that wants to see his face flicker with jealousy when he notices I’m talking to another man.
Jake strides past us like we’re air, his suit crisp and fitted across his shoulders in all the right places, his gaze pinned straight ahead with deliberate indifference.
And then the scent hits me, familiar in the worst way, unwanted and instant.
Armani Code. My stomach flips, traitorous, sixteen again, waiting by the door for him to pick me up for our first real date.
I used to love that cologne on him. Correction: I used to love breathing it in off his neck while we slow-danced at summer concerts in the park, swaying under warm lights and pretending there was no worry in the world.
Mainly to keep myself from spiraling, I give my brain a mental slap.
What am I even doing? The cologne should not matter.
The shoulders should not matter. The only emotion I’m allowed to feel toward Jake is a lifelong, ironclad commitment to loathing him until the sun burns out or hell freezes over, whichever decides to come first.
I want to confront him about the RainSafe campaign, demand answers for why my name vanished from my own creation, but Lance is watching me with those attentive eyes, and making a scene is not on today’s agenda.
Just before he disappears down the next flight, Jake’s eyes flick toward Lance, a microsecond of assessment so quick most people would miss it. His jaw tightens, barely there, almost imperceptible, but I see it, nonetheless.
Once we’re alone, Lance lets out a low whistle. “I’m guessing that’s the ex.”
“Unfortunately,” I mutter, already turning to bolt up the stairs, running from all the feelings I swore I’d buried four years ago.
***
The elevator doors chime open, and I poke my head out like I’m testing for danger, eyes sweeping the hallway.
Late on day two, because apparently, I collect workplace disasters the way other people collect refrigerator magnets.
If I stay silent, if I move fast, maybe they won’t notice I’m late.
Maybe I can make it to my desk before anyone looks up.
The coast is clear. No Jake in sight. My shoulders loosen up a little. After yesterday’s coffee disaster, I’d rather wrestle an alligator than be anywhere near Jake in this building.
I tiptoe through the sleek corridors of Lanter Bridge, stilettos clutched in one hand while my stocking-covered feet glide silently across the polished floor. No need to alert anyone to my presence just yet.
The office sits eerily empty, computer screens glowing and abandoned. No clicking keyboards, no ringing phones, no hushed conversations about weekend plans. Has everyone vanished? Been abducted? Joined a sudden flash mob in the parking lot?
Keeping my head down and my presence small, I scurry toward my desk, but as I round the corner, voices drift toward me. I freeze mid-step.
Through the half-open door to my left, Amanda’s pristine bob catches the fluorescent light as she leans in toward Tim, the second man who’d been there during my interview.
My breath catches. I shouldn’t listen. I should walk away, clear my throat, make some awkward noise, announce myself like a decent person. Instead, I flatten my back to the wall and try to become part of the décor, blending in with the expensive office art while I strain to catch their words.
“We just need to make sure he doesn’t get the promotion,” Amanda mutters, her voice tight with something that sounds dangerously like desperation.
Promotion? The word sparks in my brain like a struck match, curiosity flaring before I can smother it.
I’m still learning the office hierarchy, still sorting faces and titles and who outranks whom, but the tension between them is unmistakable.
I find myself wondering, all too eagerly, whose promotion is on the line.
“Relax. I’ve got it covered,” Tim replies in an equally hushed tone.
“Just don’t screw up,” Amanda says. “This has to work.”
My arms shift, nerves making me clumsy, and my elbow clips a framed award on the wall.
Instinct takes over. I lunge for it, arms flailing, scrambling to catch it before it falls and announces me to the entire floor.
The frame slides an inch, scraping against the wall with a sound that might as well be a gunshot in the hush of the hallway.
“Did you hear that?” Tim’s voice drops to a suspicious whisper.
Panic explodes in my chest like fireworks. My career flashes before my eyes—started on Monday, caught spying on Tuesday, unemployed by Wednesday. A Guinness world record.
“Sarah?”
I nearly leap out of my skin, whirling to my right, and there he is, just feet away—Jake holding two coffee cups like he belongs in every corner of my life. He looks unfairly put-together in his suit, as if he didn’t spend last night haunting my thoughts. His eyebrows lift, slow and pointed.
Adjusting the frame with what I hope resembles casualness rather than guilt, I paste on a smile. “Oh, nothing. Just...fixing this frame. It was crooked.”
To make matters worse, Tim and Amanda step out of the room. Their gazes sweep over me as they pass, cool and assessing, and I don’t need a handbook to translate it. I’m on their hit list. Before they head toward the elevators, Amanda pauses just long enough to tell Jake she’ll see him upstairs.
Jake gives a nod, and his mouth twitches, dimples threatening as he steps closer. He holds out one of the coffee cups to me. “Cream and sugar,” he says softly. “Just the way you like it.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Heat flares across my cheeks as I take the cup, my gaze dropping to the floor tiles.
Nothing says professional quite like an ex remembering your coffee order after yesterday’s spectacular humiliation.
“How’s your—“ I start, then falter, the word I’m avoiding sitting heavy on my tongue.
“My lap?” Jake grins wide, those dimples I once traced with my fingertips making their unwelcome comeback. “Slight redness, but I’ll survive.”
I cringe so hard I wish my soul would leave my body to spare me the embarrassment.
“Sorry about that,” I mumble, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.
“Don’t worry. At least it wasn’t hot enough to cause permanent damage.”
My gaze drops to my socks, and I study them with the intensity of a scientist discovering a new species. “Glad to hear it,” I say. Please, universe. I beg for salvation in any form. A bomb threat. A fire drill. A sudden evacuation. Anything to get me the heck out of here.
He gestures down the hall, utterly unfazed by my mortification, like I’m not standing here quietly combusting. “We’ve got a big meeting on the top floor,” he says. “Judy called everyone in. It’s the important one.”
“Important how?”
“You’ll see,” he says. “Come on. Everyone’s already on the top floor.” Then he turns and walks away, leaving me staring after him with confusion lodged in my throat and far too many unresolved feelings crawling under my skin.
I glance at the coffee in my hand and pop the lid. Inside, the foam has been doctored into a little message: Spill-proof, and beside it, a cheeky wink emoji. I stare at it, heat creeping up my neck. I have no one to blame but myself for this one.
Moments later, I step onto the top floor, and my breath catches at the wealth pressed into every surface.
Marble floors gleam beneath soft, recessed lighting, each polished square throwing my uncertain face back at me in clear reflections.
Original artwork lines the wide hallway on both sides.
One of these paintings probably costs more than my entire college education.
I chug the rest of the coffee and drop the cup into a brushed-steel trash bin, the hollow thunk echoing up from the bottom. No way am I risking repeat performance. Not here. Not on the floor where Judy herself resides.
The door is already open, and the room beyond is all shine and scale.
A glossy mahogany table stretches nearly the full length, flanked by plush leather chairs that practically purr luxury.
Floor-to-ceiling windows frame the Ouachita Mountains in the distance while the other walls glow with screens cycling through company logos and campaign slogans.
I recognize them. I studied them in school, memorized them, admired them, never imagining I’d be standing here on the edge of the room they belong to.
Wendy spots me from the far end and waves frantically, her bright smile a lighthouse beam in this sea of intimidation.
“I saved you a seat,” she calls, patting the empty chair beside her.
“Thanks,” I say and slide into the chair next to her.
The pre-meeting chatter hums along until Judy Hawthorne strides in and every voice dies mid-syllable.
She doesn’t ask for attention. She simply takes it.
Emerald-green fabric swallows the light, extravagant and bold, puffed sleeves billowing off her shoulders like decorative parachutes, and atop her silver hair sits a feathered hat crowned with three peacock plumes curling over one ear.
She looks like she stepped off the set of a period drama and wandered straight into our modern conference room without bothering to change.
“Thank you for joining me this morning,” Judy begins, her voice smooth and commanding. “I’m thrilled to announce that we’ve secured a major client,” she continues. “Beatrice Castellano, the founder and CEO of étoile Perfumes.”
My heart skips. étoile is the Hermès of perfumes, a luxury giant whose billboards loom over Times Square and whose ads gleam from the glossy pages of Vogue. Working with them isn’t just exciting, it’s career-defining, the sort of opportunity that doesn’t just open doors, it builds them.