Chapter 21
As I sit in a presentation room on the tenth floor, surrounded by Tim’s team who flutter around like bees protecting their honeycomb, one thing becomes abundantly clear: these people would sooner hand over their firstborn children than show me what they’re actually working on.
Sharpie markers squeak against the whiteboard in high-pitched as every idea is shouted out loud and written down as if they’re just beginning to brainstorm the entire campaign from scratch.
The team breaks into smaller groups, huddling over notepads and laptops with screens angled away from my line of sight.
Though I lean forward hoping to catch glimpses of actual work, their bodies form a human shield around whatever they’re truly developing.
My gut instinct tingles.
They’re putting on a show—a carefully orchestrated performance meant to keep me in the dark.
When I raise my hand to contribute, Tim acknowledges me with a tight smile, jotting down my suggestion in the corner of the board where it will likely be erased the moment I leave the room.
A different plan begins forming in my head as I watch Tim texting someone under the table.
After-hours reconnaissance.
Five o’clock finally arrives after what feels like the longest day in corporate America.
The office empties gradually—monitors switching off, farewell calls echoing through the space.
“Sarah, are you leaving?” the last of my coworkers say, hovering by my cubicle with keys already in hand.
My fingers tap casually against the keyboard as if finishing something important.
“No, I think I’ll stay a bit longer and jot down some ideas,” I reply, flashing a smile that hopefully masks my true intentions.
Once they’ve disappeared around the corner, I count to sixty before rising from my chair.
I scan the floor to confirm I’m alone before slipping down the hallway toward the conference room.
My heart thuds against my ribs like it’s trying to morse code a warning that this is a terrible idea.
I glance around once more. No witnesses. It’s Mission Impossible time.
The file cabinet in the corner beckons like a vault of secrets waiting to be discovered.
Smooth and cold, the metal handle feels forbidden under my fingertips.
My hands tremble slightly as I slide open the drawer marked “éTOILE CAMPAIGN - CONFIDENTIAL,” the metallic scrape unnervingly loud in the empty office.
Bullseye.
I pull the folder halfway out when Amanda’s voice fills the air. “What do you think you’re doing?”
Panic jolts through me like an electric current, and I slide the file back inside.
Think, Sarah. Think.
My mind scrambles for an excuse that won’t sound like the blatant corporate espionage I’m clearly engaged in.
“I want to build upon what the team already has because it seems like everyone’s spinning wheels rather than making actual progress,” I say, forcing confidence into my voice.
Her eyes land on the open file drawer, skepticism etched in every line of her face.
“Shouldn’t you be with your team helping on the project instead of lurking around here playing office detective?” I counter, crossing my arms in what I hope looks like professional indignation rather than defensive guilt.
Stone-faced and rigid, Amanda shakes her head with exaggerated disappointment.
“It’s none of your business what I do with my time,” she snaps, blocking my path to the door.
My eyes roll before I can stop them.
Typical Amanda—deflection instead of answers, invasion disguised as vigilance, her buzzing presence impossible to swat away.
“You’re snooping around, aren’t you?” she accuses.
“I am working on the campaign,” I fire back, stepping around her like she’s nothing more than an inconveniently placed office chair. “Go back to working with your team.”
Mission accomplished in at least one department—the twisted expression on her face confirms I’ve successfully gotten under her skin.
“I have some ideas for Tim,” I say with manufactured brightness, walking past her toward the elevator. “Thought I’d catch him here.”
Her indignant grunt is the last thing I hear before stepping out into the hallway, headed for the elevator.
Like some corporate ninja dressed in designer blazers, Amanda’s watchful eye tracks my every move as if I’m the threat when she’s the one with sabotage written all over smug face.
But I’m getting closer to the truth. I can feel it.
The next day, after surviving another uncomfortable brainstorming session, I decide to take Wendy up on her offer to meet at the other branch. My sanity needs this escape more than my lungs need oxygen.
I hop on the 3 o’clock bus to Pineridge, the quaint neighboring town that stands as Maplewood Springs’ slightly more sophisticated cousin with its artisan bakeries and indie bookstores dotting Main Street.
The thirty-minute ride gives me time to decompress, to untangle the knots of frustration that have been tightening around my chest all day.
I’ve made zero progress today toward uncovering Tim’s sinister plans.
When the bus hisses to a stop at the corner of Maple and Fifth, Wendy’s bright smile and enthusiastic waving catch my attention immediately. Her bubbly energy radiates across the sidewalk as she bounces on the balls of her feet.
“You made it!” she squeals, throwing her arms around me with the excitement of someone greeting a returning war hero rather than a coworker she saw three days ago.
The building that houses Lantern Bridge’s second branch towers above us in all its gleaming glass glory. Inside, the lobby bustles with afternoon activity, professionals in tailored suits hurrying to meetings or hunched over laptops in communal workspaces.
“Mocha Dream awaits,” Wendy declares, pulling me toward the ground floor café tucked in the back corner. “They have the best pastries—and that’s not even an exaggeration.”
Mocha Dream embraces us in a cloud of coffee-scented warmth the moment we push through its glass doors. Dark wooden tables nestled between plush armchairs create cozy conversation corners, while soft jazz floats from the speakers overhead.
Standing beneath the chalkboard menu, I order my mocha latte while Wendy opts for her signature iced coffee with exactly three pumps of caramel.
My eyes sweep the pastry case filled with golden croissants and cinnamon swirls that glisten under the display lights. “This place is heaven disguised as a café.”
“Told you,” Wendy says, leading me to a leather booth beside windows overlooking a small courtyard where office workers escape for fresh air. “I stopped bringing lunch weeks ago. Their avocado toast with poached eggs has ruined all other lunches for me forever.”
This place is an ideal sanctuary from Tim’s passive-aggressive leadership style and Amanda’s eagle-eyed surveillance.
Cradling my oversized mug between my palms, I inhale deeply and feel my shoulders finally drop from their permanent position near my ears. The smell of those toasted breads reminds me of Christmas baking with Claire.
After taking her first sip of iced coffee, Wendy’s eyes close in reverence. “See? Better than therapy—and cheaper too.”
“So, how’s the campaign progressing over here?” I ask, trying to sound casual while fighting the urge to demand every detail about Jake’s current emotional state.
Her eyebrows lift knowingly. “Not bad. Everyone’s pulling long hours, throwing themselves into finishing touches. It’s intense but exciting.”
“And Jake? How is he handling everything?”
“He’s been practically living at the office,” Wendy says, stirring her straw through the ice. “Most nights he’s still there when I leave, surrounded by sketches and market research.”
That explains why he’s never home. Is he even eating regularly? Getting enough sleep? Maybe I should cook his favorite lasagna.
“But we’re almost ready for the presentation,” Wendy adds.
I can’t help but root for their success. “He must be working overtime to perfect the campaign.”
Wendy nods, then seamlessly transitions to weekend plans and office gossip. We order a plate of miniature lemon tarts that disappear embarrassingly fast between our conversations. Time slips away like sand through fingers, and before I realize it, the windows have darkened with evening’s approach.
Draining the last sip of my second latte, I glance at my watch. “I should probably head back if I want to catch the bus.”
Just as we push through the café‘s glass door into the lobby, Jake strides toward us.
“He usually grabs coffee around this time,” Wendy murmurs, eyes twinkling with mischief.
My jaw drops. “Wendy, did you orchestrate—“
“Would you look at the time!” she exclaims, checking her bare wrist. “So much to do before tomorrow’s deadline!” She waves cheerfully at Jake as she scurries past him, abandoning me without a backward glance.
Jake stops directly in front of me, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes cautiously hopeful. “Want to grab something to eat?”
“I just demolished half a plate of lemon tarts with Wendy,” I admit, tucking my hair behind one ear. “Plus, it’s getting late. I don’t want to miss the last bus.”
“I can drive you,” he offers, jingling his keys. “My car’s in the garage.”
The practical side of my brain—the side that doesn’t want to wait forty minutes to arrive at home—overrules my self-preservation instincts. “That would be great, actually. Thanks.”
His midnight blue Audi gleams under the parking garage lights as we approach it. Inside, the leather seats and subtle pine scent feel intimate, like stepping into a piece of his personal world—which I now realize how much I’ve missed.
As Jake backs out of the parking space, I search for neutral conversation. “How’s the campaign coming along?”
“We’re making progress,” he says, eyes fixed on the road ahead. “I think we have a fighting chance at winning. I just—“ He hesitates. “I wish you were still with us. The whole concept was your vision.”
“It’s not your fault I got transferred,” I tell him. “And for what it’s worth, I hope you win.”
The words about Tim’s suspicious anniversary party conversation sit at the tip of my tongue, demanding to be spoken, but I swallow them back like bitter medicine.
Starting another confrontation when we’re finally having a civil moment would be like purposely steering into a ditch when the road is finally clear—especially when all I have are suspicions without a single screenshot of proof.
Sitting in Jake’s car, smelling his cologne, and looking at the way his fingers tap the steering wheel when he’s thinking stirs memories I had long suppressed.
We used to drive for hours without a destination, claiming the highways as our personal playground.
Back then, the simple act of being alone together in his car created some of our most cherished moments.
The windows would be rolled down, music blasting through his speakers while we sang until our throats were raw.
I’d perform like I was headlining Madison Square Garden, complete with dramatic hand gestures and questionable high notes.
Jake would headbang beside me as if he’d scored front-row seats at a rock concert.
We always fought over the radio station—his loyalty to classic rock clashing with my embarrassing obsession with poppy boy bands. After countless playful arguments, Jake would inevitably surrender with an exaggerated sigh and let me choose.
I crack open the window now, letting cool evening air slip inside as I reach for the radio dial.
At that exact moment, Jake’s hand moves toward the same target, our fingers colliding in the small space between us.
Instinctively, I pull my hand back as if burned.
Jake catches it before I can retreat completely, his warm fingers wrapping around mine with surprising gentleness.
The softness of his touch sends goosebumps racing up my arm and across my shoulders.
I swallow hard, trying to convince myself this is no big deal—just two ex-lovers accidentally reaching for a radio at the same time.
Warmth creeps up my neck and floods my cheeks in what I’m sure is the most attractive shade of tomato red.
After all these years, I’d forgotten how perfectly my hand fits in his, how small my fingers look intertwined with his longer ones.
From the corner of my eye, I steal a glance at his profile.
His lips curve upward slightly, and something flutters in my stomach—something I refuse to acknowledge as butterflies because I am a grown professional woman, not a teenager.
Unable to fight my own smile any longer, I surrender to this stolen moment of connection.
My gaze travels to our joined hands. “Who gave you permission to hold my hand?”
“You did,” he says, laughing softly. “A long time ago, you were quite generous with it.”
“That permission is revoked,” I reply quickly. “Effective immediately.”
“Is there a contract I should sign that explains all this in great detail?” he asks, thumb brushing over my knuckles.
“I’ll draw one up tomorrow,” I say.
“Who gave you permission to make all the rules?” He shoots me a side glance.
“You did.” I meet his eyes. “A long time ago.”
Jake grips my hand tighter. “Touché.”
We drive in blissful silence for several minutes, and I find myself wishing Pineridge was hours away instead of just across town. Two adults with history and baggage and complicated feelings, we might as well be in high school again with how firmly he holds my hand.
“Fine,” I say. “You are temporarily authorized.”
“I’ll take what I can get.”
When Jake pulls up to our apartment building, the spell breaks. He steps out and circles around to open my door. I take his offered hand as I climb out, allowing the skin contact to linger for as long as I can manage.
“Thanks for the ride,” I say.
“Anytime,” he responds as he lets go of my hand again.
His arm lifts slowly, hovering in the universal gesture that says he wants to hug me, eyes searching mine for permission.
Despite wanting nothing more than to feel his arms around me, I hesitate.
Maybe because four years of distance has weakened my boldness at physical contact.
He takes my hesitation as rejection and settles for an awkward side hug, both of us patting each other’s backs like we’re burping colicky infants.
What a bust.
He steps into his car, and I watch him drive away until his taillights disappear around the corner. Then I make my way to my apartment, where I press my back against the door and exhale slowly.
I need to uncover what Tim is planning before the presentation. I won’t let anyone hurt him.