Chapter 8
LENI – This Morning
I’m behind the wheel, driving away from the house, hands clenched so tight on the steering wheel that my knuckles are screaming.
To anyone watching, it looks like I’m headed to a yoga retreat, the one Michael got me as a “peace offering” months ago.
A subtle way of telling me to get my shit together without saying the words.
But I’m not going to a retreat. I’m going to war.
First stop: the headquarters of Marx Corporation.
I’m going to walk in, look the CEO in the eye, and sign my goddamn exit papers.
With grace. With finality. Then I’m filing an official complaint against Leonard.
For every belittling comment, every backhanded compliment, every meeting where he gave Chris the credit for my work and called it “team effort.” For pushing me down, again and again.
I’m done letting people shove me into corners and calling it opportunity.
Last night changed everything.
It started in that bar, the one I used to work at when I was clawing my way through law school. I sat at the counter, drowning in memories and regret, and that’s where I met Hans.
Older. Wiser. Tired-looking. He saw right through me. Offered me something no one had in a long time: a plan.
FLASHBACK - CHUCKY’S, LAST NIGHT
"Go home," Hans said, sliding me another water I didn’t ask for. "Pack a bag and leave. Tell your husband you’re going to a spa, or a solo trip- somewhere he’ll believe. But don’t go there. Stay out of sight for the day. Book a hotel, park somewhere off-grid. Just be gone."
I sipped, staring into my glass. "I’ll just go to my best friend’s."
"Is this best friend a woman?"
"Yeah... "
He shook his head. "Don’t. Don’t tell anyone. Not your friends. Not your parents. Not your therapist."
I raised an eyebrow. "You don’t want me to talk to my therapist?"
He looked at me dead in the eyes. "Trust me."
And maybe I shouldn’t. But in this moment, I do.
"Fine," I said, more to the universe than to him.
"Do you have any way to track him?" he asked casually, like we were discussing fantasy football and not my marriage imploding.
"I have an Air Tag," I said, and he blinked.
"Seriously?"
I rolled my eyes. "I travel a lot. I put one in my luggage. My clothes are expensive, okay?"
He raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, rich girl. Then use it. Hide it in his car. Track him to know whether he leaves the house or not. When he gets home in the evening, wait an hour. Then go back."
"And if he’s alone?" I asked.
"Tell him you weren’t feeling well. Needed to be home."
"And if he’s not alone?"
Hans shrugged. "Then you’ll know for sure."
So here I am, morning light spilling through my windshield like a truth I’m not ready to face. The Air Tag is already in the back pocket of the passenger seat in Michael’s car, dropped it in last night when I came home.
The underground parking lot of Marx Corp HQ is exactly what I expected: sterile, dimly lit, and smelling faintly of oil and ambition. I park like I’ve done this before, like I belong here, even though I’ve never stepped foot in this building until today.
Five years. Five years of busting my ass, jumping through hoops, walking the tightrope between too ambitious and not ambitious enough. All for it to come to this. Not because of performance. Not because of cuts. But because Leonard couldn’t handle a smart woman not laughing at his lazy jokes.
I slam the door shut harder than I need to. Punch the elevator button like it owes me money.
My reflection in the elevator’s mirrored doors stares back at me.
Slacks. White blouse tucked in neatly. Hair pulled back.
If Michael had even half a functioning brain cell, he might’ve asked why I was wearing business attire to a yoga retreat.
But he didn’t. Probably too busy wondering how fast he could text her once I was gone .
The elevator dings. A man in a tailored navy suit steps in, late 20s, tall, effortlessly handsome in a quiet, self-assured way that doesn’t need announcing.
He’s got light stubble that looks deliberate, not lazy, and an expensive watch that gleams just enough to say I’m important without screaming it.
Broad shoulders, clean cologne, the kind of presence that makes you straighten your spine without realizing it.
He swipes a sleek black keycard and the panel lights up, Executive Floor. Of course.
I’m still fuming silently, arms crossed, jaw tight.
He glances at me. “You, okay?”
I grit out, “I’m fine.”
He looks away for a beat, then back at me. “You don’t look fine.”
And there it is. The thing. The goddamn thing that always gets said. Smile more. You, okay? You don’t look fine. Like women owe the world a palatable face while it crushes them.
I snap. “Why does that matter? Would it make you more comfortable if I smiled through the shit I’m dealing with? You want me to pretend I’m not furious, not exhausted, not two inches from a full mental detonation, just so you can have a peaceful elevator ride?”
He raises his hands, startled, a hint of amusement tugging at his mouth. “Okay. Sorry. ”
The doors ding again. We’ve arrived. I step out first.
“Whatever it is,” he calls out as I walk away, “I hope you destroy it.”
I don’t look back. But I do smile, just a little.
I head straight for the corner office, adrenaline buzzing like I just chugged a triple espresso. I barely make it ten feet before a woman in a perfectly tailored pencil skirt and an air of ‘I run this floor’ intercepts me with a tight-lipped smile.
“Can I help you?” she asks, all cool professionalism.
“Yes,” I say, lying so smoothly I almost believe myself. “I have a meeting with the CEO.”
She glances up, doesn’t even pretend to check the screen. “No, you don’t.”
I exhale hard through my nose. “Fine. Look, I’m here to quit. From a job I’ve held for five years under a pompous, sexist jackass who shouldn’t be allowed near a stapler, let alone staff. So… can you just squeeze me in?”
She looks me up and down like she’s assessing if I’m a threat or just a nuisance. Then her eyes flick over my shoulder. “Sure,” she says with a sugary smile. “Take a seat. I’ll call you.”
Right. I doubt she will. But I still walk over to the disturbingly expensive-looking waiting area. Even the light bulbs look designer. I sit on a leather armchair that probably costs more than my car and sip the cucumber-mint water she “graciously” hands me.
A few minutes later, the same woman walks in. “You can go in now.”
I blink. Huh.
I push open the mahogany door and step inside. An older gentleman in a classic grey suit sits behind a desk that screams old money. He stands when he sees me, extending a hand.
“Hello, Miss Scott,” he says warmly. “I’m Leonard Marx.”
I pause. “Leonard?”
“Yes,” he says, calm, composed, every inch the CEO. “That’s my name.”
I force a smile, suddenly all too aware that I’m way out of my pay grade. “And what a… wonderful name it is.”
Then another voice cuts through the air, smooth and vaguely amused. “We think so.”
I turn, startled.
It’s him, the guy from the elevator. Elevator Suit.
He’s standing now, unfolding from the sofa like a scene out of a goddamn prestige drama, standing up to…
wh atever his height is, definitely taller than Mike.
I didn’t even see him there before, tucked away to the left, hidden behind a floor-to-ceiling bookcase and far too much charisma.
Oh god. Who the hell is he?
He walks over like he owns the air around him. Tall, tailored, charming in that “I-vacation-on-a-yacht-but-read-real-books-too” way. Of course he’s attractive. Of course, he has that smug little smile like he knows something I don’t.
“This is my son,” Leonard Marx says, gesturing toward him like he’s unveiling a car at an auto show. “Caden Marx. He’s the new CEO.”
Excuse me?
I glance between them. “I thought you were the CEO.”
Leonard shrugs. “I am, till 6 p.m. tonight.” Caden gives me a little two-finger salute. “Surprise.”
“What are you, twenty?” I blurt. “I’m twenty-nine.” “You don’t look twenty-nine.” “That feels like an insult.” “It is.”
Leonard chuckles like we’re all just having a pleasant time. “Miss Scott, please, sit. We were hoping to speak with you, actually. ”
“You were?” I say, sitting slowly, like the chair might attack.
“Yes,” Caden says. “I read your entire file last night.”
I blink. “You what?”
“Top of your class. Internship at Wilkins & Rowe. Five years at Marx Media, glowing internal reviews. Except for the part where the last president described you as ‘intimidatingly competent and possibly telekinetic.’”
I narrow my eyes. “That’s not a real quote.”
“It is,” Leonard confirms. “I remember it fondly.”
“What do you want from me?”
Leonard leans forward, fingers steepled. “To help us clean up the mess we’ve let fester. Leonard, the other Leonard, your former supervisor, was a disaster we failed to notice until recently. That’s on us. We want to make it right.”
I’m confused, “How do you know?”
“He called yesterday to tell us how you screwed up,” Leanard holds up a hand when I go to interject, “Right after, Mr Wuan called as well. Told us the monumental fuck-up our President was and how I might want to fix that if we wish to keep his business. Not in these words, obviously.”
Caden jumps in. “And that’s where you come in.”
I blink again. “Me? ”
“Yes, you,” he says. “Come work here. HQ. Help me fix this place. Foster an actual fair work environment. Burn the old boys’ club to the ground with me. Help me fire these retards, legally.”
I blink harder. “You want me to help you overthrow the patriarchy from within?”
Caden grins. “Exactly. Think of it as a hostile corporate takeover, but ethical.”
Leonard adds, “With dental.”
I lean back. “This is a lot.”
“You’d report directly to me,” Caden says, too casually. “As my legal advisor. Help me untangle the knots, push for new hiring policies, and maybe stop me from saying dumb things in meetings.”
I narrow my eyes. “You mean like ‘Surprise, I’m your new boss’?”
“Exactly,” he says. “See? Already doing the job.”
I stare at both of them. “Let me get this straight. I came here to file a complaint and quit. And now you’re offering me a promotion?”
Leonard nods. “With a raise.”
Caden shrugs. “And a coffee machine that doesn’t taste like burnt mud.”
I purse my lips. “Do I get an assistant? ”
Caden smirks. “Only if you don’t fire them in the first week.”
I cross my arms. “Give me twenty-four hours.”
“Take twenty-five,” Caden says.
Leonard pats the desk, beaming like he just solved feminism. “Wonderful. We’ll see you Monday.”
I leave the office confused and muttering, “What the hell just happened? ”