Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
CONSTANCE
Scan. Sort. I can almost do the job on autopilot. A lot of times I do. The job is second nature to me, and I often let my mind focus on other things. Like Chance’s therapy schedule. Did I pull out something to cook for dinner? Planning my budget for the month…
I’m so lost in my head that I don’t hear the phone ringing at first. But the shrill sound pulls me from my thoughts, and I rush across the room to my desk and pick it up.
“Mailroom.” The word falls from my mouth, rushed and out of breath.
“Can I speak with Ms. Hale?”
The nasally, formal, feminine voice comes through the mailroom phone, stripped of any warmth.
My stomach immediately starts doing flips that make me queasy, and my knees shake. Without anything more being said, I know who it is and what it’s about. I can hear the huffing groan coming from the woman on the other end of the line due to my lack of response.
“This is she.”
“Mr. Creed would like to see you in his office immediately.”
Immediately. Not later today. Not sometime this week. Immediately.
Here it is. The moment I’ve been bracing for since Mr. Creed’s assistant disappeared from the mailroom yesterday with that fucking envelope in her hand. I bet she wasted no time rushing right to him with it, no doubt earning herself a permanent assistant position by telling him I was reading it.
The one thing I’ve worked so hard for since starting here has finally failed. I’m no longer an invisible worker within the building.
“Okay,” I manage. “I’ll be right up.”
The line goes dead. No thank you. She just hangs up. Not a good sign for me.
I stand there for a second, dazed, phone still pressed to my ear. Almost as if I think she’ll come back on the line, laugh, and tell me it’s a joke. That Mr. Creed doesn’t want to see me. But she doesn’t.
I need to get moving. Making him wait will only make it worse when I see him.
Is there something worse than possibly being fired?
For me, there is. Losing the medical insurance that Chance so desperately needs.
Sure, I could file for state insurance, but who knows how long that could take, and missing those valuable therapy sessions would be detrimental to his progress.
“Get it together, Constance. It could be nothing. Just a ‘hey, you’re doing a great job’,” I mumble to myself as I hang up the phone.
I step over to my work area, making sure I clean everything up quickly.
Turn off the mail conveyor belt and then quickly wash my hands.
I check my badge twice, making sure it shows my name and picture clearly.
Run my fingers over my dark hair, smoothing it back.
I take a deep breath, trying to calm my heart which is trying its damndest to claw its way out of my chest.
Time to get this over with. I make my way down the hallway like an inmate on death row taking their last walk before their execution.
The elevator ride feels endless. Every floor that ticks past is a countdown.
Seven. Eight. Nine. Each ding lands like a hammer strike on a nail.
I move into the corner, bracing myself against the walls, eyes fixed on my reflection in the steel doors showing wide dark eyes and color draining from my cheeks.
I do the only thing that calms me. I think of Chance.
About how I packed his favorite lunch today—peanut butter and jelly with potato chips, and a fruit juice.
About how he looked this morning with his Superman book bag.
The way he smiled when he waved goodbye to me, fingers fluttering in that excited way he gets when he’s happy and doesn’t know how else to express it.
I cannot lose this job. I need it. Not just for the medical insurance, but because I need to keep a roof over our heads and food in the refrigerator.
Because we have nowhere else to go if I’m not able to get another job.
With the power he has in this town, Mr. Creed could keep me from getting another job if he wanted to, purely out of spite.
The doors slide open on the executive floor, and the air itself feels cooler, sharper, scented faintly with expensive cologne and polished metal. I try to make as little noise as I can as I follow the signage toward Morgan Creed’s office.
I see his assistant sitting at her desk. She’s busy typing something on her computer as she talks on the phone. Her voice is pleasant, very unlike how she spoke to me yesterday.
I stop in front of her desk, my hands clasped in front of me as I pick at my nails.
She glances up at me, smirking, but gives no other acknowledgement.
All I can do is stand there, my eyes roaming around, scanning the area.
Mr. Creed’s door is shut. Is he sitting there at his fancy desk with my termination papers in hand?
She hangs up the phone and turns her attention to me. “Can I help you?”
Is she serious? She’s the reason I’m here in the first place.
“Yes. You said Mr. Creed wanted to see me.”
She purses her lips, then daintily picks up the phone, pressing a button. Someone must say something on the other end, then she speaks. “Ms. Hale is here, Sir.”
She hangs up the phone, and then I swear she smiles. She freaking flashes me a fake as shit smile.
“He’ll see you now. Go ahead.”
He doesn’t look up when I step inside.
“Close the door,” he says, almost dismissively.
I quickly do as he says, trying to keep myself composed.
Morgan Creed sits at his desk, jacket off, sleeves rolled to his elbows, posture relaxed in a way that feels predatory. He doesn’t waste time on pleasantries.
His blue gaze lifts from the desk, landing on me with sudden intensity, like I’ve stepped somewhere I wasn’t meant to be.
“You rerouted a Black Tier document yesterday,” he says calmly.
“Yes, Sir. I did. Your assistant took it from me.”
Lying feels pointless. And if I’m getting dragged under the bus, I’m taking her with me.
His icy eyes are sharp and unreadable as they stare back at me.
He doesn’t speak right away. Just sits there in silence for a few moments.
I feel hot under his gaze. The heat crawling up my neck isn’t just nerves.
It’s the unsettling awareness that his attention feels deliberate…
and that part of me hates how alive it makes me feel.
My heart is racing so badly I feel as if I’m about to have a panic attack.
“How long have you worked in the mailroom, Ms. Hale?” he asks, tone neutral, eyes fixed on me like he’s already decided the answer matters more than the question.
“Just shy of two years.”
“And in that time,” he says. “How many times have you handled Black Tier material?”
My pulse thunders in my ears. “Not often. But I have handled them a few times.”
“What do you usually do?”
“Sort them to the executive floor, to the designated person.”
“Yet yesterday,” he says, voice smooth and dangerous, “you didn’t. Instead, you read the contents.” His gaze holds mine, not challenging or accusing. Waiting. Like a game of chicken he knows he’s already won.
My gut feeling was right. Just like it normally is. Of course she ratted me out.
“Yes.”
The word hangs between us.
His jaw tightens. “Why?”
“It was misfiled,” I say, forcing my voice steady. “The seal was broken. The routing code was wrong. I corrected it.”
“I understand that, Ms. Hale. But why did you read it?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t know, I—”
He cuts me off abruptly. “You don’t apologize unless you understand the mistake.”
Something in my chest snaps. It’s one thing to reprimand me, but to make me feel stupid is another.
“I needed to know who it was meant for,” I say. “There was no recipient listed. I couldn’t reroute it without confirming that.”
I stop there. Let the words settle.
Then, quieter—but firmer—“And after that… I wish I hadn’t read it. The contents were disgusting.”
His eyes narrow. “Disgusting?”
“It wasn’t just classified,” I say. “It was for the recovery of a minor from the looks of things. A minor. And the paperwork says the family doesn’t get notified. Police don’t get notified either. You have bigger problems than a clerical error; you have a moral one.”
“What are you talking about?”
I swallow, debating if I should even say more.
“The file,” I say. “It looks like instead of rescuing a child you’re aiding in taking one. Did you not even read it when your assistant gave it to you?”
The silence that follows feels sharp and dangerous.
“That’s not right,” he says slowly.
He shifts, turning the chair as he opens the file cabinet behind him and pulls a file from it.
The realization hits me like a punch to the ribs.
He really hasn’t opened it yet.
Morgan Creed scans the page once.
Then again.
His mouth tightens. His eyes harden, something dark flickering behind them.
“What the fuck is this bullshit?” he mutters.
He grabs his phone.
“Miles,” he snaps. “Get your ass in my office right fucking now.”
The call ends abruptly.
He exhales through his nose, jaw working, then finally looks at me again.
“You’re dismissed.”
Relief crashes through me so hard my knees nearly give out. He didn’t say I was fired. I want to say something, but the best thing for me to do is keep my mouth shut and hope that after this meeting with him, I never have to face him again.
I stand and head toward the door, my entire body buzzing with the need to escape—
“Ms. Hale.”
I stop. I knew it was too good to be true. This is when he tells me to collect my things and has me escorted from the building. Officially terminated.
“You’re being promoted.”
I turn around, mouth hanging open, and stare at him.
“I’m sorry—what?”
“You’re my new executive assistant.”
The words don’t make sense. They float around my head as I try to process them and make sure I’m not hearing what he said wrong.
“No,” slips softly from my lips. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m not—”
“You’re getting a one-thousand-dollar increase per week,” he cuts in, voice flat.
The room tilts.
A thousand dollars. Per week.
I think of Chance. Of speech therapy invoices that come stamped Final Notice if I miss a payment. Occupational therapy appointments that insurance only half-covers. Copays that never seem to end.
I nod.
“First order of business,” he says coolly. “Tell the woman who snitched on you outside that she’s fired.”
My stomach twists, but I turn and walk out, anyway. His assistant of the month looks up as I approach, perfectly manicured brows lifting in annoyance.
“What do you want?” she snarks.
“You’re fired,” I say, voice shaky.
She laughs. “Excuse me?”
“Pack your things,” I say. “Security will escort you out.” Somewhere in me I find the strength to be firmer with my words.
Her face twists with fury. “You can’t do this. You’re just the—”
“Are you questioning my new assistant?” Mr. Creed's deep voice asks from the door.
“Mr. Creed, you have to be joking.”
She starts shouting. Crying as she puts on the show of the decade lunging toward Morgan. She throws the pen in her hand at him. “How could you?” she shrieks, before she adds with a laugh. “You’re such an oblivious fool to what happens under your eyes.”
“Ms. Hale, contact security to have her removed. It’s clear we can’t trust her to exit the building on her own. Please send Miles in when he gets here.” With those final words, he turns and steps back inside his office, shutting the door behind him.
I pick up the phone and dial security.
“This is bullshit,” she snaps. “You’re just the mailroom girl. You think you belong up here?”
Her foot stamps once, sharp against the floor, like she can stomp reality back into place. Tears well, spilling over as her voice rises. “I did my job.”
I hang up, step back, and watch as two guards arrive and lead her away, still screaming. My eyes drift to her desk. I guess it’s my desk now, and I sit down, finally letting the weight of what’s transpired hit me.
I don’t know what the fuck I’m going to do now, or what’s going to happen. The one thing I know is I need this job, and now I need to prove to Mr. Creed that I can last more than a month in this position.
So I’ll grit my teeth, smile, and survive. The only difference is I’m no longer invisible.