Chapter 8 Bree
Bree
The crisis hasn’t stopped. If anything, it’s gotten worse. More donor calls. More media inquiries. More board members with opinions they feel compelled to share via lengthy emails that Nico forwards to me with single-word instructions like “Handle” or “Respond.”
I’m handling. I’m responding. I’m also surviving on four hours of sleep per night and the kind of caffeine intake that would make my doctor weep.
The overhead lights always seem to hum slightly louder at this hour, as if they’re exhausted and ready to call it quits, too. The rest of the office is empty at this hour, as usual. Just me, my desk lamp, and Nico beside me in his glass-walled kingdom.
Well, I assume he’s in there. The smart glass has been set to opaque for the past hour, which usually means he’s on a call or reviewing something that requires intense concentration or just brooding in peace.
I’ve learned not to interrupt when the walls go opaque unless the building is actively on fire.
I’m staring at the donor response matrix I’ve been updating for the past three hours, when my stomach growls for the hundredth time. The granola bar I had at six is a distant memory.
I need actual food.
I grab my insulated lunch bag from under my desk. Thank god for Sunday meal prep. This week’s batch: pad thai with chicken.
I should’ve eaten this hours ago. Normal people eat dinner at normal dinner times.
But at 6 PM, Nico needed three different versions of the same donor letter reformatted, and by the time I finished that it was 7:30, and then Paloma (working from home) needed me to pull contact information for the entire donor database, and somewhere around 9 PM I looked at my lunch bag and thought just one more thing and then I’ll eat.
Spoiler: there’s always one more thing.
The break room is down the hall, past the conference room and the printer that’s been making concerning noises all week.
I could eat at my desk, but that’s a trap.
If the pad thai is within arm’s reach of my keyboard, I’ll end up stress-eating while simultaneously updating cell G47 for the nineteenth time.
No. I need an actual break. A real one.
The kind where I’m physically separated from Excel and its infinite capacity to ruin my life.
My heels click against the floor. Someone on the cleaning crew is vacuuming somewhere nearby. The building hums with that late-night energy that feels both peaceful and slightly creepy.
I push open the break room door and freeze.
Nico’s sitting at the cheap laminate table, hunched over a bag of Doritos.
Not gourmet takeout from some Michelin-starred restaurant. Not even decent takeout from the Chinese place down the block.
Doritos.
From the vending machine.
So that’s why he left the glass opaque. Not some important confidential call or deep strategic thinking. Nope. He was sneaking off to have a romantic rendezvous with processed corn chips.
And didn’t want me to know, probably so I’d keep working.
Or something.
Anyway, the sight is so absurd I almost laugh. Here’s this billionaire CEO with his perfectly tailored shirt (sleeves rolled to his elbows), eating orange chips in a break room.
He looks up. His expression goes from tired to guarded in about half a second.
“Ms. Dawson.” Back to the ice.
“Mr. Rossi.” I hold up my lunch bag like a shield. “Just grabbing dinner. I’ll be out of your way in a minute.”
I move to the microwave, super aware of him behind me. The pad thai goes in. I punch in two minutes and thirty seconds. The microwave hums to life.
Behind me, I hear the crinkle of the Doritos bag.
The microwave beeps. I grab my container, the heat seeping through the glass into my palms. When I turn around, he’s still sitting there. Still eating those sad chips.
His hand has healed up, there’s only a faint line left where the mug bit into his palm. But the rest of him seems less... settled. There’s a crease between his eyebrows that screams stress headache. Meanwhile his facial scars seem redder somehow tonight, like he’s been scratching them.
Don’t do it, Bree.
Mind your business.
Eat your food at your desk like a normal person who values job security.
Instead, I walk over to the table and sit down across from him.
He blinks. “Did you need something?”
“Yeah.” I pop open my container. The smell of peanut sauce and lime fills the break room. “I need to eat.”
His jaw tightens, and the scar tissue at the right edge of his lips compresses, but he says nothing.
I force a smile. “By the way, you’re eating Doritos for dinner...”
He deadpans. “They’re Nacho Cheese. Very nutritious.”
I push the container across the table. “Here.”
He doesn’t touch it. “That’s your dinner.”
“I meal-prepped. I have more at home.” My stomach immediately sends up a protest flare.
Liar.
You’re starving and you know it.
“I don’t need—” he begins.
“You’re not doing anyone favors by starving yourself,” I interrupt. “Least of all the donors who keep calling because they’re worried you’re going to collapse from malnutrition in the middle of a board meeting.”
He sighs, then looks at the container. Then at me. Then back at the container.
He stands up and walks to the kitchenette area, opens a drawer, and returns with two actual metal forks.
“Didn’t know we had those,” I say.
“Executive floor perks,” he replies, setting one fork in front of me.
He studies the container a moment longer, like he’s only eaten Thai food cooked by a sommelier.
Then he takes a bite.
“It’s good,” he says after a moment.
I grin. “It’s pad thai. Hard to screw up.”
“What about you?” he asks, pausing mid-bite.
“I had a granola bar,” I reply.
He shakes his head. “Not enough. You eat the other half.”
I blink at him. “Are you seriously trying to share my own food back with me?”
“Yes.”
“That’s—”
“Fair,” he interrupts. “You pushed food at me. Now I’m pushing it back. We share, or I put the fork down and go back to my Doritos.”
I stare at him. He stares back.
Deadlock.
“Fine,” I mutter, pulling the container back toward the middle of the table.
We eat in silence. The fluorescent lights hum overhead. The vending machines kick on with a gentle mechanical sigh.
Through the windows, I can see the city, all dark glass and scattered lights. At this hour, it looks almost peaceful from up here.
I sneak glances at him between bites. Nico eats methodically. Like there’s a proper technique for consuming noodles and he’s determined to master it.
“You meal prep every Sunday?” he asks suddenly.
“Yeah,” I nod. “Saves money and time during the week.”
He nods. Doesn’t say anything at first. Then: “It’s smart. Planning ahead. Most people don’t.”
I blink at him. “Are you actually complimenting my meal prep habits?”
“I’m stating a fact.”
I stare at him. “Oh.”
We keep eating. The silence stretches but it’s not uncomfortable. We’re both too tired to maintain the careful ice that’s been our default.
When we’re halfway he pauses, his fork hovering over the container.
“You know, this really is good,” he says, like he’s genuinely surprised. “Earlier I was just being polite.”
“Oh you were, huh?” I don’t try to mask the playful annoyance in my tone.
“Yep. But you really outdid yourself this time.”
I can’t help but snort. “Uh huh. Flattery will get you everywhere.”
“No I mean it,” he says. “This is some of the best Thai I’ve had.”
I’m not sure I believe him, but I go with it anyway. “You’re shocked that food from a glass container can taste decent?”
“Not shocked. Just... I don’t usually eat like this.”
“Oh, you prefer cheap Doritos like most billionaires, I totally understand,” I quip.
He laughs. “No I meant... well, the prepped food I have from Thessaly... it doesn’t usually taste very good. I guess I need a better chef.”
“I guess you do,” I agree.
“Don’t get me wrong, when fresh, her food is great,” he admits. “But it doesn’t keep well.”
“Guess that’s what happens when you don’t use a bunch of preservatives like me!” I quip. “If at first you don’t succeed, and more salt!”
“Maybe so, maybe so.” He takes another bite. “You always prep Thai food?”
“This week, yes. Last week was chicken burrito bowls. Next week, who knows. Maybe I’ll get crazy and do stir-fry. By the way, have you noticed... why does the break room smell a bit like burnt popcorn? Is that you who’s burning popcorn in the microwave?”
“Not me,” he says, raising his hands defensively. “Dashiell. He was on a conference call and forgot about it. Left if for six minutes, if I recall.”
I give him a disbelieving look. “Your CFO almost burned down the building because he can’t multitask?”
“Apparently,” he replies.
I laugh.
Nico’s eyes are full of warmth. Gone is the cold professional he’s perfected over the past few weeks, replaced by something... warmer. More human.
Don’t do this to yourself, Bree.
Don’t read into it.
We’re both just tired.
This doesn’t mean anything.
I focus on the last of my noodles. Try to ignore the way the break room suddenly feels smaller and more intimate. Like we’re not just two coworkers sharing food in a corporate space but two people who once spent a night learning exactly how the other one sounds when—
Stop!
We finish eating and I stand up to gather the container and the forks.
“Thank you,” he says. “For the food. I needed that.”
“You’re welcome, Mr. Rossi,” I manage.
I wash the forks in the sink and put them back. Then wash my container, dry it, and head for the door.
“Pack it up for the day,” he says to my back. “It’s time to go home.”
About time.
I nod, and head to my desk.
When I get there, I grab my stuff and shut down my computer.
I pull up Uber on my phone, because, as usual, I’m not taking the subway at this hour.
8 minutes away.
Just enough time.
When I head to the elevator bank, Nico’s already there, waiting.
He nods, and when it opens we step inside.
We just stand side by side as the elevator descends.
28...
27...
26...
The elevator dings. Lobby level.
The doors open.
“Get home safe, Ms. Dawson,” he says quietly.
I glance at him. He wears his usual poker face, but his voice is genuine.
“You too, Mr. Rossi,” I reply, and mean it.
I step out. He presses a button and the doors close again, taking him down to the parking garage level where his Mercedes and security team are undoubtedly waiting.
And I’m alone in the lobby.
The security guard at the desk nods at me.
I push through the main doors and out onto the street.
Manhattan at midnight is never really quiet, but it’s quieter than usual. A few taxis cruise past. A couple stumbles by, laughing.
A blue Toyota pulls up to the curb. Right on time. I confirm the driver on the app, then climb into the back seat.
“Astoria?” the driver asks.
“You got it. 31st Street.”
My phone buzzes as we pull onto the street.
The city slides past the window. Street lights. Late-night delis still open. People living their lives at midnight like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
New York City. The city that never sleeps.
I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, wondering how many more late nights like this I can survive.