5. Jo
— ? —
Jo
The note is in my purse.
I find it after the morning meeting, digging for my phone, and my fingers close on a fold of paper that has no business being there, wedged between my wallet and a tube of lip balm. For one second I think it’s a receipt. Then I open it.
Leave while you still can.
The same hand. The same too-careful strokes of someone scrubbing out anything that could give them away.
My stomach drops straight through the floor of the conference room, because this one wasn’t tucked under my windshield wiper or slid beneath my apartment door in the dark.
This one was in my bag. Someone stood close enough to me, today, in this building, to put their hand into my things while I sat three feet away and felt nothing.
There have been others. One on the car. Two under my door, white rectangles on dark hardwood, waiting on the welcome mat where my son wipes his feet.
You don’t belong here. This is your last warning.
I keep them in a folder now, the way you keep evidence, though evidence of what I could never prove.
Matthias. It has to be Matthias. The fury in those words is the same fury I saw in his eyes that first day.
But proving it’s another thing entirely, and telling anyone is impossible.
My ex-husband is threatening me, except I can’t prove it’s him, and he’s a partner here, and who believes the new hire over the man whose family name is on the building?
So I fold it back up and drop it in the folder and do the only thing that has ever kept me on my feet. I keep going.
The Hargrove project gives me somewhere to put all of it. Three nights this week the conference room becomes a second home, takeout piling up, coffee cups multiplying, and somewhere between arguments over load-bearing walls and sustainable materials the fear recedes enough to breathe.
It’s a problem, the cataloging. In the middle of a discussion about glass ceilings and fifteen-year ROI projections I lose the thread of my own argument, because he reaches across the table for the folder and his shirt pulls tight across his shoulders, and all I can think about is the shift of muscle underneath the cotton.
I watch his throat work when he swallows his coffee.
I watch his hands when he talks. I hate that I do it.
I tell myself to stop, that this is a budget meeting and the man signs my paychecks, and then he says my name in that low voice and every reason this is a terrible idea walks straight out of my head.
Tonight, the argument is about the atrium design.
“The glass ceiling is impractical.” Nick’s finger jabs at the blueprints with the kind of aggressive certainty that would be annoying if it weren’t also kind of hot. “The maintenance costs alone would eat the budget.”
“The glass ceiling is the point.” My own finger jabs back, matching his energy.
“You want this building to feel innovative? Revolutionary? You don’t get that with a standard roof.
You get that by bringing the outside in, by making people feel connected to the sky, like they’re part of something bigger than four walls and a fluorescent light fixture. ”
“Pretty words don’t balance spreadsheets.”
“Pretty words are what sell buildings to clients who want to feel like they’re buying a vision, not a box. These people don’t want practical, Nick. They want transformative. They want to walk into their new headquarters and feel something.”
His jaw tightens. Mine does too. The table between us is covered in papers and pencils and the remains of dinner, but it might as well not exist. We’re leaning toward each other now, voices rising, and this stopped being about the project two arguments ago.
“The maintenance costs...”
“Can be offset by the energy savings from natural lighting.” The folder slides across the table with more force than necessary.
“Page seven. I ran the numbers myself. The long-term ROI actually favors the glass ceiling over traditional roofing, assuming average sunlight hours for this region. The initial investment is higher, yes, but the fifteen-year projection shows a net positive that more than compensates.”
He looks at the numbers. Looks at me. Looks at the numbers again, flipping through the calculations with growing interest.
“You ran these yourself?”
“While you were in your three-hour meeting with legal yesterday. Figured at least one of us should be doing something productive.”
His expression changes. The combativeness drains out of it and leaves behind a look I can only call respect. Like he’s seeing me for the first time, really seeing me, and liking what he finds.
“The atrium design stays.” The words come out slowly, like they’re being pulled from him against his will. “Your way.”
“Was that so hard?”
“Harder than you know.”
And then he smiles.
Not the almost-smile, not the professional pleasantry, not the carefully controlled expression he wears like armor.
An actual, genuine, full-wattage smile, crinkles at the corners of his eyes, dimples appearing from nowhere, warmth radiating like he’s been keeping a sun hidden behind clouds this whole time.
Something in my chest stutters and restarts in a different rhythm.
“You’re good,” he says, the smile still lingering at the edges of his mouth. “I knew you were talented when I saw your portfolio, that’s why I hired you. But you’re actually good. You don’t just design, you fight for your vision. You believe in it.”
“I’ve had to fight for everything I have.”
The words come out more honest than intended, too raw, too real. Seven years of clawing a whole life up out of nothing, all of it bleeds through in those eight words, leaving me more exposed than I meant to be.
Nick tilts his head, studying me with that intense focus that makes the rest of the world blur at the edges. “I believe that.”
The moment stretches, warm and weighted, and breaking it feels impossible. Everything else feels impossible too, moving, speaking, remembering why this can’t happen.
“We should review the structural specs,” finally scrapes out of my throat.
“Right. Yes. The specs.”
The work continues, but the air stays charged, humming with the potential energy of a storm that hasn’t decided whether to break.
The next day, Matthias corners me in the copy room.
The machine is humming through a stack of Hargrove documents when his voice cuts through the white noise, and every muscle in my body locks tight.
“Having fun with my brother?” He’s leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, that charming smile twisted into something ugly. “Working late together? Cozy little dinners? How sweet.”
“It’s called doing my job. You should try it sometime.”
“You think I don’t see what you’re doing?” He pushes off the doorframe, moves closer, and suddenly the copy room feels very small. “Worming your way into this company, into his life...”
“I didn’t even know you were here, Matthias. Everything isn’t about you.”
“Then quit.”
The word sits in the space between us, a command disguised as a suggestion.
“No.”
He steps closer. The smell of his cologne, the same expensive scent he wore seven years ago, the one that once meant safety and now means danger, floods my senses and triggers a wave of nausea.
Memories crash back uninvited: that same smell on his skin the day everything ended, the day the apartment reeked of it and sex and betrayal.
“Why not?” The question comes out as a growl, his composure slipping. “Just fucking go somewhere else. Make everyone’s life easier. There are other architecture firms in this city.”
The list of reasons why leaving isn’t an option scrolls through my head like credits at the end of a movie.
This is the best job offer that’s ever come my way, the pay, the benefits, the projects.
And there’s Rory. Always Rory. The need for stability, security, the ability to buy him new shoes when his feet grow too fast and save for a future that doesn’t involve scraping by and praying nothing goes wrong.
Silence is the only answer. Matthias reads it correctly.
“Can’t leave, can you?” His smile turns cruel, satisfied by the confirmation of my trapped status. “What is it, money? The kid? Both?”
The mention of Rory makes my blood freeze solid in my veins.
“Don’t talk about my son.”
“I’ll talk about whatever I want.” He’s so close now that his breath hits my face, hot and sour with anger. “You’re going to regret coming here, Joanna. I could make your life hell. I could make sure you never work in this industry again.”
“You already did make my life hell.” The words come out steady despite the pounding of my heart, despite the fear crawling up my spine and nesting in my shoulders. “Seven years ago. Remember? And I survived. So do your worst, Matthias. I’m not scared of you.”
The lie sits bitter on my tongue. Fear is everywhere, in the trembling of my hands, in the racing of my pulse, in the cold sweat prickling along my hairline. But showing it isn’t an option. Not to him. Not ever again.
His hand moves faster than thought, closing around my arm before the flinch can even begin. Fingers dig into flesh, crushing, the grip so tight that a gasp of pain breaks loose before I can stop it.
“Let go of me.”
“Or what?” The grip tightens, grinding muscle against bone. The bruises are forming in real time, finger-shaped marks that will require long sleeves for a week, evidence of exactly what kind of man he is. “You’ll run to my brother? Tell him what a monster I am? Go ahead. See who he believes.”
“Or I’ll report you for harassment.” The words tumble out, desperate, a bluff that has almost no chance of working.
“I’ll tell Nick. I’ll tell HR. I’ll tell everyone exactly what kind of man you are.
I’ll make sure every person in this building knows that Matthias Anderson likes to threaten women in copy rooms.”
How would reporting the literal owner of the company even work? He’d spin it, deny it, make me look crazy. It would be my word against his, the new hire versus the partner, and everyone knows how those stories end.
But the threat makes him pause. Something flickers in his eyes, uncertainty, maybe, or calculation.
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Try me.”
The stare-down lasts an eternity. His fingers are still crushing my arm, still grinding bruises into existence, but something in my expression must convince him the threat is real enough to worry about. His grip loosens, not much, but enough.
Yanking free takes two tries. The first attempt fails, his fingers tightening reflexively, but the second one succeeds with enough force to send me stumbling backward into the copy machine. Pain shoots up my arm, bright and sharp, and tears spring to my eyes before they can be stopped.
Walking away happens on legs that feel like jelly, adrenaline making everything simultaneously distant and hyper-focused.
The hallway stretches forever. The fluorescent lights buzz too loud.
Every person passed becomes a potential witness, a potential threat, a potential question that can’t be answered.
My desk appears eventually.
I sit down without deciding to, and then breathing is the only goal. In through the nose, out through the mouth. Don’t cry. Don’t shake. Don’t let anyone see the cracks in the facade.
The bruises on my arm throb with every heartbeat, a metronome of pain marking each second that passes. Pulling up the sleeve just enough to look confirms the worst, four distinct finger marks and a thumb print, already darkening to purple, a perfect map of Matthias’s grip.
Twenty minutes pass. Maybe thirty. The spreadsheet on the computer screen blurs and clears and blurs again, numbers swimming meaninglessly across the display.
Coworkers walk by, chat, laugh about something that happened in the morning meeting.
Normal office sounds. Normal office day. Nothing to see here.
“Jo.”
Nick’s voice comes from above, and looking up takes more effort than it should.
He’s standing at the edge of the cubicle, perfectly pressed suit, perfectly composed expression, but something in his eyes is different.
Harder. Colder. The warmth from last night’s almost-moment has been replaced by a fury he’s holding on a very short leash.
“My car. Parking garage. Ten minutes.”
“What?”
“I’m taking you home.”
“Nick, I’m fine...”
“Parking garage.” His gaze drops to my arm, to where my fingers have been unconsciously rubbing the bruises through my sleeve, and the muscle in his jaw tightens dangerously. “Ten minutes.”
He’s gone before any argument can form, leaving nothing but the echo of his footsteps and the absolute certainty that whatever comes next is going to change everything.