Text Me, Never

Prologue

RORIE

The room drips with power. And I’m doing my best not to drown in it.

Six executives. Zero tells.

Silence envelops the room, unbearable in its intensity as light slants through the tall windows of Stanfield Investments, streaking the glass with the colors of an almost-sunset.

Outside, the first rainstorm of the spring season drizzles in a steady curtain, smearing the skyline into a ghost of itself. The world beyond looks distant. Muted. Like it knows better than to intrude.

My stomach knots tighter as I scan their expressions.

Nothing but shadows and silence. Boardroom gargoyles, carved in stone and ego, backlit by the Manhattan skyline.

If this pitch is a trial, I’m on the stand and losing the jury.

Still, I smile.

Straighten my spine.

Lift my chin.

I didn’t come here to coast.

I came to conquer.

I clear my throat.

One breath. One shot.

Here we go.

“And with this engaging campaign,” I say, my voice faltering slightly.

Their eyes dart between me and the tablets before them with a disconcerting detachment making the room even more confining.

“...you’ll create a unique experience and go beyond traditional marketing. It’s... it’s about engaging all the senses. Making your audience feel as though they’re already living the dream.”

Oh, God, I said engaging twice.

Beneath the blazer and bullet points, I’m bleeding out. My chest tightens. It’s a familiar pressure. Failure knocking on the back of my mind, reminding me it’s not done with me yet.

The clock on the wall rotates steadily, each tick a thunderous reminder of the seconds slipping away, counting down to the moment I either salvage some dignity with this pitch or watch it disintegrate along with the fading daylight.

Mr. Gaines, senior partner and key decision maker, leans forward, his wide shoulders dominating the space as he rests his elbows on the table. Silver slicked back hair gleams beneath the overhead lights.

“Ms. Adams.” His voice is courteous but carries an undercurrent pointed enough to puncture tempered steel. “I’m struggling to understand how this proposal differentiates from the dozens of others we’ve received. Virtual reality? Cliché. Sensory integration? It’s… tired.”

“Tired,” I repeat. The word scrapes down my throat, jagged and cruel, ripping through the walls on the way out. I swallow hard, pushing past the ache. “With all due respect, Mr. Gaines, this approach isn’t just about VR. It’s about creating an emotional connection—”

“It’s a nice idea,” a woman with a perfectly styled updo and an equally perfect frown interrupts, her tone clipped.

Nice?

“But...” she draws the word out, “you’re overcomplicating a strategy that should be simple. We want bold, yes, but we also want streamlined. Efficient.”

Heat crawls up my neck. The pitch I honed to perfection is coming undone in real time. “I—I understand. Perhaps if I could clarify—”

“No need,” Gaines cuts me off. “We appreciate your effort, but we’ve seen enough.”

The finality in his tone sets me on edge. He’s dismissing me?

“But I—”

Gaines holds up a hand, halting me. “Please give my regards to Laurel.”

The mention of Laurel’s name punches straight through my gut. She’ll be disappointed. Possibly furious. I’ve already tested her patience more than once, and I’m hanging by the thinnest thread of a promise she made to a ghost.

But part of me—the I dare you to survive me part—believes this isn’t over yet. That there’s still a sliver of space to prove I’m worth the gamble here.

“Have a wonderful day,” he says.

Well, that answers that.

Pressing my lips together, I nod once in forced politeness.

While gathering my notes with trembling hands, my mind flutters back to a time when my name held weight.

When I was the one ruling over the room.

Not being dismissed as just another name on a list, instead of the woman who was once the future of this industry.

Once everything is packed, I pause, keeping my phone in hand instead of burying it. “Thank you for your time,” I manage, voice steady even as a lump pushes up in my throat.

I’m almost out the door when it swings open, and in walks the notorious Nolan Rhodes, Chief Creative Executive for one of the most ruthless firms in the game–Big Stream Marketing.

The air shifts subtly with his arrival. I’d expect nothing less. Nolan Rhodes doesn’t just show up to the meeting, he declares war and wins.

And here I am, shaking from a rejection I didn’t see coming.

My pulse stutters when I see he’s moving in my direction with quiet confidence, commanding the space. Everything about him exudes power and control, wrapped in a package so stunning it’s unfair. As though he was meticulously designed to make everyone else seem average.

His dark hair is styled with precision, yet unruly enough to tempt my fingers into ruining it. He’s tall, with a lean, muscular strength that speaks for itself. The tailored suit jacket hugs his frame, emphasizing broad shoulders and a trim waist in a way that’s almost criminal.

His honey gaze falls on me, making me feel even smaller. It’s infuriating. And kind of… annoyingly attractive.

“Excuse me.” I attempt to sidestep him, but in my haste, my phone slips from my grip and crashes to the floor with an abrupt crack.

“Shit,” I mutter, crouching down.

He reaches it first, fingers brushing mine as he picks it up. The screen now sports fresh, jagged cracks running diagonally across it.

Straightening, he studies the fractured glass, then looks up and says, “Crack’s mean change. They let the light bleed in.” And hands it back to me.

I blink, caught off guard by the weird poetry of it.

“Thanks,” I say, too flustered to come up with anything smarter.

But his line sticks, threading itself into the moment as one I’ll remember later.

His gaze meets mine again. Flecks of gold shimmer inside amber, so intensely, it’s like he’s seeing more than I want him to.

I step to the left. So does he.

To the right. Blocked again.

A frustrated huff escapes me. We keep shuffling awkwardly until I stop and look up at him fully.

Carved features, a tiny dimple teasing the corner of his cheek, somehow making his god-tier face even more ridiculous.

“After you,” he says, his voice silk-wrapped and smug.

Then he smirks.

And it’s not just a grin—it’s an event. A perfect curve of amusement and self-assurance.

If I didn’t have a boyfriend, I’d be drafting our wedding hashtag right now.

Not that Nolan Rhodes would ever look twice at me.

He probably dates heiresses and mysterious women who wear dark lipstick and never cry in elevators. Like I’m about to.

My phone vibrates.

I ignore it.

“Ms. Adams...” Gaines gestures toward the door with a tight expression that screams: You’ve outstayed your welcome.

I nod again, force a smile, and walk away, spine stiff and ego bruised.

The elevator is my salvation. I jab the button, letting the curses fly. As the doors shut, I exhale, shakily. My mom’s voice echoes in my head: Adams women don’t crumble, baby. We rise.

The phone buzzes again.

Fishing it out of my bag, I glance at the screen before pressing it to my ear. “Aunt Jane?”

Her breathing is too quiet, too shaky.

“Rorie…” she starts, her voice barely a whisper. “Honey, it’s your dad. There’s been an accident…”

Everything stops.

The elevator. The city. My breath.

The walls of my world close in.

The cracked screen in my hand is a mirror of everything splitting beneath the surface.

Shattered.

Irreparable.

Changed.