Chapter 1 - Kirsten
The rumors started three weeks ago, and I’ve been losing sleep ever since.
“Did you hear?” My coworker Becca leans over the partition between our cubicle and keeps her voice pitched low, like she’s sharing state secrets. “Daniel from accounting said the deal closes this week. They’re bringing in the new leadership team on Monday.”
I keep my eyes on my computer screen. “Daniel also said the vending machine on the third floor was haunted.”
“That was one time, and he was going through a divorce.” She props her chin on her folded arms. “This is different. HR has been in meetings all week. You know what that means.”
I know exactly what it means. Layoffs. The inevitable bloodletting that follows every corporate merger like clockwork.
“I’m sure it’ll be fine,” I insist, even though I’m not sure of anything anymore.
Becca gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me. “You’ve only been here eight months, Kir. No offense, but when they start trimming the fat, the newbies go first.”
“Thanks for the pep talk.”
“I’m just saying.” She straightens and adds, “Maybe start updating your resume. Just in case.”
“Already done.” I finished it last Tuesday at two in the morning when sleep refused to come. “But I appreciate the vote of confidence.”
She winces. “I didn’t mean it like that. You’re great at your job. Everyone knows that.”
“Everyone except the people making the decisions.”
She doesn’t argue. We both know I’m right.
Becca disappears back to her side of the partition, and I let out a long breath.
She’s not wrong about any of it. I have no connections here.
No allies in management. No one would go to bat for me if my name ended up on a list. I came to this company straight out of a smaller firm, lured by the better salary and the promise of growth opportunities.
Eight months later, I’m still waiting for those opportunities to materialize.
I’m good at my job. Great, even. My performance reviews have been stellar. I’ve caught errors that would have cost the company thousands. I’ve streamlined processes that nobody else bothered to fix.
But in corporate America, none of that matters if you don’t have someone in your corner.
My phone vibrates with a calendar reminder. Staff meeting in ten minutes. Mandatory attendance.
Perfect.
I grab my notebook and head toward the conference room, joining the stream of anxious coworkers filing through the door.
Everyone knows something is coming. We just don’t know what.
Small clusters of people whisper to each other, throwing nervous glances toward the front of the room where our department head is shuffling papers.
I find a seat near the back and flip open my notebook, more for something to do with my hands than any real intention to take notes. The guy next to me—Derek from marketing, I think—is bouncing his knee so fast the whole row of chairs vibrates.
“Attention, everyone.” Our department head, Mr. Crawford, stands at the front of the room with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.
“I know there’s been a lot of speculation lately, so I wanted to address the elephant in the room.
Yes, we are merging with Karpov Industries. The transition will begin immediately.”
Murmurs ripple through the crowd. Derek’s knee bounces faster. I write the date at the top of my blank page and underline it twice.
“The new ownership team will be here on Monday to introduce themselves and outline their vision for the company going forward. Until then, it’s business as usual.” Crawford clasps his hands together like he’s about to deliver good news. “Any questions?”
A hand shoots up near the front. “Will there be layoffs?”
Crawford’s smile tightens. “There will be a restructuring period as we integrate our operations. Some positions may be consolidated.”
Corporate speak for yes.
More hands go up. Crawford fields questions for another ten minutes, saying a lot of words that mean absolutely nothing. Synergy. Optimization. Strategic alignment. The kind of buzzwords that executives use when they don’t want to admit people are about to lose their jobs.
The meeting dissolves into clusters of panicked whispering. I slip out before anyone can rope me into a conversation I don’t want to have.
Back at my desk, I stare at my computer screen without really seeing it.
Monday. The new boss arrives on Monday.
Which means I have three days to prove I’m indispensable.
I pull up the quarterly reports I’ve been working on and try to focus, but my mind keeps drifting. Not to the merger. Not to the layoffs.
To those documents.
It happened two weeks ago. A misfiled folder in the shared drive.
I clicked on it, thinking it was the Henderson account data I needed for a presentation.
Instead, I found myself staring at spreadsheets that made no sense.
Transaction records with no corresponding clients.
Money moving between accounts that didn’t exist in our official system.
Names I didn’t recognize attached to payments that seemed too large, too frequent, and too suspicious.
I closed the folder right away. Pretended I never saw it.
But here’s the thing about having a photographic memory: you can’t unsee anything.
Every number, every name, every impossible transaction is burned into my brain whether I want it there or not.
I can recall the exact font size of the column headers.
The shade of red used to highlight certain cells.
The date stamps didn’t match the filing system.
I’ve tried to convince myself it was nothing. A bookkeeping error. Old files from a defunct project. Anything other than what it looked like.
But something was wrong with those documents. I know it. And I can’t stop thinking about it.
At night, when I’m lying in bed trying to sleep, my brain replays those spreadsheets like a movie I can’t turn off. Numbers scrolling past. Names repeating. Questions multiplying with no answers in sight.
My phone goes off again, this time with a text from Becca: Drinks after work? I think we all need it.
I type back: Can’t tonight. Rain check?
The truth is, I haven’t been sleeping well, and alcohol would only make it worse. The last thing I need is to lower my inhibitions and accidentally say something about those files to the wrong person.
Well. Almost every night has been sleepless.
There was one night last week when I managed to forget. Briefly.
I didn’t plan to go to that bar. I was walking home from work, taking the long way to avoid my empty apartment, and I passed O’Malley’s.
Something made me stop. Maybe it was the warm glow through the windows.
Maybe it was the exhaustion of carrying secrets I didn’t ask for.
Maybe I just needed to feel normal for five minutes.
One drink, I told myself. Just one.
I claimed a stool at the bar and ordered a gin and tonic. Hendricks. The good stuff. If I were going to drown my sorrows, I might as well do it properly.
I was halfway through my drink when he sat down next to me.
I noticed his hands first. Large, with long fingers and clean nails. The kind of hands that looked like they’d never done manual labor but could probably crush something if they wanted to.
Then I looked up.
He was tall, well over six feet, with broad shoulders that filled out his charcoal suit jacket as if it were custom-made for him.
Which it probably was. His hair was dark blond, almost brown, and was cropped shorter on the sides and longer on top.
A few strands fell across his forehead, and I watched him push them back with an absent gesture.
His jaw was strong, his nose straight, and his cheekbones high enough to make a model jealous.
But his eyes. God, his eyes. Clear blue, the color of glacier ice. They swept over me with an interest that felt almost physical.
We talked for hours. He was clever and quick, matching my sarcasm beat for beat.
He didn’t ask what I did for a living. Didn’t try to impress me with his accomplishments.
Just talked to me. Listened to me. Made me laugh so hard I snorted gin up my nose, which should have been mortifying but somehow wasn’t.
By eleven, I’d forgotten about the documents. Forgotten about the merger. Forgotten about everything except the way he looked at me.
The cab ride was silent. Charged. My pulse thundered in my ears the entire way. Neither of us touched, but I could feel him beside me. The heat of his body. The weight of his gaze when he thought I wasn’t looking.
His apartment was absurd. A penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows and furniture that belonged in a magazine. I barely had time to take it in before he was kissing me, his hands in my hair, his mouth hot and demanding against mine.
I’d had sex before. Good sex, even.
This was different.
He took his time with me. Learned my body like he was memorizing every curve, every sensitive spot, every sound I made when he touched me just right.
His hands mapped my skin with a patience that drove me crazy.
When I tried to rush him, he pinned my wrists above my head and told me we had all night.
When I came the first time with his mouth between my thighs and his fingers digging into my hips, I forgot my own name. He didn’t stop until I was shaking, until I had to push him away because it was too much.
Then he started again.
When I came the second time, riding him while he held onto my waist and watched me with those ice-blue eyes, I forgot everything else, too.
I woke up at four in the morning, tangled in sheets that smelled like expensive cologne and sex. He was still asleep beside me, with one arm thrown over his face.
I slipped out without waking him.
Back to real life. Back to spreadsheets and secrets and the slow-motion disaster of my professional existence.
That was a week ago, and I’ve spent the last seven days replaying that night in my head while I should have been working. Wondering who he really was. Whether he thought about me, too. I kept telling myself it didn’t matter, that it was just one night, that I would probably never see him again.
I need to focus. The new boss arrives on Monday. My job is on the line. The last thing I should be thinking about is some stranger I slept with once.
And yet.
Friday bleeds into Saturday, which crawls into Sunday. I spend the weekend alternating between polishing my work portfolio and doom-scrolling job listings. Just in case.
Monday morning arrives too fast.
I dress to the nines in my best blazer, navy blue with subtle pinstripes, the cream blouse that makes me look competent but not threatening, and sensible heels that I can stand in for hours if necessary.
I apply my makeup with more care than usual—enough to look polished, not enough to look like I’m trying too hard.
Everyone’s on edge when I arrive, waiting for the ax to fall—or not fall, if they’re lucky. Conversations stop mid-sentence when anyone walks past. Coffee cups tremble in nervous hands.
“They’re here,” Becca hisses as I pass her desk. “In Crawford’s office right now. The whole leadership team.”
My stomach drops. “Already?”
“The meeting’s in twenty minutes. Company-wide. They’re going to introduce themselves and outline the transition plan.” She grabs my arm, and her nails dig into my skin. “How do I look? Professional? Employable?”
“You look great.”
“You’re lying.”
“I’m lying.”
She lets out a nervous laugh, and I continue to my desk.
Twenty minutes. I have twenty minutes to prepare myself for whatever’s coming.
I sit down, smooth my blazer, and pull up my email. Nothing new. Nothing that explains what’s about to happen to any of us.
At nine-fifty, the announcement comes over the intercom. All staff to the main conference room.
Here we go.
I file in with everyone else, finding a spot near the back where I can observe without being observed. The room is packed. Standing room only. Bodies press together as everyone cranes for a better view of the front.
Crawford takes his place at the podium, flanked by two people I don’t recognize.
“Good morning, everyone. I’d like to introduce you to the new leadership team from Karpov Industries. They’ll be overseeing our transition over the coming months.” He steps aside with visible relief. “I’ll let them take it from here.”
The first person steps forward. A woman in her thirties with red hair and a no-nonsense demeanor. She introduces herself as the new head of operations and launches into a speech about synergy and optimization that I barely hear.
Because behind her, stepping up to address the room, is a man I’d recognize anywhere.
Dark blond hair, almost brown. Clear blue eyes. A charcoal suit that fits him like it was made for his body.
My one-night stand. The stranger from the bar. The man whose sheets I snuck out of a week ago.
He’s my new boss.
This cannot be happening.