7. Natalie
NATALIE
It’s Tuesday morning, and I’m in Cosmo’s office with a cup of lukewarm coffee.
Carter is flooding social media with old photos of Zara.
Red carpet shots, talk show clips, paparazzi candids.
Her face is everywhere. They’ve completely taken over the feed, and now it feels like she belongs to them more than ever.
Which means if we post her now, it’ll just look like we’re copying.
It’s a smart move. I should’ve seen it coming.
Bribing Zara away from Carter cost us a fortune. Telling Cosmo exactly how much wasn’t fun. Neither was explaining that we can’t use her for a couple of months now. That’s assuming Carter eventually stop posting her.
That’s not our only problem. This morning, our new look was leaked—and the worst part is, it came from us. Someone posted one of our boards. Now the changes meant for next month are already online, and critics are tearing it apart before we’ve even had a chance to shape the story.
But the concept they’re reacting to isn’t even final. There are elements I don’t recognize, things that shouldn’t be there. It looks like an early draft. I have no idea how it got out.
“I fail to see the motive,” Cosmo says, coolly. “No layoffs. No scandals. Morale’s excellent.”
I’m not sure “excellent” is the right word.
The coffee machine’s been broken for six weeks, interns are having meltdowns in the stairwell at the workload and the teams being moved around without much heads-up.
The long days are still framed as passion projects.
And leadership, well, it’s been a little hands-off lately.
But yes, on the surface, people seem happy.
I close my eyes, as if the culprit might appear in my mind by sheer force of will.
That’s one thing I can’t fault in Cosmo. He hasn’t questioned me for a second. It was a marketing board that leaked but the idea that I’d be behind it hasn’t even crossed his mind. When he trusts you, it’s absolute. Which only makes me more determined to figure out how this thing got out.
“Let me see it again,” I say.
Cosmo turns his laptop toward me, and I pull it the rest of the way across the table. I’ve already looked at it six times today, maybe more, but there has to be something I missed. Some clue.
The font’s right. The base colors check out.
But then there are these strange additions.
Textures and color combinations I’d never sign off on.
It’s actually a little embarrassing. That particular shade—somewhere between baby-poo brown and wilted celery—is fighting for dominance in the header.
I’d never pair it with that icy lilac. It looks accidental, and yet somehow intentional.
Like someone tried to imitate our work, but with the volume turned just slightly the wrong way.
The model photo catches my eye. I’ve seen it before. Used it, actually. But not in any of the final drafts for this campaign.
I pause. Not this campaign.
Oh God.
“What if it’s not a leak,” I say, slowly. “What if it’s a copy.”
Cosmo glances up. “What does that mean?”
I hesitate. It sounds insane, even to me. I need to be sure before I say it out loud. I lean in, take the laptop, and open a new tab. My fingers move on instinct, faster than I can think. Cloud login, design folder, scroll. There. Gala-Board-Final. I click it open.
The screen loads. It’s the same model, same placement, same layout.
I spin the laptop toward him. “Look familiar?”
Cosmo peers at it, cautious. “Should it?”
“This is the board I built for the gala pitch,” I say, tapping the screen. “He didn’t leak anything. He recreated it. And he added those awful colors on purpose.”
Cosmo blinks, trying to catch up. “Who did?”
“Henry Carter,” I say. “He copied my board, badly, and pushed it live.”
Cosmo lets out a short, disbelieving laugh, then stops cold when he sees I’m serious.
“We took Zara,” I continue, the heat rising in my chest. “This is payback. Just like the photo blitz. He leaked this and made it look like our new direction.”
It’s clever. Too clever. He made it just close enough to pass as ours, enough to cause damage, but the changes are off. Subtle, but wrong. They twist the whole look into something terrible.
“Natalie, that’s…” Cosmo hesitates, then exhales through his nose. “Maybe get some rest. You’ve been running on fumes for weeks.”
He smiles softly, the kind that says he’s trying to be kind. “I don’t think Carter’s orchestrating some design sabotage campaign. And honestly? It doesn’t matter who leaked it. What matters is how we respond.”
I just look at him.
“So, we do nothing?” I ask.
“That’s right,” he says. He gestures to the door. Conversation over.
When I get back to my desk, I try to let it go.
I remind myself that I’m the one who stole Zara.
But that was only in response to him erasing us from a gala that’s always been ours.
Taking Zara was cold, sure, but it was just business.
Leaking a mangled version of my work and calling it our new look? That’s personal.
Before I can properly think it though, I grab my phone and dial Carter’s number. My heart’s already racing as I’m passed from assistant to assistant, a tedious shuffle that finally lands me with a woman named Linda. I give her my name and she puts me through.
He picks up on the second ring.
“Miss Wright. To what do I owe the pleasure?” he says, his voice smooth enough to slide under my skin.
“You think you’re clever, don’t you?” I ask.
“I know I am,” he says, without missing a beat. “And with how fast you put the pieces together, Miss Wright, I’d say you might be too. Honestly, I wasn’t expecting your call for another day or two.”
I open my mouth to argue, then stop. I’m not going to argue against my own intelligence.
“Your arrogance is astounding.”
“It’s not arrogance if I can back it up.”
I rub my head.
“This ends here,” I say. “I don’t have time for this.”
There’s a pause.
“A truce?” he says finally, like he’s trying the word on for size. “I haven’t even warmed up yet.”
“Nor have I.”
Another beat of silence. I can practically hear the smirk forming.
“Alright,” he exhales. “I’ll play nice. If…” he drags it out, letting the pause hang like bait, “you promise to be a good girl.”
“Fine.”
“You need to say it. Tell me you’ll be a good girl.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Then I guess you don’t mean it,” he says, light as air. “Which means I’m free to keep playing.”
“Make another move,” I snap. “See what happens.”
He hums, delighted.
“Is that a threat or a promise?” he says.
I stab the end button, hard. I should’ve listened to Cosmo and said nothing. I should’ve let it go.
I’m furious. Completely, utterly furious. But under it, something else stirs, something I don’t want to look at.
A bitter laugh escapes me before I can stop it. He’s ridiculous. Idiot, I think. Though I’m not sure if I mean him or me.
Later that afternoon, I hang up on the sixth editor of the day. My voice is hoarse from repeating the same lines. I told each one the leaked board wasn’t ours, that our new look is different, that they should just wait and see.
I’m exhausted, running on the single, bitter espresso I choked down this morning. A headache pulses behind my eyes.
I’m reaching for my phone to call Rebecca when she walks in. She’s carrying a brown paper bag that smells like garlic, chili, and sweet basil, and a plain black box.
“Lunch,” she declares, pulling a container of Thai basil chicken and jasmine rice from our usual place. She hands me the box before settling into the chair opposite mine and digging into her meal. “And a delivery.”
“What is it?” I ask around a generous spoonful of rice.
“No idea. Came for you by courier.” She takes out her phone and starts scrolling.
I tear open the box between bites, pushing aside the tissue paper. My fingers brush something smooth and cool. Ceramic. A mug.
When I lift it out, I nearly drop it.
There’s a picture of Henry on it. Shirtless. Full color. Every one of his abs on display and that smug grin on his face.
I shove the mug back in the box. My fork clatters onto the desk, scattering rice across my keyboard. Rebecca glances up from her phone, then goes right back to scrolling.
What the hell is wrong with him? Is this a threat? A joke? Why would he send me a mug with his face on it?
My fingers brush against something else at the bottom of the box. An envelope. Thick, cream-colored paper.
I open it. Inside, his handwriting sprawls across the page in black ink.
Miss Wright,
This is what your pride is costing you.
Henry
P.S. I hope this isn’t the closest I’ll ever get to your lips.
My face goes hot. I snap the card shut, shove it back in the box, and cram the whole thing into my drawer like it might explode.
How does he even look like that? And why would he send a thirst trap on a mug to my office? If Rebecca saw it, if anyone saw it, how would I even explain?
He’s insufferable. And the worst part? He’s probably sitting in his office right now, looking smug, grinning like he won something—like he got a reaction out of me.
The second Rebecca leaves, I open my laptop. If Henry wants to play games, fine.
My turn.
I search his name and hundreds of photos come up. Charity galas, corporate headshots, paparazzi shots. Then I find it.
A regatta from last summer. He’s mid-laugh, holding a champagne flute. The angle is too low. His chin looks huge. His hair is whipped by the wind. It’s not ugly—ugly’s not possible for him—but it’s deeply uncool.
I find the highest resolution version and order it printed on a 36x24 inch canvas. Professional frame. Gilded baroque style. Completely obnoxious. In the delivery note section, I type:
Mr. Carter,
Since you can’t seem to get enough of yourself, here’s something for your office.
You’re welcome,
Natalie Wright
Under the delivery instructions, I include a specific note for his assistant: “Per the sender’s request, please ensure this is hung in a prominent location.”
I type in my credit card details and confirm the order without a second thought. The four-hundred-dollar charge for same-day delivery feels like a bargain.
I try to get back to work, but it’s impossible. He keeps showing up in my head. I tell myself it’s just strategic awareness. I retaliated, so of course my brain’s on alert. It’s waiting for his next move. Except it’s not his move I’m thinking about.
I slide the box out from my desk drawer and open it. Henry’s picture stares back at me.
He’s built like he has no hobbies except being a menace and doing weighted push-ups. God, he’s hot. Stupidly, hot. If he could shut up for five minutes, I might actually...
I cut the thought off before it finishes, shove the mug back in my desk and get back to work.