Chapter Twenty-Seven
Brooke
I head home.
It’s strange to work in an office that’s actually nine-to-five. I’ve never had a job like this before, not one with fixed hours. Everyone warned me to be ready to stay late, to be chained to a desk while the sun disappears outside.
But when the clock struck five, people started packing up like clockwork. No passive-aggressive sighs like at Matthew’s work, no side-eyes at anyone who dared to leave. Just bags zipped, screens shut, and an easy shuffle toward the elevator.
Mr. Kowalski locked up behind us, and we all rode down together in comfortable silence before peeling off in our own directions.
It was… nice.
I’m not bone-tired like I usually am after work. I feel energized, like I’ve still got something left in me at the end of the day. I practically bounce up the steps to our apartment.
I haven’t heard anything from Matthew since the “Picked up Penny” text earlier. The second I open the door, the mouthwatering scent of chili oil hits me. Warm. Spicy. Tasty.
I slip off my shoes and head straight for the fridge, transferring the bottles of milk I pumped at work into the freezer container.
Matthew walks into the kitchen just as I’m closing the door.
“Hi, you’re home,” he says, smiling and reaching for me.
I grin, leaning up on my toes to kiss him.
He pulls back a little, studying my face. “Good day?”
I can’t stop smiling, it stretches across my whole face. “It was a great day.”
He lets out a soft laugh. “Yeah?”
“I sold two premium packages,” I say, holding up two fingers dramatically, in case he missed it. “Two. No one’s ever sold more than one on their first day.”
He actually laughs, shoulders shaking. “Wash up and tell me everything over dinner.”
I nod, practically vibrating with excitement. “Okay.”
I head to the bathroom, pee, wash my hands and face, change clothes, and, blessedly, take my bra off. Freedom. I stretch like a cat, grinning at the ceiling. Stupid boob jail.
Before going to the kitchen, I check on Penny. Just because the day was great doesn’t mean I didn’t miss her. Gradually leaving her with Marta was the best decision I could’ve made, the pictures she sent throughout the day definitely made it easier.
I pull myself away, easing the door shut with a soft click so it doesn’t wake her.
In the kitchen, Matthew’s at the counter, plating noodles, the air warm with the smell of peanut chili oil. I can already feel my mouth watering. He glances up at me, a small smile tugging at his mouth, and I can’t help but mirror it.
I grab a glass and fill it with water. Yes, we share water. No, it’s not gross.
“Tell me everything,” he says as he takes a bite.
I sit down next to him, take a deep breath, and just launch.
I tell him about everything, the creaky old headset that made my ears ache, the little cubicle I’ve already started personalizing in my head, the older woman who called to book a vacation for her whole family and told me I “sounded trustworthy.” How Teddy cracked jokes to make me relax.
I also tell him how much I missed Penny. And how I totally get now why he used to ask for so many pictures when he went back to work.
Matthew chuckles, chiming in with soft “wows” and “really?” like he wants every detail.
I twirl my noodles on the fork, still buzzing from the day. “I know it’s just my first day,” I say with a grin, “but it felt good. I felt good.”
“I’m glad,” he says softly. “You earned it.”
I reach over and squeeze his forearm, my smile warm. “What about you? How was your day?”
He nods toward my food as if to say eat first, I take a big exaggerated bite.
He lets out a quiet laugh and starts, “I dropped off Penny at nine. Then I got some groceries, came home and watched a little TV. Cleaned. Watched some more TV. Went to therapy and nearly cried. Oh, and someone from Marx Corp called. I apparently have a meeting tomorrow about my performance at Marx Airline.”
I blink at him, my fork suspended mid-air. There’s a lot to unpack there.
I go with the easier one. “Did they hint if it’s good or bad?”
He shakes his head, lips pressed together.
“Well,” I say, swallowing my bite, “we’re prepared if they fire you. The severance will hold us over, and like you said, you practically held that place up. You’ll get another job in no time. In the meantime, you can freelance… or just take a few days and breathe.”
Matthew’s shoulders relax a little. He smiles, small but real. “Thanks for that.”
I nod, then carefully ask, “What happened at therapy?”
He shrugs, rubbing a hand over his head. “I realized I may have some unresolved feelings about my ma.” His mouth twitches. “And… you were right. I need to confront her.”
I hold my breath, watching his face, waiting.
“But,” he adds quietly, “I’m just… not ready yet.”
He looks at me like he’s bracing for a storm.
I soften my voice. “It’s your choice, Matthew. I wasn’t… ordering you to talk to her.” I shrug gently. “I just wanted you to consider it.”
His shoulders ease a little, the tension bleeding out slow.
We fall into a quiet rhythm after that, picking up our utensils and finishing dinner without needing to fill the silence. It’s not awkward, not anymore. It’s something else. Charged.
I wash the dishes while Matthew moves around the kitchen, pulling containers out of cupboards and lining them on the counter. It’s for my lunch tomorrow, another one of those things he’s just… taken on.
He told me once that his office always offered free lunch and he felt like he missed out on something, like the quiet intimacy of someone making a meal for you.
So now, this is his thing. He packs my lunch with way too much attention, narrates sometimes like he’s hosting a cooking show, and honestly…
I love it. Food tastes better when someone else makes it.
Especially when that someone looks at you the way he looks at me when I catch him doing it.
The air hums between us. Not loud or demanding. Just… there.
Matthew brushes by me, close enough that I feel the warmth of him against my back, and I can’t stop the small smile that creeps onto my lips. We haven’t had sex since before Penny was born.
At first, it was medical. Then emotional. But now, for the first time in a long time, it feels like we’re both on the same page.
When everything’s done, I check on Penny while he switches off the kitchen lights. She’s still fast asleep, tiny hands curled near her face, breaths soft and steady. I double-check the monitor. Always.
Matthew comes up behind me, silent, the warmth of his chest just barely brushing my back. We stand there together, staring at our daughter, the quiet kind of moment that used to feel rare but doesn’t anymore.
Then I turn, sliding my fingers into his.
He doesn’t say anything. Neither do I.
I just pull him gently toward our bedroom.
The door clicks softly behind us.
Matthew
The elevator doors slide open to reveal what looks like a regular office floor, except this one sits at the top of the building. Everything’s shinier. I turn left toward a sleek mahogany door where a woman is stationed behind a pristine desk.
“Matthew Basen,” I say. “I have a meeting with Mr. Marx.”
Her smile is smooth and practiced. “Oh, Mr. Basen. You’re early. So is Mr. Marx. You can head in.”
She stands, opens the door, and gestures me inside.
The office is massive, modern and polished, yet with that expensive old money air.
There’s a desk near the centre but no one behind it.
I glance around and find them to the right: a woman behind another desk, a man leaning casually over her shoulder, looking at some papers.
The way his hand brushes her back, all casual, I can’t tell if he’s slept with her or just doesn’t understand personal space. Either way, neither seems good.
I clear my throat.
They both look up. The man straightens. He’s taller than me.
“Matthew Basen,” I say, extending a hand.
“Caden Marx,” he replies, shaking it. “And this is my partner and legal advisor, Leni Scott.”
I shake her hand, then take the seat he gestures to.
Mr. Marx wastes no time. “I’m gonna get right to it. Who fucked up?”
My mouth opens, but before I can say anything, Ms. Scott clears her throat delicately. “What he means is, we’re aware of the issue with the latest discount campaign and want to hear your side.”
I clear my throat. “Well, Mr.-” I blank on his last name for a second, “Dan, he wanted me to create a discount campaign for an airport in Dallas that wasn’t seeing much traffic.
So, I did. When I asked about logistics, he sent me Dallas Airport.
I asked him personally if he was sure. Everyone in the industry knows that airport’s booked solid year-round.
He told me to ‘do my job.’ So, I did. Still just to be sure, I emailed him and CC’d both the president and managing director, asking him to confirm.
He reiterated his stance in writing. So, I approved it. ”
They’re silent for a moment. Mr. Marx’s mouth twitches, like he’s trying not to grin.
“Malicious compliance,” he mutters finally, smirking.
I blink, not expecting him to call it out that fast. I scratch the back of my head awkwardly.
“If it hadn’t cost us so much money, it’d be funny,” he adds with a small laugh.
“Yet you’re laughing,” Ms. Scott deadpans.
He clears his throat. “Right.”
Ms. Scott turns to me. “The reason you’re here is because-” she picks up a sheet of paper, scanning it, “Mr. Knore, Mr. Hughes, and Dan all claimed you were the one who messed up and falsified emails to cover your… mistake.”
My mouth opens in outrage, but she lifts a hand. “We’re aware that’s not true.”
I look at them, confused now.
Mr. Marx says. “We’ve been looking into our subsidiaries ever since my father retired. Honestly, the airline was at the bottom of the list because it was running well or so we thought. Turns out, that might’ve been because of the people under management, not the ones running it.”
I stay quiet, trying to figure out where this is going.
Ms Scott continues, “We’ve decided to ask Mr. Knore and Mr. Hughes to quietly retire.
Dan has already been terminated. We’re in the process of finding someone to take over the president and MD positions.
In the meantime, we’d like you to return to your previous post, with a ten percent bump in salary. ”
I take a slow breath, surprised. Before I can talk myself out of it, the words are already out of my mouth: “Respectfully, no thanks.”
Mr. Marx blinks like he didn’t hear me right. Ms. Scott doesn’t even flinch.
“May I ask why?” she says evenly.
I shrug. Might as well be honest. “The work-life balance at the airline is crap. I got two days of paternity leave. Two. Employees are doing the jobs of managers, managers are doing the jobs of MDs, and don’t even get me started on the salary structure.
And it’s not just that. I can’t work for a company that fired my pregnant wife, solely because they were afraid of a lawsuit. ”
Ms. Scott’s brows lift slightly. “Your wife worked at Marx United?”
I nod. “As a flight attendant for two years. She fell helping a passenger, and the second we got home from the hospital, she got a call saying she broke protocol and was terminated.”
The room goes quiet.
Mr. Marx clenches his jaw, the earlier humour gone. Ms. Scott looks between us, thoughtful.
“Well,” Ms. Scott says slowly, “that… is something we’ll be looking into.”
“Good,” I say simply.
Mr. Marx leans forward, resting one hand on the lack of Ms. Scott’s chair.
“Look, I’m aware that the company, especially from the top, has been lacking.
But we’re trying to fix that. And while we understand why you’d want to walk away, think about it.
You’ve got seniority here. Decision-making power.
And most importantly-” he taps the desk “-you have a direct line to this office.”
Ms. Scott nods. “We can’t change the company without people like you.”
I look down, caught off guard by the sudden shift. It’s flattering. Dangerous, even.
I look back at them, lift my chin, and say evenly, “Thirty percent bump.”
Ms. Scott’s mouth twitches like she’s trying not to smile. “Twenty.”
I lean back in my chair. “Twenty-five. And the paternity leave I missed out on.”
They exchange a glance. Mr. Marx nods once. “We have a deal. But the paternity leave will have to wait until the President and MD are hired.”
I stand, smoothing down my jacket. “Can I recommend someone?”
Both of them nod, curious.
“Janette Cross,” I say without hesitation. “She’s in acquisitions, but she does more actual work than Knore and Hughes combined ever did.”
Ms. Scott’s brows lift slightly in approval. “We’ll take that into consideration.”
“Then I guess I’ll see the terms in writing.”
“HR will email your new contract by the end of the day,” Ms. Scott replies as she stands, offering me her hand. I shake it, then turn to Mr. Marx.
Well, that just happened.