Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Nick
I should be working.
There are contracts waiting for review, a quarterly report that needs to be rewritten after someone in Finance, likely Reynolds, decided projected losses could be “reframed” for board optics, and a cluster of flagged emails from Legal that will only get worse the longer I ignore them.
I’ve already raised my voice twice today. Once at Jonah. Once at myself, internally, which is less productive.
None of it is occupying my attention.
Because I can’t stop thinking about her.
The woman I should have walked away from the moment the elevator doors opened. The one I shouldn’t have touched, shouldn’t have pursued, shouldn’t have let in.
And yet…
She’s still in my head.
Still under my skin.
Still inhabiting every room I enter, even when she isn’t there.
She’s not far. Just down the hall.
In a conference room with her department, leading a presentation she wasn’t technically asked to lead.
She’s efficient. Unshakably composed.
She listens more than she speaks, but when she does speak, the room pays attention. Her questions are precise. Her notes are thorough. She’s already rewritten half the onboarding decks, corrected errors in a campaign that wasn’t assigned to her, and, according to Emily, knows every intern by name.
She smiles at everyone.
Except me.
Not that I blame her, I’m the one who drew the line, the one who decided, without consultation or courtesy, to sever the connection as if it hadn’t meant anything.
As if it hadn’t been the most vivid moment I’ve experienced in years.
It’s been a week.
Seven days of avoidance.
Seven days of not texting her. Not calling. Not saying a word that might undo the damage I inflicted by saying nothing at all.
I’ve drafted messages… too many. Deleted them all. They never said what I meant. Or they said too much.
She deserves clarity. I’ve given her silence.
I’m in the middle of writing another apology I won’t send when the knock comes.
“Package for you, Mr. Ashford.” The voice is young. Male. Possibly one of the new summer interns.
I don’t look up. Just nod once. The envelope lands on my desk.
No return label. No sender.
That makes me pause.
I open it, expecting a vendor sample or a pitch from an overzealous agency.
It’s not.
It’s a photograph.
One glossy 5x7. Studio-grade stock. Professional print.
Of me and Sara… in the gala cloak room.
She’s leaning into me. Her hand is on my chest. My face is too close to hers. Intimate. Definitive. There is no mistaking what’s happening in that moment. No chance of explaining it away as anything other than what it was.
Private.
Except now it isn’t.
There’s no note. No context. No warning.
Just the image.
I turn it over. Nothing.
No writing. No watermark. No message.
No threats. Not yet.
Just a picture.
But it’s enough.
My jaw tightens. My chest contracts. My pulse climbs. Who took this? Why have they sent it to me now?
The photograph goes into the drawer and I shut it. Hard.
What the fuck?
Is this evidence? Someone building a case against me? I need to do something, anything, even if it ends up being something I might regret.
So I reach for my phone.
Not to call Sara.
Not yet.
Instead, I scroll through my contacts and land on a name I’ve been deliberately avoiding.
Rebecca.
The phone rings twice. Then she answers.
“Well, this is unexpected,” she drawls. “Nick Ashford, calling me during business hours. Let me guess… you’ve finally realized how dull your life is without me.”
“Rebecca.” My tone is flat. Measured. “I need to ask you something.”
“Mmm. That sounds serious. Is this foreplay or a trap?” A beat. “Or are you calling to schedule lunch? You never contact me during the day unless you need something.”
“I do need something,” I say. “Information.”
She sighs. Theatrical. Bored. “How disappointingly transactional. And here I thought you missed me.”
I exhale through my nose. “Did you send me a photo?”
A pause. Just long enough to register.
“What kind of photo?” she replies, too light. Too unconcerned. “Because if it’s the one from Maui, I told you to delete that years ago.”
I don’t respond to the bait.
“Someone sent me a picture,” I say. “Of me. With someone else. From the gala. Private. Taken from a distance. No note. No return address. Just the image.”
Her pause is slight. Calculated. “Only one?”
I stiffen. “What do you mean?”
“Nothing,” she says lightly. “Just surprised they’re not playing a stronger hand. Yet.”
“They? So it wasn’t you?”
“Nick.” Her voice sharpens. The flirtation disappears. “If I had something like that, I’d sign it. And if I were trying to blackmail you, you’d already be trending on Twitter.”
She’s not wrong.
Rebecca has never preferred subtlety. She operates in full view, for maximum spectacle. If she intended to damage me, she wouldn’t do it anonymously.
But she hasn’t exactly kept her disdain for Sara a secret, either.
“Then who did?”
“How the hell should I know?” she snaps, then exhales, softer. “Look… if someone’s circling you again, you need to get ahead of it. You know that. Better than anyone.”
“I’m handling it,” I say, knowing full well I’m not.
A pause.
“Come to lunch.”
I close my eyes. “I don’t have time for games.”
“Who said anything about games?” Her voice turns syrupy. Dangerous. “I might have something useful.”
My jaw tightens. “You just told me you didn’t know anything.”
“Oh, Nick,” she replies. “I know everyone. I can find out anything. The question is whether I feel like sharing.”
“Cut the theatrics.”
“This isn’t theater,” she says, unbothered. “This is the part where you acknowledge that you’re not in control of this situation. Not completely.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. She can hear it in the silence. She always could.
She presses in.
“Do you remember how quickly things escalated last time?” Her tone is lower now. “With the press. With Evelyn…”
I sit back. Exhale once.
“If you want the truth,” she says, “or if you want to keep it from going public, I’m your best chance of getting it.”
And the worst part is, she might be right.
“Delancey and Orchard. One o’clock,” she says. “I’ll order something strong for you.”
“Rebecca—”
“Come. Or don’t. But if you wait too long, the window will close. And you know how fast things move in this city.”
She disconnects.
I stare at the screen, waiting for it to offer clarity it can’t provide.
Then I glance back at the drawer.
If she’s bluffing, she’s more skilled than I remembered. But if she’s not…
Then this just got significantly more dangerous.
I grab my coat.
If Rebecca knows who’s behind this, I need to hear it from her, before anyone else does.
Before Sara becomes collateral damage.
Delancey and Orchard is a nightmare.
Trendy. Loud. Crowded with people who pretend not to stare. Exactly the kind of place Rebecca prefers—somewhere curated to feel exclusive, where secrets are passed like amuse bouches between overpriced mezcal cocktails and waitstaff trained in discretion.
She’s already seated when I arrive.
Naturally.
She looks ready for a fashion editorial: sharp blazer, high-gloss boots, sunglasses large enough to double as armor. Her drink’s half gone.
“Darling,” she says, rising just long enough to brush her mouth across my cheek. It’s not affection, it’s a message. A performance for the room: we’ve shared more than a meal.
I sit across from her.
“I ordered you a Negroni,” she says, nudging the glass toward me. “You look like you need one.”
“I need answers,” I say. “Not alcohol.”
She leans back, settling in for a show. “You used to be more fun.
I don’t respond.
She sighs. Loudly. “Fine. Let’s get to it. Your little scandal-in-progress. Although if I’m honest, your taste in women has… declined.”
My jaw tightens. “This isn’t an invitation to insult her.”
“Oh, relax. I’m not insulting her,” she says, lifting her glass. “I’m just saying… it’s bold. Risky. The intern? You always liked to live on the edge, but this is practically cliché.”
“She’s not an intern.”
Rebecca hums. “Still. Very pretty. Very combustible. And apparently, not very hidden.”
I watch her carefully. “Is someone digging?”
“There’s always someone digging, Nick. The only question is who gave them the coordinates.”
“Have you heard something specific?”
She swirls the ice in her glass, drawing it out. “Whispers. Your name. Her name. The usual suspects… power imbalance, HR violations, termination-worthy behavior.”
My pulse flares. “So no denials.”
“If I’d sent that photo,” she says, setting her glass down, “I would’ve left a signature. I don’t do shadows.”
“And yet here we are.”
She smiles. “Here we are.”
“What do you want?”
Rebecca doesn’t flinch. “A conversation.”
“With Sara? Absolutely not.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Afraid I’ll say something… illuminating?”
“I don’t want you near her.”
That makes her smile wider. It seems I confirmed something.
“She’s already in the blast zone,” she says. “You think keeping her in the dark is going to protect her? It won’t. If that photo exists, others might too. And whoever’s behind it, whoever wants to use it, isn’t finished.”
I don’t answer. I don’t need to. The silence says enough.
Rebecca leans forward, her voice lower now. “I didn’t send it. But I might know someone who knows who did.”
“You said you might know.”
“I might find out.” Her gaze hardens. “Big difference.”
“Then why bring me here?”
She shrugs, unapologetic. “Because I wanted to see your face when you realized you’re not in control. And maybe because I missed you.”
I stand. I’ve had enough of her games.
“If you find out who sent it,” I say, “and you give me something useful, I’ll owe you. Keep away from me until then.”
Rebecca’s smile turns cold. Triumphant.
“Oh, sweetheart,” she murmurs. “You already do owe me. You should be more careful where you press your luck, because right now, someone out there has a lighter, and you’re walking around soaked in gasoline.”
I don’t respond.
I walk out into the noise of the city, coat collar up, head down, every step weighted.
If she’s right, if someone is targeting me through Sara, I need to shut it down.
Now.
Before they do more than send a photo.
Before they take the one thing I’ve never had the guts to hold onto.