Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
AUDRA
The day doesn’t slow down for me just because I was gone.
Emails stack up. Meetings blur together. I’m pulled into a conversation near the elevators before I even get my bag under my desk. Someone needs numbers. Someone else needs a decision. It’s familiar enough that my body settles into it without asking how I feel.
That helps.
By midmorning, I’ve already talked to three departments, revised a presentation, and put out one small fire that never needed to be one in the first place. Jamie hands me a folder on her way past.
“He moved the vendor call to tomorrow,” she says. “Didn’t like their tone.”
“Shocking,” I reply.
She smiles faintly. “You good?”
“Yes,” I say. Still true.
She hesitates, then nods and keeps walking. No hovering. No softness. Just space. I appreciate that more than she knows.
I pass Derek’s office twice without stopping.
Once, he’s on the phone, posture rigid, jaw tight. The second time, the door’s closed. I don’t linger long enough to wonder why.
By early afternoon, my head is buzzing—not from anything emotional, just from the pace of the day. I grab my mug and head toward the break room, mentally reorganizing the rest of the schedule.
The coffee machine is being temperamental, which feels personal.
“Of course,” I mutter, tapping the button again.
“Try threatening it,” someone says behind me.
I turn to see Alex, leaning against the counter, tie loosened, expression amused.
“I’m considering violence,” I tell him.
“That’s the correct response,” he says. “First day back?”
“Apparently.”
He studies me for half a second longer than necessary, then nods. “Good to see you.”
Before I can respond, my phone vibrates in my hand.
Derek:
Can we talk?
I don’t answer right away.
Not because I’m playing games—but because the timing is strange. I’m nowhere near his office. I haven’t passed it in at least an hour.
I glance up.
The camera in the corner of the ceiling is angled toward the hallway. It always is. I’ve walked past it a hundred times without thinking twice.
Now, I do.
Alex follows my gaze. “Creepy when you remember those exist, right?”
“Something like that,” I say.
I type back.
Me:
Sure. When?
The reply comes almost immediately.
Derek:
Now, if you’re free.
I don’t love that my first thought is he knows where I am.
Still, I finish my coffee, straighten my jacket, and head down the hall. Alex walks with me briefly then breaks off and heads right when I go left.
Jamie looks up as I stop near her desk.
“He texted,” I say.
She nods once. “I figured.”
“Did he say anything to you?”
“Not about you,” she says carefully. “Just… don’t let him push you around.”
I meet her eyes. “I never do.”
She smirks and nods.
Derek opens the door himself when I knock.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
He steps aside, letting me in, and closes the door behind us. The room feels smaller than usual. Or maybe quieter.
“I’m glad you’re back,” he says. “I should have said that sooner.”
“You just did.”
His mouth curves briefly, then stills.
“I didn’t handle things well,” he says. “After.”
After he let me into his home. After he took care of me. After he drove me home.
I wait.
“I told myself I was being careful,” he continues. “Giving you space. But I think I was mostly avoiding my own discomfort.”
That’s not what I expected.
“I’m not asking you to make this easy,” he says. “But I would like to do it better.”
“Do what?” I ask.
“See you,” he says. “Outside of work.”
He pauses. “Dinner. Tonight.”
I study him. He looks tired. Not worn down—just… quiet in a way that feels deliberate.
“Yes,” I say. “Dinner.”
Something eases in his shoulders, just slightly.
When I leave his office, the day rushes back in.
But it doesn’t feel quite as loud.
I’m finishing up an email when my phone rings.
“Hi,” I say.
“I’m heading out now,” Derek says. “I’m driving.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll be in the black Aston,” he adds. “I’ll pull up on the east side. It’s easier there.”
The specificity makes me pause. “You sound very prepared.”
A hint of a smile comes through the line. “I like removing variables.”
“I’ll look for you,” I say.
“I’ll see you in a minute.”
The call ends, and I gather my things, riding the elevator down with two people discussing quarterly projections like it’s the only thing in the world that matters.
I stop in the ladies’ room before heading out.
The mirror is kinder here. I check my makeup, smooth a thumb beneath my eyes, touch up my lipstick just enough to look intentional instead of untouched. I straighten my jacket, adjust the line of my skirt, tug once at the hem like that might settle my nerves.
I don’t look nervous.
I look composed.
I take a breath I didn’t realize I’d needed to and let it out slowly.
This isn’t a meeting.
This isn’t a test.
I square my shoulders, pick up my bag, and head outside.
The street is busy in that end-of-day way—cars idling, people spilling out of buildings, the city shrugging off work and slipping into night. I scan the curb automatically.
Then I see it.
Black. Low. Polished. Waiting.
By the time I reach the car, Derek is already out, standing on the sidewalk like he planned it that way. He opens the door for me before I can reach for the handle.
“Hi,” he says.
“Hi.”
He holds my hand while I slip inside, then gently closes the door behind me. He circles the front of the car and slides into the driver’s seat, pulling back into traffic with practiced ease.
The car is sleek in the way everything flashy always is.
Low profile. Clean lines. Black so deep it almost absorbs the streetlight instead of reflecting it. No decals. No vanity plates. Fast without needing to announce itself.
Inside, it smells like leather and something faintly citrus—intentional, not artificial. The seats are firm but comfortable, built for control more than luxury. Everything is where it’s supposed to be. No clutter. No evidence of anyone else.
It fits him.
Efficient. Quiet. Purposeful. Designed to perform without drawing attention to the fact that it can.
When he pulls back into traffic, the engine barely registers. Just a smooth surge forward, confident and contained.
I don’t comment on it.
Neither does he.
That feels like part of the point.
I catch myself noticing his hands on the wheel—steady, sure—and the way he glances over once, just to make sure I’m settled.
It’s a small thing.
It shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
Dinner is at a place that feels intentional without advertising it.
Low ceilings. Warm amber light that softens everything it touches.
Dark wood worn smooth at the edges, the kind that comes from years of elbows and quiet conversations.
No background music competing for attention—just the hum of voices, silverware, the occasional burst of laughter that never quite travels.
The host looks up the moment Derek leads me inside, his hand resting on my lower back as if it belongs there.
“Evening, Derek.”
“Evening, Sam,” he says. “Busy?”
“Just enough,” Sam replies. His eyes flick to me—quick, respectful. “Glad to have you back.”
Sam moves ahead of us with the kind of ease that comes from knowing exactly how much space he takes up.
Mid-forties, maybe. Crisp black jacket, sleeves tailored just right. His hair is silvering at the temples, the kind that looks deliberate even if it isn’t. He doesn’t hurry, but people part for him anyway—a subtle shift of bodies, chairs nudged back without being asked.
He doesn’t scan the room so much as register it. A glance here, a nod there. Someone at the bar starts to turn, curiosity sharpening, and Sam’s hand lifts just slightly—nothing overt, just enough. The moment passes. The whisper never finishes forming.
He glances back once, checking on us, eyes landing on me for half a second longer than necessary. Not invasive. Assessing. Protective in a way that feels practiced.
Then he’s moving again, already reaching the booth, already certain we’ll follow.
He leads us past the bar, where glass shelves glow softly, bottles arranged more for balance than display. A few heads turn. Nothing obvious. Just recognition that settles and moves on.
Our booth sits along the back wall, half-shielded by a low divider and a potted olive tree that looks real enough to fool me. Derek waits until I slide in before taking the opposite seat.
Menus appear almost immediately.
The server—Marisol, I gather from her name tag—has a calm, unhurried presence. Hair swept back neatly, smile warm but professional.
“Good to see you,” she says to Derek.
“And you,” he replies. “How’s your daughter?”
She brightens. “Final exams this week.”
“She’s got this,” he says. “She always does.”
Marisol turns to me. “First time with us?”
“Yes,” I say.
“We’ll be gentle,” she says, smiling, then looks back to Derek.
He doesn’t open the menu.
“Halibut for her,” he says. “Medium. And the short ribs for me.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What if I were allergic to fish?”
He doesn’t miss a beat. “Then I’d apologize and pivot.”
“To?”
“The chicken,” he says. “Or the risotto if you prefer.”
“And what if I were allergic to all of that?”
“Then I’d stop ordering for you,” he says dryly, “and reconsider my life choices.”
Marisol laughs. “For the record, we do ask about allergies.”
“I’m not allergic,” I say. “And I’m curious now.”
Derek glances at me. “You sure?”
“I trust you,” I say.
That earns me a look I can’t quite name.
“And the Barolo,” he adds, then pauses. “Unless you’d rather something lighter.”
“That’s fine,” I say. “I’m not driving.”
“Good,” he says, like he planned that.
Marisol nods. “Excellent choice.” She hesitates, then adds quietly, “I’ll bring a taste first.”
When she leaves, I smile. “You’re very confident.”
“I like to minimize variables,” he replies. “Dinner shouldn’t be one of them.”
The wine arrives. He tastes it, nods once, then pours for me before himself.