4. Claire
4
CLAIRE
“You’re late.”
I glance toward the voice and smile. “I’m right on time.”
“Exactly.” Sasha makes a show of checking her watch. “On time is late for you.”
“I got a later start than usual.”
I give Sasha a shrug and drop my bag on the floor beside my desk. Days like this, I can’t help but think of how much easier it would be if I could just leave for the office from Conrad’s Upper West Side penthouse. Instead, my commute time is tripled because I have to go uptown to my apartment before I can take the train back down to Midtown.
I frown down at my computer keyboard as I kick off my tennis shoes and step into my pumps. The inconvenience makes me angry. Conrad tells me it’s safer this way . He says it’s to protect me , but on days like this...Well, it feels like disrespect. It feels like he doesn’t value my time, and once again, I feel used. Dirty. And that brings me back to the thought that’s been circling quietly in my head for weeks now.
Should I end it? But if I do, would my job be affected? Would he fire me?
The thoughts immediately fill me with guilt, and I give my head a little shake. I’m so fucking lucky that a man like Conrad—intelligent, kind, successful—would even look twice at me, let alone want me. He’s good to me. I need to suck it up and stop being so whiny .
Patience. I know I need to have patience, but I’ve never been very good at that.
I drop my shoes into the bottom drawer of my desk and shut it more forcefully than I intended. The loud bang sounds through the office and makes me flinch.
“Damn. That bad?”
I flick my attention back to Sasha and force a smile. “It’s fine.”
She purses her lips, running her eyes over my face before leaning her hip on my desk and lowering her voice. “It’s bullshit that Macy got the MixMosaic lead. We all think it.”
“Apparently, seniority matters, and I’ve only been here a year.”
“Claire, I got my first lead at six months.”
I arch an eyebrow. “For a client like MixMosaic?”
“No. It was a much smaller client, but still. You did the work. It should have been yours.”
I give her another smile, and this time, I try to make it believable. “It’s fine, Sasha. Thank you for the support, but I’m fine. I’m just glad my presentation won them over. The MixMosaic account is good for the company. I’m going to go grab a coffee.”
Without another word, I cross the floor of the office to the coffee station. After the third sympathetic expression from my colleagues, I keep my gaze fixed straight ahead and avoid eye contact. I guess Sasha wasn’t kidding when she said we all think it . I suppose I should feel validated that everyone in my department believes I was fucking robbed, but I don’t like the pity. I don’t need everyone feeling sorry for me. Especially when I know that I’m the only one to blame.
I furrow my brow as I drop the espresso pod into the fancy coffee machine and run through all the pros of working at this company. It’s arguably one of the best marketing firms in the country. Probably even the world. Not only does it look great on a résumé, but they promote from within, so there’s a lot of opportunity to grow. It’s also been named one of the top ten best places to work in the city every year for the last five years, and one glance around this office will tell you why. It’s a bright, collaborative space full of motivated, happy people.
I absolutely love my job. But damn, I wish my personal life weren’t so...
Constricting .
I push the button on the espresso machine, and it whirs to life, then I drop my head back, tilting my face to the ceiling. My memories bring me back to a day in 5 th Avenue Brew a year ago. I’d sit in that café every weekend with my double espresso and my laptop. I’d only been in the city for a couple of months, and I’d just accepted the position as a junior creative developer at Innovation Media. I was fresh-faced, wide-eyed, and full of hope.
Enter Conrad Henderson, with his salt-and-pepper hair, his pale blue eyes, and his charming smile. Every weekend, he found me in that coffee shop. Every weekend for a month we spoke, and when he finally asked me on a date, I was already half in love with him. I didn’t care that he was twice my age or that I knew no real details about his personal life. All I cared about was that he wasn’t wearing a ring, and he looked at me like I was the only person in the room. He was the most attentive listener. He complimented me. He made me feel important, and I was enamored.
Then, three months into our relationship, I had my first department meeting with the CEO. I felt sick to my stomach when my new boyfriend was the man standing at the front of the boardroom. I felt myself go pale. I nearly passed out.
But he...
Well, he was completely unfazed.
When he called me for a private meeting later that evening, I was furious. I was prepared to end it. But then he promised me that our relationship wouldn’t interfere with my job. He said I was important to him. That he’d never felt for anyone what he felt for me.
I’ll never forget what he said to me in his office that evening.
You make me want to fall in love again.
And then he fucked me on the couch in his office.
I can’t help but laugh at myself now. I was so na?ve, so blindly enamored with him that it took me a while to realize that Conrad had to have known who I was the whole time. When we’d met, I had my company-issued laptop and my security badge clipped to my bag. For three months, he’d lied to me. Omitted important truths. All while knowing I was a newly hired junior creative at his company.
And now it’s coming back to bite me in the ass.
As if I need a reminder of my recent professional snub, Brandt Macy struts up beside me just as I’m tossing my used espresso pod in the trash. I greet him politely despite my urge to sneer. It’s not Brandt’s fault I was passed over for this position. He’s not the one sleeping with the CEO. Brandt is actually a really nice guy, even if he is a card-carrying member of the nepotism club.
“Morning, Brandt. Congrats again on getting the MixMosaic lead.”
“Thanks, Claire.” Brandt returns my smile and shoves his hands in his pockets. “But you and I both know it should have been your position.”
My brows shoot up, and he laughs. “Don’t look surprised. You did great work.”
I cock my head to the side and eye him suspiciously. “If you think I should have gotten the lead, then why did you take it?”
“The call came from Henderson,” he says with a sheepish shrug. “I don’t really feel comfortable going against the CEO. I hear he’s kind of a dick.”
I huff out a laugh, but I don’t confirm or deny. I turn my attention to one of the brainstorming whiteboards and inhale the scent of my fresh espresso instead. I always feel so awkward when Conrad comes up in conversation.
“Anyway.” Brandt drags out the word and then pauses nervously, drawing my eyes back to his face. “I look forward to working with you on it.”
My hesitation isn’t intentional. It just takes me a moment to sift through the conflict stirring in my mind. I’ll still have to work on this campaign. Do I do my best work, knowing Brandt will likely get all the credit, or do I take a step back and let him fumble the job to make a point? From the uncertain expression on his face, it seems he’s been worrying about it, too.
God, he looks so fucking pitiful right now. And the truth is that I probably couldn’t slack even if I wanted to. I’m too excited. I have too many ideas. The realization makes my stomach twist into a tighter knot. It feels like a concession, like a surrender, but it also feels unavoidable. The MixMosaic campaign is going to be a huge success, and Brandt Macy will probably get a promotion based on my hard work. Hours and hours of planning, preparation, and some of my best designs will go toward boosting someone else’s career, and I did it to myself .
I sigh.
“I’m looking forward to it, too,” I say slowly. “We meet at ten, right?”
He nods. “Ten.”
“See you then.”
I make my way back to my desk slowly, but I keep my head high. I push down the jealousy and anger. I ignore the feelings of being used. Of being overpowered. I try to silence the chanting inside my mind. The thoughts that have grown louder recently. Reminders that I am not good enough.
Not good enough for Conrad. Not good enough for this job. Not good enough.
This time, I meet every one of my colleagues’ pitying looks with a bright smile.
I’m fine. It’s fine. It will all be fine .
This is what I say to myself, over and over, as I set my espresso on my desk and grab the small bag I keep in my top drawer. The one I haven’t touched in months. I walk to the elevators, push the button for the lobby, and repeat the words until the doors open, revealing the large reception desk in the middle of the white and black tiled floor. The security guard nods as I pass him, and I return his greeting with a smile.
I’m fine. It’s fine. It will all be fine.
I chant the words in time with my steps—thirty of them—until I’m pushing open a large wooden door and entering the lobby bathroom. Thankfully, it’s empty. It usually is.
I close myself into the stall farthest from the door, tuck my hair into the back of my shirt, and empty the meager contents of my stomach into the toilet. I flush, then walk to the sink and wash my hands. I rinse my mouth from the tap twice. I take my toothbrush out of the small bag I keep in my desk and brush my teeth. Then I make myself look in the mirror, keeping my eyes on my face.
I clean up my eye makeup. I reapply my lip gloss. And then I force a smile.
It’s robotic. Automated. It’s all muscle memory. I ignore the guilt. I ignore the shame.
“I’m fine,” I say to my reflection. “It’s fine. It will all be fine.”
I’ve missed spending time in my apartment.
It’s much smaller in comparison to Conrad’s. I don’t have a chef or a maid or a smart house system. My door has four locks on it. I only have an old secondhand treadmill instead of an entire gym. And, of course, I’m alone, which has its drawbacks, but still. I love it here. I’m proud of it.
It’s my first solo apartment. My first place that’s just mine. In college, I had roommates until I moved in with my fiancé. After that relationship failed miserably, this apartment felt like a new beginning. My first real step in doing something on my own. I was in it for only a couple of months before I met Conrad, and then I started spending less and less time here. Conrad prefers his penthouse, and I don’t blame him. I used to, but as I sink into my thrifted couch and curl my legs comfortably beneath me, I question whether I still do. Certainly, I’m more relaxed here. I don’t feel like an imposter, and it’s nice not to worry about how to appear like I belong.
I bring my cup of hot chamomile tea to my lips and take a sip. It’s in a cheap tourist mug I got from a gift shop in Times Square. The tea warms me from the inside, and I close my eyes, relishing the feel of it pooling in my empty stomach as I sink into my thoughts. Everything in Conrad’s kitchen is plain white and designer. Sterile and clinical. No character. No color. It might as well be a hospital operating room.
I prefer my tie-dye IHEARTNYC mug, even if I won’t admit it out loud.
I worked on MixMosaic ideas all day, then came home and ran five miles on my treadmill. I showered in my postage stamp of a bathroom—in and out in five minutes before the hot water disappeared—and then I slipped into my favorite oversized, worn-out T-shirt and a pair of sweats that I stole from my ex-fiancé. Conrad would probably be appalled to see me in this outfit. The silk pajamas he bought me are by some Italian designer while this faded cotton shirt has a hole in the armpit. I can’t help but snort a laugh at the contrasting mental images.
I drop my head back on the couch and cup my mug in my hands, listening to the traffic sounds filtering up from the street below my window and the music coming down from the floor of the apartment above me. Content for the first time in months, I sigh, welcoming the noise. You don’t get noise like this from thirty stories up. It’s the sounds of life, and there’s nothing clinical about them.
I listen to the noise for a long time, my body relaxing with every passing car. Every siren. Every muffled laugh. When I finally fall asleep, I dream of a baby. A little boy with curly brown hair and hazel-green eyes. A baby I’ve only seen in photographs and short, thirty-second videos.
But I love him.
I love him so much it hurts.
A knock on my door wakes me, and I shoot upright.
I blink rapidly in the dim light of my apartment. I must have fallen asleep on the couch. One glance at the clock on my stove tells me it’s a little after 2 a.m., and my eyebrows furrow in confusion. Who would be knocking on my apartment door at two in the morning?
Another knock, this one louder, draws my attention back to the door. My heart speeds up, and fear prickles the back of my neck. This neighborhood is safe. I think. I guess I wouldn’t know what goes down after midnight since I’m never here. Quickly, I dig around on the couch until I find my phone, but it’s dead. I can’t even call the cops. The thought heightens my anxiety. The one night I stay in my apartment in months and it’s going to get me murdered.
When the person at the door knocks a third time, I shoot to my feet and rush into my bedroom to plug in my phone. I chew on my lip as I wait for it to power back on. I’ll call the cops and ask for a drive-by or something. It’s the longest fifteen seconds of my life. The moment my screen lights up, before I can even start to dial 9-1-1, the phone starts to chime with notifications. I have several missed texts and voicemails from?—
“Claire, it’s Conrad. Open the door.”
The sigh of relief that leaves me escapes in a loud woosh . My body wants to collapse, but I manage to rush to the door and undo my four locks. When I swing the door open, Conrad doesn’t wait to be invited in .
“What’s wrong? I thought I wouldn’t see you until Monday. Is everything okay?”
Conrad runs his hands through his hair, but he remains silent. He’s more disheveled than I’ve ever seen him. No tie. No jacket. His shirt is rumpled, and the first few buttons are undone. His face, usually clean-shaven, is sporting a day’s worth of stubble, and even in the dim light of the apartment, I can see the stress on his face.
“Conrad. What is it?”
When he finally turns to me, disapproval flashes over his face, no doubt at my pajamas, but it’s gone in an instant, and his eyes go hard. His brow furrows, he sighs, and then he speaks.
“I have a job for you.”