Eighteen
Chiara
The afternoon settles into a steady rhythm once I’m back at my desk. Emails filter in, measured and professional. I respond where necessary, flag what needs follow-up, and refine the notes on the variances I found earlier.
A burst of conversation near the elevators signals the return of the lunch group before I see them.
Janet rounds the corner first, balancing a white pastry box in both hands. Bethany follows with iced coffees, and George carries nothing but a smile.
“We bring offerings,” Janet announces, setting the box down on the low filing cabinet between our cubicles.
I glance up. “That was fast.”
“You missed the debate,” Bethany says, sliding into her chair. “Apparently, lemon is polarizing.”
“It shouldn’t be,” George mutters. “Lemon is reliable.”
Janet flips open the lid with a small flourish. Inside sits a lemon blueberry cheesecake, the top glossy and bright with fruit, the crust neatly cut into even slices. The scent drifts across the space—sweet, citrus, a hint of vanilla.
“We decided first-day calories don’t count,” Janet says, already reaching for the plastic knife.
I stand and join them, accepting the small paper plate Bethany hands me. The slice is generous without being excessive. We hover in the shared space between our desks, forks in hand, as if this is a ritual rather than an afterthought.
George takes the first bite and nods solemnly. “Worth it.”
Bethany rolls her eyes. “You say that about everything with sugar.”
“At least I’m consistent,” he replies.
Janet looks at me. “So. You survived Heather and didn’t flee. That’s promising.”
“I wasn’t planning to flee,” I say, tasting the cheesecake. “She was direct.”
“That’s one word for it,” Bethany says.
“She tests everyone,” Janet adds. “If you’re still here next week, she’ll assume you’re competent.”
“And if I’m not?”
George shrugs. “Then we get a new neighbor.”
There’s no malice in it, just office humor softened by shared experience. I find myself laughing, the sound coming easily, without calculation.
It surprises me.
The conversation drifts to small things—an upcoming audit deadline, a client who insists on paper reports, the questionable decision to repaint the break room in a shade of beige that offends everyone equally.
I listen and contribute where I can, not as someone performing normalcy but as someone inhabiting it.
No one asks if I belong here. Their eyes don’t drift to my left hand searching for a ring, and nobody measures my worth against a last name, a deal, or a marriage contract.
We finish the cheesecake, and Janet carefully closes the empty box, as if tidiness matters even in sugar. “Back to work.” She brushes crumbs from her fingers.
They return to their screens, the hum of the office rising again around us. I sit down and glance at the clock before refocusing on my spreadsheet.
It’s a small thing, but I know I’m going to like working with them.
But as I adjust a formula and watch the totals align, Heather appears at the end of the day peeking over the wall of my cubicle. “Walk with me.”
She doesn’t slow down to see if I follow. She’s already moving toward the glass corridor that overlooks the lower floor, a space that pulls you just far enough from the main desks to have a conversation without making it private.
I match her pace.
“You’ve been in the department profit and loss statements all day,” she says, her tone neutral.
“Yes, I’ve been going through them,” I say.
“What did you find?”
We walk past a woman who smiles and says, “Hello.’ And we repeat it back.
The short exchange allows me time to give her a version that holds together without opening everything.
“There are a few inconsistencies in how marketing spending is being coded across two departments. They’re small enough that they don’t show up at the summary level, but they repeat across periods, which is what caught my attention. ”
She nods, following. “What kind of inconsistencies?”
“Reclassifications that don’t fully align with the notes attached,” I say. “I pulled one back through the supporting detail to make sure I wasn’t misreading it, and it resolves to a coding error once you isolate the entry.”
“And the others?”
“I haven’t walked each one back to that level yet,” I explain, keeping my tone even. “But they follow the same structure, so I flagged them to confirm before making any assumptions.”
We keep moving, the conversation settling into a natural rhythm instead of stopping us in place.
“Did you make any changes?” she asks.
“No,” I say. “I didn’t want to adjust anything without direction, so I documented what I found and noted the corrections that would be required.”
“For me?”
“Yes,” I say. “I wanted you to have visibility before anything was touched. I’ll make the changes, but only after you agree.”
“Most people wouldn’t go that far into it,” she says.
“I wasn’t sure if it was isolated or part of a pattern,” I reply. “It made more sense to check.”
She glances at me, a brief look that feels more like assessment than pressure. “Send me what you have when you’re ready. Keep it focused.”
“I’ll include the entries and the corrections,” I say. “And I’ll confirm the rest before I add it.”
“That works.”
We reach the end of the corridor and turn back toward the main floor, the noise of the office picking up around us.
“Next time, loop me in sooner,” she says. “Not because you’re off track. I just want visibility as you go.”
“I understand,” I say. “I wanted to make sure I wasn’t bringing you something that didn’t hold.”
“It usually does,” she says, without making it sound like a challenge.
That tells me what I need to know. She’s watching, but she’s not trying to pull more out of me than I’m offering.
“I’ve asked HR to get me a copy of your resume,” Heather says as we turn back toward the main floor. “What’s your background?”
There’s no pause. No reason to give her one.
“I did my grad work at Northwestern,” I say. “Kellogg. I’m originally from Chicago. After that, I spent a few years at a hedge fund before I relocated out here.”
“For work?”
“For a mix of things,” I say, keeping it easy. “The role made sense, and my boyfriend is based here.”
She nods, taking that in without reaction. “Kellogg’s a strong program.”
“It was a good fit,” I say.
“They have an active alumni chapter in San Francisco.”
I keep my expression steady, like it’s just another piece of information. “I’ve heard that. I haven’t had the chance to get involved yet.”
“You should,” she says. “It’s a useful network.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
“I didn’t go to grad school,” she says. “I couldn’t afford it.”
That’s code for I don’t like people who did. But I try to deflect. “That was probably smart. I’m strapped with a ton of debt for something that I could have learned better with experience.”
The corner of her mouth curls, and I know I hit that right.
We step back into the department, the conversation ending as naturally as it started. She moves on without slowing, already shifting her attention.
I return to my desk, open the file I built, and separate what I know from what I’m willing to share before I start drafting the notes.
Suddenly, it’s nearly five-thirty and I told Katie I would meet her downstairs. Everyone is still going, so I feel silly leaving first.
Today was a great day. It feels normal in a way I didn’t realize I was missing.
By the time I shut down my laptop, the floor has thinned to a handful of glowing monitors and low conversations wrapping up loose ends.
I slide my notebook into my bag and stand, stretching out the stiffness in my shoulders.
The first day has left me alert rather than drained, which feels like a quiet victory.
Janet waves as I pass. “See you tomorrow.”
“See you,” I reply, meaning it.
The elevator ride down is slower this time, weighted with end-of-day fatigue from other floors. When the doors open to the garage, I expect to see Katie near the entrance, phone in hand, posture relaxed.
Instead, Jim stands just inside the elevator lobby, jacket buttoned, expression unreadable.
He walks me out and opens the passenger-side door of the Escalade.
“Katie had something come up,” he says as I approach. “I’ll take you.”
I pause only a fraction of a second before sliding into the back seat. “Everything all right?”
He shuts the door and circles to the driver’s side. The engine turns over smoothly, and we pull away from the curb without fanfare.
“Everything’s contained,” he says, eyes on the road. “But I thought it best I drive today.”
Contained is not the same as resolved.
The city passes in early evening light, glass catching gold at the edges. I watch it through the tinted window, waiting.
“I have men in Chicago keeping an eye on your brother,” Jim continues after a moment. “And on Salvatore.”
My fingers tighten slightly around the strap of my bag. “Anything specific?”
“Nothing actionable,” he replies. “Movement. Conversations. Posturing.” A brief glance in the rearview mirror meets my eyes. “They’re still looking for you, but they believe you left San Francisco.”
“I’m not letting my guard down,” I say.
He nods once. “Good.”
There’s no alarm in his tone, no attempt to dramatize what he’s saying. That almost makes it heavier. If Jim is the one choosing to drive me, then the calculus has shifted enough to warrant his attention.
“I read the Daily this morning,” I admit.
“I assumed you would.”
“They’re framing the Gamblé’s as weak.”
“Of course, they are.”
I look out the window again. “It’s because of me.”
“No,” he says, and there’s a firmness there that doesn’t invite argument. “It’s because some men push limits when they think they have an opening. You being gone changed the situation, but it didn’t create the problem.”
I let that settle. It doesn’t erase the guilt, but it sharpens it into something more manageable.
“The situation is fluid,” he continues. “We’re monitoring. No one’s relaxed.”
The message is clear enough. This new routine—cubicles, cheesecake, reconciliations—exists alongside something older and less forgiving. The two worlds haven’t merged. They’re layered.
“Thank you,” I say quietly. “For keeping eyes on them. On me.”
He adjusts his grip on the steering wheel. “It’s my job.”
“That doesn’t make it small.”
He doesn’t respond to that. Professional distance reasserts itself, as it always does. Jim protects. He does not engage.
We turn into the garage from the alley. As the Escalade comes to a stop, I gather my bag and reach for the handle.
“Chiara,” he says before I step out.
I look back.
“Routine doesn’t mean safe,” he says evenly. “Don’t confuse the two.”
“I won’t.”
He gives a brief nod, and that’s the end of it.
When I step into the mud room off the garage, I hear Katie in the kitchen. The game in Chicago is still active.
Routine doesn’t change the outcome. It just delays it.