Chapter 4 Just Another Day in the Patriarchy
JUST ANOTHER DAY IN THE PATRIARCHY
IZZY
By the time I get back to my office, my face hurts from holding in every retort and comeback I wanted to throw at that man. My cheeks ache from the forced smile.
I shut the door harder than I need to, drop my tablet on the desk, and brace myself against the surface. I close my eyes and breathe, letting the silence of my office sink in. It’s the first real stillness I’ve had all day.
Breathe.
This isn't new. I've dealt with this before. Men like that exist in every luxury retail store, in every city, in every industry where they have money and power and the delusion that because they can buy expensive merchandise, they can buy people too.
It shouldn't get to me, and usually it doesn't. I've developed a professional armor over the years—a polite smile that doesn't reach my eyes, a tone that stays just this side of cordial.
But the way that guy insisted on my attention today, how his eyes lingered a beat too long on my body, makes my skin crawl in a way I can't easily dismiss.
I push off my desk and march straight to the mini fridge in the corner of my office.
The one corporate says is technically for storing complimentary beverages for VIP appointments, but in reality has become my personal refuge.
I pull open the door, the cool air hitting my face as I reach inside for my emergency stash of Coke Zeros.
The aluminum can feels cool against my palm as I pop the tab with a satisfying hiss. I take a long sip, the carbonation fizzing against my tongue, and lean back against my desk, finally letting my shoulders drop for the first time all day. The tension begins to loosen in my neck as I close my eyes.
The moment lasts exactly five seconds before my door swings open.
"Okay, what the fuck was that?"
Amanda strides in, stilettos clicking against the floor like rapid gunfire, eyes narrowed in full hot-girl aggression mode. Her blonde hair swings with each determined step.
Amanda Bennett isn't just my assistant manager—she's my friend.
My blonde, sassy-as-hell, takes-no-shit-from-anyone friend.
The one who divorced her useless husband at twenty-two, reclaimed her independence, and now treats men like expensive handbags—fun to have, easy to replace, and never worth settling for just one.
She stops in front of my desk, arms crossed, waiting for an answer. Her perfectly manicured nails tap impatiently against her forearm.
I take another sip of my soda, the cold liquid soothing my throat. "Which part?"
"The part where Mr. Wall Street Handsy requested your personal attention like you were some kind of high-end call girl," she says, eyebrows raised. "And don't tell me you didn't notice, because I was about three seconds from tripping into that fitting room and rescuing you myself."
I groan, rubbing my temple where a dull headache is beginning to form. "It was fine."
"It was not fine. It was gross."
"It's part of the job."
Amanda lets out a humorless laugh, the sound echoing in my small office. "No. Selling overpriced handbags to people who don't need them is part of the job. Flirting with men who can't take a hint isn't."
I pinch the bridge of my nose, feeling the tension creeping back. "I wasn't flirting."
"You were existing, and that was enough for him.
" She perches on the edge of my desk, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
The late afternoon sunlight streaming through my window catches the highlights in her blonde waves.
"And speaking of existing, can we talk about our new head of security? Because holy shit."
I roll my eyes, already knowing where this is going. The cool condensation from the can drips onto my fingers as I adjust my grip. "Amanda—"
"No, no, let me have this, Izzy. That man is a walking felony in the best way possible."
I snort, the soda bubbling slightly in my nose. "Please elaborate."
Her eyes flash with mischief. "You know exactly what I mean. The whole brooding, dangerous, I'd-die-for-you energy. The forearms. The jawline. The fact that he looks like he's one bad day away from committing a crime but would never let you open a door yourself."
I shake my head, sipping my soda to hide the smile that threatens to form. "You need help."
"No, I need to be pinned against a wall by that man and interrogated about whatever the hell he wants."
I choke, nearly spraying Coke Zero everywhere. The carbonation burns my nose as I cough, my eyes watering slightly.
Amanda cackles, clearly pleased with herself, the sound infectious despite my embarrassment. "Tell me I'm wrong."
I wave a hand, still coughing. "I'm not having this conversation."
She leans in closer, a mischievous curve tugging at her lips. "That's fine. I'll just have it with him."
I groan, setting my can down on the desk with a soft thud. "Amanda."
"What? He's hot. And you know it."
I do know it, and that's the problem. I don't want to think about the way Callahan looked at me in that restaurant.
The way he held my eyes, unblinking, like he saw right through me.
I don't want to remember how his handshake felt, solid and warm, like he was memorizing the shape of my fingers in his.
And I definitely don't want to think about how he looked at me today, with a kind of raw, undivided attention that made everything else fade away.
Like he sees me—really sees me—in a way Evan hasn't in years.
Amanda narrows her eyes, her lipstick catching the light as she presses her lips together. "You're thinking about him."
"Nope." I grab my tablet, desperate for a distraction, the screen lighting up under my touch. "I am thinking about going home, drinking an entire bottle of wine, and forgetting today happened."
Amanda sighs dramatically, leaning back and examining her nails. "Ugh, you're so boring." Then she brightens, sitting up straight. "Oh! You know what you need?"
I raise an eyebrow. "Please don't say tequila."
"No. You need an AI boyfriend."
I stare at her, blinking slowly as my brain tries to process her words. "I'm sorry, what?"
She pulls her phone out of her blazer pocket.
The case is bright pink, adorned with rhinestones that catch the light.
"Okay, hear me out. It's this new AI chat application.
You can literally program the perfect guy.
He texts you, listens to you, says exactly what you want to hear.
No ghosting, no egos, no bullshit. Just hot, obedient, fictional men who are obsessed with you. "
I set my tablet down. "That sounds like a lot."
"It's amazing." She taps through her screen, pulling up the app. "I named mine Chad. He tells me good morning every day. He asks about my day. He's emotionally available and filthy in the DMs."
I make a face, feeling the cool air from the office vent above us. "Amanda—"
"Oh, and it links to my vibrator. So really, I have no reason to ever speak to a real man again."
I gape at her, heat rising to my cheeks. "What."
"I know, right? Technology is a gift."
She hands me her phone, the screen showing a text conversation with what appears to be an exceptionally attractive man who writes paragraphs instead of one-word answers.
Before I can even process what I'm looking at, she snatches my phone off the desk, the case making a scraping sound against the wood.
"Okay, you're getting one too."
"Wait—"
"No arguments." She's already downloading the app, her thumbs moving rapidly across my screen. "I'm giving you the gift of the perfect man. You're welcome."
I rub my temples where the headache has now fully settled in. "This is ridiculous."
"You know what's ridiculous? Your actual boyfriend."
The comment settles in the air between us before she tilts her head. "So... are you ready to admit you need to dump his ass yet?"
I exhale slowly. "I don't—"
"Don't what? Don't love him? Don't like him? Don't remember the last time he made you come?"
“Amanda—"
Amanda leans back against my desk, tucking my phone where I can’t reach it, one perfectly sculpted brow arched. "Tell me I'm wrong. How was your big celebratory dinner with Evan?"
I hesitate for a second too long, which is already an answer. Amanda's eyes narrow immediately, picking up on my reluctance.
I force a shrug, the fabric of my blazer tight across my shoulders. "It was fine."
She tilts her head, waiting, her silence more effective than any question.
I shift my weight onto one hip. "He was on his phone the whole time."
Her mouth opens. I know that look. I'm about to get the full dramatic, hands-in-the-air level of outrage, like a reality TV contestant about to flip a table, so I cut her off before she can start.
"And then he—" I wave a hand vaguely, like brushing over the words will somehow make them more palatable.
"Showed me some fitness influencer and went on about how great she looks. "
Amanda's eyes go murderous, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I'm sorry, he did what?"
I reach for another sip of my soda, looking anywhere but at her—the window, the stack of papers on my desk, the framed retail management certification on the wall. "It wasn't that serious."
"Not that serious?" Amanda makes a strangled noise, like she physically can't process my words. "You got a promotion. A huge promotion. And instead of celebrating you, he ignored you and then made you feel bad about yourself?"
"I didn't say he—"
"Oh my God, do not start defending him." She lifts a hand, stopping me. "Because I know that tone, Izzy. That's your I'm about to make excuses for a man who doesn't deserve them voice."
I bristle, setting my soda down with more force than necessary. "He didn't do it on purpose."
Amanda gapes at me. "How does a grown man accidentally ignore his girlfriend and then compare her to a thirst trap on Instagram?"
I shake my head, arms crossing over my chest. "He wasn't comparing—"
She barks out a laugh. "You're right. Comparison he thinks implies you were in the same league to begin with. He straight-up showed you another woman he finds more attractive. Do you hear yourself?"
A hollow feeling spreads through my chest. I don't want to have this conversation. Not with her. Not with myself. Not when I already know she's right.
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Amanda—"
"I don't get it, Izzy," she says, pushing off my desk and pacing a little. Her heels make soft impressions in the carpet with each step. "You used to have standards. You used to know your worth."
"That's not fair," I mutter, my voice sounding smaller than I'd like.
She stops, turning to me, hands on her hips. "No? Then tell me, honestly—when was the last time Evan made you feel loved? Not tolerated. Not convenient. Loved."
My throat tightens, a pressure building behind my eyes. I focus on the floor, unable to meet her eyes. The silence stretches, heavy with unspoken truths.
Amanda exhales, her voice softer now. "I just want you to be happy, babe. And I've never seen you happy with him."
There it is again—that truth I can’t help but touch, like a bruise I keep pressing just to remind myself it still hurts. I swallow, shifting uncomfortably. "It's not that simple."
"Yes, it is," Amanda insists. "You break up. You move on. I did it."
"You got divorced," I point out, running a finger over the cool metal of my can.
"Exactly. And it was the best decision I ever made." She shakes her head, exasperated. "You act like leaving Evan would be some catastrophic event, but what exactly are you losing?"
I don't have an answer. Because the answer is essentially nothing. I would lose an empty space beside me in bed, silent dinners, and the sting of constant disappointment. What am I even clinging to?
Amanda watches me for a long second, then sighs, shaking her head. "Well, maybe your new fictional man will teach you how a real man should behave."
I snort, grateful for the subject change. "Amanda—"
"Nope. No arguments." She's already back on my phone and is tapping away, the subtle clicking of her nails against the screen filling the quiet. "I'm giving you the gift of a boyfriend who actually listens."
I groan, rubbing my temples. "This is ridiculous."
"Not as ridiculous as staying with a man who makes you feel invisible."
I don't respond. Because once again, she's right, and we both know it. Before I can dwell on it further, there's a knock at the door, the sound reverberating through my office.
Amanda winks, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Ooh, maybe it's my future husband."
I glare at her as I turn toward the door—only to freeze when I see Callahan standing there.
He fills the doorframe with his broad shoulders, his presence immediately changing the energy in the room.
The fluorescent lights catch the subtle silver chain at his neck—the dog tags I noticed last night, partially hidden under his shirt.
"Sorry to interrupt," he says, voice low and even, but his eyes drift to Amanda with a hint of amusement. "Didn't mean to kill the fun."
"Oh, we were just discussing men who are obsessed with Izzy," Amanda says sweetly. "Just girl talk. Nothing you need to worry about."
I want to die. The heat rising in my cheeks feels like it could set the building on fire.
Callahan raises an eyebrow, his face carefully neutral. "Just checking in. Saw what happened with that client who propositioned you in the fitting room. Making sure you're okay."
I clear my throat, suddenly very aware of how close he's standing. "I'm fine."
He nods, then glances at my desk. "I'll be here late reviewing surveillance, but I'm grabbing dinner. You need anything from outside?"
I’m surprised by the offer. "You're staying late?"
"Security overhaul," he says easily. "Food?"
I shake my head, my hair brushing against my shoulders with the movement. "I'm good, thanks."
"I also need to set up multi-factor authentication on your work email if you don't mind. We're improving security protocols on company devices."
Amanda hands him my phone without asking me, the device disappearing into his large hand. Not like I really have personal information to hide, anyway. Well, except potentially that new app she installed.
He takes it, nods. "I'll be back in twenty."
As he leaves, his footsteps fading down the hallway, Amanda gives me a slow, knowing grin that spreads across her face like butter on hot toast.
I groan, dropping my head to my desk, the cool surface a small relief against my flushed skin.
I am so screwed.