Chapter 13 It’s Complicated… Like, Really Complicated #2
You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.
“Harlee?” Lori nudges me gently, concern softening her voice. “You okay, girl?”
I nod because words are unavailable. My mouth’s dry, my chest tight.
This cannot be happening.
Not here. Not now.
Not with him standing fifteen feet away—
watching me.
I don’t look again.
I don’t need to.
I can feel it.
That kind of attention doesn’t disappear just because you refuse to meet it. It settles. Lingers. Presses.
Like heat at the back of my neck.
He was supposed to be a blip. A rebound. A moment.
The meeting lasts one hour, forty-four minutes, and thirty-two seconds.
I know this because I check the time obsessively—not because I hear a single word. Promotions, lunch, announcements… all of it dissolves into noise.
Every few minutes, my body betrays me—
a glance, a flicker— just enough to confirm.
He delivers words that I don't hear then he returns to his seat his jaw fixed.
Still looking.
Not casual.
Not curious.
Focused.
His jaw tightens once, slow and controlled, like he’s holding something back. His fingers tap against his thick thigh—measured, deliberate. Not nervous.
Contained.
And somehow that’s worse.
I drop my gaze every time too late.
Caught.
Again.
And again.
I’m not imagining it.
He’s not letting this go.
That night.
The ghosting.
A distraction—that’s all he was supposed to be.
Not something that followed me here.
Not something I’d have to face like this.
The second the meeting ends, I’m up before my chair fully slides back, moving through the crowd like a storm with one goal:
Escape.
“Excuse me,” I murmur, weaving between bodies, barely seeing faces—
but I feel it again.
That shift.
Like he moved.
Like he’s not done.
I don’t look back.
I can’t.
I fumble my key card at the stairwell, shove through the door, and take the steps two at a time.
My heart pounds like I’ve been running for miles.
I misstep—stumble— and my phone slips free, clattering down the stairs.
“Shit.”
I grab it, breathless, staring at the cracked screen like it’s a personal attack. Of course. Just my luck.
I don’t even care. I just need out.
The stairwell spits me out onto the main James Wilde lobby, too bright, too loud, too close to reality.
I only made it down a couple flights before common sense kicked in. Forty floors? Absolutely not.
I mumble hellos and excuses on my way through the lobby, barely registering faces as I make a beeline for the elevator bank.
The doors take forever.
Ding.
My thoughts slam into each other. How did this happen?
Ding.
How the fuck did this happen?
Ding.
My palms are slick, my arms crossed tight like I can hold myself together that way.
See, this is why I don’t go outside.
Ding.
My brain feels like six lanes of traffic trying to merge at once. Chaotic. Loud. Completely out of my control.
And then it hits me.
Ding.
I fucked my boss.
Oh my God.
I fucked the fucking founder of the fucking company.
The elevator doors finally open, and I slip inside, squeezing through a group of people heading out. My heart races as I hear them talking casually about lunch plans. It only makes my stomach churn more.
“Where do you think we should go to lunch, Steve?” one asks.
“I hear that Thai place around the corner is good,” another replies.
“The one next to the donut place?” guy number three says as the doors slide open.
“No, the one near the laundromat.”
Who fucking cares, Steve. Move!
My entire body screams for an escape as I push through the lobby, slipping past the gaggle of people like I’m late for a flight. My mind is a bullet train stuck on one track, every thought circling back to him.
Outside, I round the corner and press myself against brick, like the wall can hold me together.
I fold forward, hands on my knees. Deep breaths, Harlee. In. Out.
But each inhale catches jagged, and every exhale comes out thin and useless.
“I can’t breathe,” I whisper. “Why can’t I breathe?”
The city keeps moving like nothing’s wrong. Cars. Footsteps. Laughter. My heart is the loudest thing on the block.
One breath. Two. Three. Five.
It doesn’t fix it, but it gives me something to hold onto long enough to grab my phone.
Me: 911. Call me now!
Less than two minutes later, it vibrates. Wynter’s face fills the screen like a lifeline.
“Sis, what’s going on?” Her voice comes quick, sharp with concern. “I’ve got my cards out—I can read you while you talk.”
“Did I do something in a past life to make this one a fucking joke?”
The words come out unsteady, shaking loose like they’ve been sitting in my chest too long.
“I’m not following,” she says. “Where are you?”
“Outside,” I manage. “I ran.”
“From what?” she asks, slower now. “Use words, baby.”
“Oh, you know,” I mutter, throat tight. “Just me being the biggest fucking idiot on the planet.”
“I love you,” she says, and I can hear her trying not to panic with me, “but that’s not information. Tell me what happened.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Wynter… it can’t be real. This can’t be happening.”
“Breathe with me,” she says instantly. “In. And back out.”
I do it again. It hurts less on the second try.
“Okay,” she adds, voice soft but steady, “we’re going to handle this one step at a time. And if someone needs to get punched in the nuts or the tit, we don’t discriminate.”
A weak laugh slips out of me, humiliating and grateful at the same time.
“Rewind,” she says. “Start from the beginning.”
I swallow hard, lowering my voice like the air itself might snitch. “Remember that guy from earlier this summer?”
“Which one?” Wynter asks. “Weird hair? Coffee shop guy? The one you swear isn’t flirting with you?”
“He’s not flirting with me.”
“This bitch.” She sighs. “Focus. 9-1-1. Which guy?”
“The guy I slept with a few months ago,” I stage-whisper.
“Oh,” Wynter says immediately. “Mister photographer. The one your fast ass let him take a pictures of.”
“Yes,” I grit out.
“Okay. So what about him?” Her tone sharpens. “Did he post anything? Because I will remove his dick and balls and serve them like steak tartare.”
“No,” I say, voice dropping. “Worse.”
“What’s worse than revenge porn?”
I stare at the sidewalk like it’s going to give me answers. “He’s my boss.”
Silence.
“I’m sorry,” she says finally. “Your boss?”
“Yep.”
A beat. “Stand by.”
“What are you doing?” I whisper.
“I’m pulling up James Wilde Media,” she says, already tapping. “Because I need a visual. You’re in accounting, right?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, “but he’s not my departmental boss. That’s a woman.”
“Ohhh. Naomi Robinson… so he’s like, your regional…”
“Try the Co-Founder and CEO,” I cut in, flat.
There’s a pause.
And then Wynter loses it.
“Why are you laughing?” I whisper-yell. “This is not funny.”
“Harlee,” she wheezes, “babe… you mean to tell me your one-night stand from earlier this summer is Augustus James?”
“Yes,” I say, eyes burning. “That is literally what I’m telling you.”
“Bitch,” she fucking sings it.
“Wynter!”
“Okay, okay,” she says, trying to regroup. “I’m focused. I’m focused. I just… girl. What the fuck.”
“That’s what I’m saying.” My voice cracks. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Well,” Wynter says, still half laughing, “I’m on their site and it’s giving built-a-giant-company-from-scratch energy. Co-founders. New York origins. Big-name clients. And it’s casually saying they pulled in… billions.”
“Fuck me,” I groan, a fresh wave of dread rolling over me.
“Well technically,” she chirps, “he already did.”
“Wynter!”
“I’m sorry.” She laughs. “The joke wrote itself, Lee. Don’t set me up like that.”
“What the fuck am I going to do? I can’t keep working there. This is so awkward.”
“I can’t believe you slept with Mr. Chicago,” she says, voice going high like she’s watching a finale. “Look at you dating outside your race, getting you some Puerto Rican papi action.”
“He’s Dominican,” I snap. “And white.”
Wynter cackles. “Oh, so you know his ethnicity but not his last name? That’s actually insane.”
“Seriously?”
“Yes, bitch, seriously. If you would’ve told me you were talking to Augustus James, I could’ve clocked it.
But you gave me the PG-13 trailer, then dropped the director’s cut three business days later.
First it’s we got dinner, then it’s we got frozen yogurt, then it’s surprise, he hit.
Girl. You can’t drip-feed tea like you’re on a subscription plan. ”
“I didn’t know his last name!” I hiss. “How was I supposed to know August was some hotshot millionaire?”
“Try billionaire,” Wynter says, offended on my behalf and amused at the universe at the same time. “It’s saying his net worth is like… three-point-something billion.”
“Oy vey.” I drag my hand down my face. “I’m going to be sick.”
“Mm,” she hums. “I would be sick too. But like… in a different way.”
“Wynter.”
“I’m here. I'm supportive,” she insists. “I’m just… processing. With my whole spirit.”
I rub my temple with my free hand.
“Why didn’t you want to go out with him again?” she asks, suddenly nosy again. “Because this is a plot twist I wouldn’t even write.”
“It wasn’t a date,” I argue. “It was dinner and frozen yogurt.”
“Is frozen yogurt code for the freaky deeky sex y’all had?”
“It’s not code,” I whisper. “And we did not have freaky deeky sex.”
Wynter pauses like she’s scrolling through my memories. “Mm. The last time I heard somebody taking your picture while you came, was freaky deeky, by your standards at least.”
“Oh my God,” I mutter. “I don’t even know why I told you that part.”
“Because you tell me everything,” she says. “Well. Clearly not everything. Because you left out the small detail that you were out here auditioning for CEO Affairs: The Series.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. “Stop.”
“I will not,” she says immediately. “But I will breathe with you, okay? Because I hear it in your voice.”
Her tone shifts without warning, softer now—steadier.
“Lee… in. And back out. Let all those demons out through your nose, and bring all the good karma in through your mouth.”