Chapter 18 We’re Just Friends （And Other Lies I Tell Myself）
We’re Just Friends (And Other Lies I Tell Myself)
August
Monday
The Kaplan Building is all glass. That used to be the point. Visibility. Clean lines. Nothing to hide. I built an environment where everything can be seen—decisions, movement, accountability. No blind spots. No shadows.
It works.
Until it doesn’t.
I step inside, and the building is already alive—coffee, keycards, voices overlapping, ambition moving like nobody here has time to hesitate.
And everywhere I look—
reflections.
Angles.
Sightlines that don’t let anything stay private for long.
I don’t slow down.
I don’t look around.
Because the second I do—
I’ll find her.
Harlee Prince.
I don’t need to see her to know she’s here.
My body tracks it anyway—where she stands, where she moves, how long she lingers at the coffee station before disappearing into the bullpen.
Information I should not have.
Patterns I should not recognize.
A week ago, I walked her home after Church.
That should’ve been it.
Simple. Clean. Contained.
Instead—she kissed me. And I kissed her back.
And now I’m walking into a building designed for visibility, trying to pretend nothing changed.
We labeled it.
Defined it.
Put structure around it like that would make it easier to manage.
Just friends.
Cordial at work.
No confusion. No mess.
A solution that looks clean—as long as no one looks too closely.
But that’s the problem with transparency.
Everyone’s always looking.
Every glance lasts half a second too long.
Every shift in posture reads like intention.
There’s nowhere to put something like this.
No corner to step into.
No version of this building that doesn’t reflect it back at me.
And worse—
I’m good at this.
At reading people. At catching the thing they’re trying not to show.
Which means I know exactly what I look like right now.
Controlled.
Measured.
One misstep away from obvious.
“Good morning.”
Sadie appears at my shoulder with her tablet like she’s been summoned by the exact thought I shouldn’t be having.
“Good morning,” she says, which in Sadie means: I’m already annoyed.
“Sadie,” I reply. “You look joyful.”
“Thank you,” she says flatly. “I’m here to ensure your calendar doesn’t turn into a deposition.”
I smile. “You always know how to set the tone.”
She keeps walking. I fall into step beside her.
“Also,” she says, “I implemented the shadow block.”
I blink once. “You did what?”
“The initiative you approved in Q2 and never followed up on,” she says. “Executive Shadow Block. Twice a week. Thirty minutes. High-potential employees rotate through.”
Ah. Right.
“Kelley started it a few weeks ago,” she adds. “You’re just finally participating.”
That tracks.
“It’s good for culture. Retention. Morale,” she continues.
“And it ensures access is equitable. No favorites.”
I keep my face neutral. Founder calm.
Inside, something tightens.
Because I already know who she’s trying to protect me from.
Not Harlee.
Rebecca.
People like Rebecca don’t want mentorship.
They want proximity. The kind that turns into leverage the second you’re not paying attention. She thinks she’s subtle.
I’ve seen the lingering. The timing. The way she treats attention like permission.
And that’s the problem.
She has nothing to lose. Which means she’ll risk everything for a moment I’d have to spend the next year cleaning up.
Sadie stops near the bullpen, where everyone can see everyone—privacy reduced to a suggestion.
She checks the time.
“Thirty minutes. No closed doors. Glass walls. Door stays cracked.”
“Perfect,” I say.
Her eyes narrow like she doesn’t believe me.
Then she moves on to manage my professional life—while I hold my personal one together with less precision.
Then I see her.
Harlee.
She’s at the coffee station, notebook tucked against her chest, hair pulled back—trying to be invisible.
Failing.
She turns.
Not looking for me.
But finding me anyway.
Her expression shifts.
Careful.
Cordial.
Just friends.
She walks over like she belongs here.
And whether I like it or not—she does.
Like we haven’t been orbiting each other for weeks without ever landing.
“Good morning.”
“Morning.”
Her eyes flick briefly over my shoulder—checking.
Always aware.
“I have a mentor session today?” she asks, voice low, like the building itself might start rumors.
I lift a brow. “You sound surprised.”
“I’m not surprised,” she says quickly. “I’m… confused. I didn’t sign up for—” she gestures vaguely “—this.”
My mouth curves. “Welcome to corporate. Everything’s optional until it isn’t.”
She exhales. Nods.
Accepts it.
“Okay.”
We move toward the huddle rooms, glass walls turning everything into a stage—people passing like nothing here could ever get complicated.
Safe.
On paper.
Because rules don’t erase temptation.
They outline it.
I lean back just enough to catch her eye. “Lesson one—most people think work is about competence.”
Her pen stills.
Her eyes don’t.
“It’s not?”
“It gets you in the room,” I say. “It doesn’t keep you there.”
She studies me. “So what does?”
“Judgment. Knowing when something’s off—and not reacting too fast.”
I slide the tablet toward her. “Line twelve.”
She leans in, scanning.
“This is duplicated,” she says. “Different label, same numbers.”
“Why?”
“To inflate the report. Make it look bigger.”
“Exactly.”
I watch her catch it.
“Most people call that out immediately,” I add. “Shut it down.”
“You wouldn’t?”
“Not right away.”
Now she’s interested.
“Why?”
“Because one mistake tells me something,” I say. “A pattern tells me everything.”
Her gaze sharpens. “So you let it keep going.”
“I let them show me who they are.”
That lands.
I see it.
“And then?”
“And then I decide if it’s worth addressing—or if they’ve already disqualified themselves.”
Her pen lowers.
“That’s a long game.”
“It is.”
I hold her gaze.
“The right calls usually are.”
The air shifts.
Subtle.
She glances toward the glass—then back to me.
“So this is why we’re being… professional.”
Careful.
Testing.
“I didn’t want professional,” I say. “I chose it.”
Her mouth tilts. “Same difference.”
“No,” I say, leaning forward just enough. “It means I’m choosing not to act.”
Her pen stills completely.
We hold eye contact.
Too long.
“And that’s the judgment part?” she asks quietly.
“That’s the control part.”
A beat.
“And the risk?”
There it is.
I don’t look away.
“The risk,” I say, voice lower now, “is deciding something might be worth it—and being wrong.”
Her breath catches.
Small.
Real.
Sadie’s reflection slices across the glass.
A reminder.
Thirty minutes. No closed doors. No mistakes.
The moment resets.
Or pretends to.
Harlee exhales. “She can read a room.”
“Sadie’s worried about me eating lunch.” I say, glancing at her, “not the captivating employee sitting across from me.”
That lands.
A beat.
“Captivating, huh?” she says.
I lick my lips, glance at the clock. “Send me your notes by lunch. You’re sitting in on Crane.”
I said what I said.
Not correcting it.
She rises, tablet tucked against her chest.
Lingers.
Just a second.
Then turns—back into the bullpen, back into distance, back into something that makes sense.
Just friends.
Sure.
Wednesday
The corridor outside the main conference wing is a controlled storm.
Heels striking tile. Voices layered over each other. Phones buzzing like static. Slides getting rehearsed in low, urgent tones. Egos stretching before they’re tested.
Glass everywhere.
Walls that don’t hide anything—just reflect it back at you from a different angle.
I’m good at storms.
Built one.
Taught it my name.
My phone buzzes twice in quick succession. I already know.
Harlee.
I shouldn’t open it.
I do anyway—just enough to catch the preview.
Harlee: If you say “leverage” one more time today, I’m billing you for emotional damage.
My mouth tilts before I can stop it.
I type back.
Me: That’s not leverage. That’s extortion. I respect it.
I lock my phone. Slide it back into my pocket.
Too late.
Mood shifted.
Then Rebecca appears.
Not walking—arriving.
She’s holding papers she could’ve emailed. Lip gloss fresh. Smile dialed up too high. Eyes already scanning for access.
“James,” she says, stepping into my space like it belongs to her.
“Rebecca.”
Polite. Neutral.
She laughs like I said something warmer. “I revised the Crane agenda. Thought we could go over it together. Just us—before everyone else gets in your ear.”
There it is.
The ask behind the ask.
I fight the instinct to step back.
Not because she’s intimidating.
Because she sticks.
I learned a long time ago the difference between being wanted and being respected.
One burns fast.
The other holds.
Behind her, movement—caught in the reflection of the glass before I see her directly.
Harlee.
Coming from the kitchen, notebook in hand, slowing just slightly when she clocks the scene.
She doesn’t retreat. Just watches. Rebecca notices her a beat too late. Her smile shifts—tight at the edges.
Oh. You.
Harlee gives a small nod. Polite. Clean. Untouchable. Rebecca barely returns it. A glance, not a greeting.
Like Harlee doesn’t register.
“No,” I say.
Soft. Final.
Rebecca blinks. “No?”
“We’ll review it in the meeting,” I say. “Send it to Sadie.”
Her smile flickers. Recalculating.
“I just thought it might be helpful if I caught you when you weren’t… busy.”
Her eyes flick back to Harlee.
Sharper now.
Trying to place her.
Trying to understand why she’s still standing there.
Harlee doesn’t fill the silence. Doesn’t explain herself. Doesn’t shrink.
She just stands there—spine straight, expression neutral—like she knows exactly how to exist in a room without asking permission.
That’s what makes it interesting.
I keep my tone even. “I’m always busy, Rebecca. That’s why I hire competent people.”
That lands.
Rebecca laughs—too loud, a second too late.
Then she retreats.
The hallway swallows her.
The noise rushes back in.
Harlee steps closer.
“She’s exhausting,” she murmurs.