Chapter 23
Mondays always arrive too fast. It seems like the weekend is just an illusion of rest, because I definitely did not get any rest the past weekend.
I blush at the memory of what we did yesterday, and the day before and give my cheeks a squeeze to prevent myself from smiling.
At this point, I don’t think he’s ever moving out, and I am to blame because I haven’t even called the landlord to correct our roommate problem.
Whenever I want to bring it up to Cameron, I quiet that part of myself because secretly I’m enjoying this arrangement.
But the more I think about it, the more I realize that Cameron was never going to move in seven days. That was bull crap.
My stomach growls and I groan in exasperation. I wasn’t able to make anything tangible to eat this morning, save for the sandwich Cameron had hurriedly made for me before leaving for practice.
Ugh. Why can’t today be a holiday or something?
It doesn’t matter how much I try to savor the weekend, how much I convince myself I’ll actually rest or reset—by the time Sunday night slips into Monday morning, I’m staring down another week like a runner waiting for the gunshot at the starting line.
My alarm blares, my inbox overflows, and suddenly I’m back to juggling client expectations, vendor delays, and the politics of my office.
Except now, there’s something else gnawing at me. Something—or rather, someone—I can’t shove to the background no matter how hard I try.
Cameron.
His name alone is enough to pull heat to my cheeks.
The past week with him has been… amazing, slightly messy, confusing intoxicating and basically a roller coaster of emotions I cannot name.
I replay moments against my will: the way his eyes darken when he’s frustrated, the feel of his mouth on mine when he finally lets his guard down, the strange mix of comfort and danger that clings to him like a shadow.
I used to think my life was complicated before he came storming in, but now?
Now it feels like I’m living on the edge of something big and unstoppable.
And it terrifies me how much I don’t hate it, in fact, I look forward to spending more hours with him. It’s so bad that I literally think about him every waking moment. Everything he does to me, for me and with me.
I drop into my chair, the weight of it all pressing on me.
My little sanctuary is organized chaos with vision boards on the wall and color palettes scattered across the desk.
It should calm me, but instead, my mind keeps drifting.
Every time I try to sketch out seating arrangements or run through event logistics, I picture Cameron instead—brooding, smoking too much, pacing like a man with a storm inside him.
I feel like I’m watching someone fight a battle I can’t see.
My phone buzzes, snapping me out of it. Julia’s name lights up the screen, and I don’t even hesitate.
“Don’t tell me you’re already buried under emails,” she teases the second I pick up.
“I wish it were just emails,” I sigh, leaning back in my chair.
“It’s Monday, girl. But uh oh. That tone. Spill. And don’t you dare say it isn’t about him.”
I groan. “Julia—”
“Don’t ‘Julia’ me. You’ve been quieter than usual. And when you’re quiet, it’s either because you’ve murdered that annoying Miranda in your head or because you’re falling for someone you don’t want to admit you’re falling for. And I don’t think you could answer your phone from jail, so…”
Despite myself, I laugh. “You’re funny.”
“And you’re avoiding the question.”
I rub at my temple, staring at the peonies on my desk.
“It’s Cameron. It’s always Cameron. He’s…
he’s complicated, Julia. One second he’s vulnerable, the next he’s a fortress.
I don’t know if he’s letting me in or if I’m just…
convenient. Yesterday, we went out together and had a very passionate night together and he was just…
different. It felt like there was a switch in his head that got flicked and I just loved it.
” And him too… I think to myself but don’t say out loud.
The line goes quiet for a moment, then Julia’s voice softens. “Do you like him?”
The answer bursts out before I can swallow it. “Yes, oh my God, yes. How can I not like him? Have you seen him?” I groan.
“Well, now we know why you’re scared.”
I chew on my lip. “He feels like… fire. Warm and dangerous all at once. And I don’t know if I’ll come out of this burned.”
Julia sighs. “Brie. Protect your heart, okay? Don’t give him everything unless he’s proving he’ll give it back. You’ve worked too hard—don’t let this man become the thing that breaks you.”
“I know,” I whisper. “I promise I’ll be careful.”
After a beat of silence, I clear my throat. “Enough about me and Cameron,” I say, trying to shift the weight off my chest. “What about you? How was your last date?”
Julia groans so loudly I nearly drop the phone. “Oh God, don’t remind me. The man showed up in a neon green suit. Said it was his ‘signature color.’”
I choke on a laugh. “Neon green? Like a traffic cone?”
“Worse. Like a highlighter had children with a disco ball,” she mutters. “And the entire dinner, he lectured me about how the future of love is in the metaverse. Can you imagine? A hologram boyfriend.”
I lean back in my chair, shaking my head. “Please tell me you didn’t entertain that nonsense.”
“Entertain? Babe, I barely survived. He asked if I’d join his VR wedding start-up. I told him my Wi-Fi was too unstable for commitment and left.”
I burst out laughing, covering my mouth. “Julia, you have the worst luck. Honestly, if there’s a parade of oddballs, you’re always first row.”
She sighs dramatically but I can hear her smile. “Better oddballs than crickets. At least I have material for my memoir: ‘Dating Disasters of a Hopeless Romantic.’”
“You know what?” I tease. “You should start a podcast. The world needs these stories. I’d be your first subscriber.”
Julia snorts. “Yeah, and you’d also be my first guest because your love life is turning into a soap opera. At least with my guys, the stakes don’t involve dangerous, broody hockey players.”
“Touché,” I mumble, rolling my eyes, but the laughter bubbling between us feels like a relief. For a moment, the weight of Cameron and Miranda fades, and it’s just me and Julia, two women laughing at the absurdities of life.
I force myself to get ready as quickly as possible and get to work. When I arrive, I sift through contracts, invoices, and design boards. I’m halfway through revising a gala floor plan when a flashing alert on my screen catches my eye—one of our office’s security feeds flagged for review.
Curiosity gets the better of me. I click.
And my blood goes cold.
Miranda. In my office.
She’s supposed to be in her own corner, pretending to run her projects, but here she is on video, moving through my drawers like she’s looking for something.
She pulls out one of my finalized event contracts—the one for next month’s Randolph Foundation gala—and slips a different folder in its place.
My pulse spikes as I lean closer to the screen.
I’ve been waiting for this. Proof.
Heart hammering, I save the clip to a drive and head straight for Mrs. Randolph’s office. My hands are shaking by the time I knock, the weight of vindication and fury making it hard to breathe.
I don’t even bother knocking. I push the door open and stride into Mrs. Randolph’s office, my heart thudding so hard it almost drowns out my own voice. She’s on a call, headset perched on her hair, eyes narrowing the second she sees me.
“I’m sorry, but this can’t wait,” I say, breathless but determined. “Miranda has been sabotaging my work.”
Mrs. Randolph holds up one finger, murmurs something curt into her headset, then clicks it off. She leans back in her chair, unimpressed.
“I do hope you have a concrete reason as to why you’re barging into my office like a mad woman.”
I try to steady my breathing, “Mrs. Randolph, Miranda has been sabotaging my work.”
“Sabotaging? That’s a very serious accusation, Brie. Do you have proof?” She leans back and raises a brow at me.
“Yes,” I say, maybe a little too quickly. My hands tremble as I flip open my laptop. Finally, Miranda will be exposed. I open the folder where I saved the footage, click—and freeze.
The screen is blank. The file is gone.
“What is this, Brie? What exactly am I supposed to be seeing?” Mrs. Randolph frowns at the blank screen.
“It was just—just here,” I stammer, clicking frantically. The video, the timestamp, all of it… vanished. “I swear, I saw her. Miranda was in my office switching documents—”
“Really?”
The voice comes from the doorway. Miranda herself. Smiling, all wide-eyed innocence.
“Switching documents? Brie, that’s a serious accusation. I’d be careful before throwing my colleagues under the bus.”
I whirl on her, my blood boiling. “Don’t act like you weren’t just—”
“Weren’t what?” She steps closer, tilting her head in mock pity. “You should probably keep better track of your files. If you’re this careless, no wonder things keep slipping through your fingers.”
Mrs. Randolph folds her arms, her gaze sharp and skeptical. “Brie, accusations without evidence are dangerous. Are you absolutely sure you’re not mistaken?”
“I’m not mistaken!” I snap, heat rushing to my cheeks. My pulse feels like fire under my skin. “I saw it with my own eyes. She’s been targeting me, undermining my work, and this video––” I wave helplessly at the mocking blank screen. “It was right here.”
The silence that follows feels like a verdict. Mrs. Randolph exhales slowly, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Bring me actual proof, and then we’ll talk. Until then, I suggest you focus on your tasks instead of chasing shadows.”
Her words sting like a slap.
“You should try to be careful when making accusations, Brie—”
I whirl on her, my blood boiling. “Don’t act like you weren’t just—”
“Weren’t what?” She steps closer, tilting her head in mock pity. “You should probably keep better track of your files. If you’re this careless, no wonder things keep slipping through your fingers.”
The audacity makes my jaw drop. She’s standing here, painting me as the incompetent one, while Mrs. Randolph watches with that cool, unreadable expression.
“Enough,” Mrs. Randolph cuts in sharply, her tone brooking no argument. “This isn’t the place for drama. Brie, if you have evidence, bring it to me properly. Until then, I expect you to keep your head down and your work tight. Am I clear?”
“Yes, ma’am,” I murmur, throat tight with frustration.
Miranda’s smirk lingers as she turns to leave. But not before brushing past me, her voice low enough for only me to hear. “Careful, darling. People might start thinking you’re paranoid.”
I clench my fists, fighting the urge to snap back.
She’s good. Too good.
But she underestimates me if she thinks I’ll let this slide.
By the time lunch rolls around, I’ve made myself a promise.
Miranda might think she’s untouchable, but I’m done playing defense.
I’ve spent too long letting her throw jabs and paint me into corners, waiting for the perfect proof to expose her.
No. If she wants to make me her target, then fine.
I’ll show her I’m not the easy prey she thinks I am.
I’m reviewing a client proposal, determined to focus, when the door to my office swings open without so much as a knock.
Miranda.
She’s balancing two teetering stacks of folders in her arms, her heels clicking against the floor like a warning bell. She doesn’t even bother with a greeting—just drops the piles onto my desk with a thud that rattles my pen holder.
“There you are,” she says, all sugar-coated disdain. “Mrs. Randolph thinks these contracts should go through your eyes before anything moves forward. I told her you were… well, I didn’t want to say behind, but…” She lets the sentence trail off, flashing me a smile that could slice glass.
I glance at the documents. “All of them?”
“Yes, dear.” She props a manicured hand on her hip. “I mean, if you can handle it. You do have a reputation for getting overwhelmed.”
I set my pen down slowly, my irritation cooling into something sharper. “Funny,” I say, meeting her eyes. “Considering you’ve been spending so much time in my office lately, I’m surprised you know what your own workload looks like.”
Her smile falters, just slightly, before snapping back into place. “Careful, Brie. Accusations sound desperate when they’re coming from someone with… let’s say, limited credibility.”
“Limited credibility,” I echo, leaning back in my chair. “Right. And yet, here you are, dumping your busywork on me like I’m your assistant. Is that the only way you stay afloat? By making sure someone else drowns first?”
Her eyes narrow, the smugness slipping into something sharper. “You really don’t know when to stop, do you?”
“Oh, I know when to stop,” I say, my voice low, steady. “And I know when to start pushing back. You’ve been playing this game too long, Miranda, and I’m done letting you walk over me.”
For the first time, her smirk looks forced. She leans in, close enough that I can smell her expensive perfume, her words a hiss. “Watch yourself, sweetheart. You just might pay for your stupidity sooner than you think.”
I smile, calm and deliberate, even as my pulse thrums. “If I do, at least it won’t be because I wasted my time trying to sabotage someone else’s work. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I actually have a job to do.”
For a beat, we just stare at each other, tension crackling in the air. Then Miranda straightens, brushing imaginary lint from her blazer.
Her smirk returns, smaller, tighter. “Enjoy the paperwork,” she says, and saunters out like she owns the place.
The door clicks shut, and I exhale, my hands trembling under the desk. But for once, it’s not out of frustration. It’s adrenaline. Resolve.
Her words may have rubbed off on me the wrong way, but I was determined to make sure I get the laugh last.