Chapter 8
Grey
He didn’t say goodnight.
But his words from this afternoon are still inside my skull, nesting there like something alive.
We’re not done with our conversation.
You’re valuable.
You’re invested.
I sit at my desk until 8 PM. Then 9 PM. Then 10.
The building empties. The lights dim. The cleaners come and go, nodding at me like I’m part of the furniture. I want to believe I can stay if I keep being perfect. Invisible. Useful. But perfection has never kept anyone.
At 10:17, I stand up.
I don’t go to his office this time, I’ve already been there. Already touched his things. Already left a piece of myself on his desk that I can never take back.
No. Tonight, I need more. I need him to have something of mine he can’t ignore.
His address is in his personnel file. I memorized it months ago. The penthouse on Madison, Floor thirty-two. It's the kind of building where doormen wear white gloves and pretend not to see what’s happening in the elevators.
I take the train, I could drive, take a cab, do any number of things that would leave a trail. But the train is anonymous. Full of people who don’t look at each other. People like me.
I get off at the 62nd Street, walk three blocks. The building appears between two others, taller, darker, it’s windows reflecting the city like eyes. I walk past the doorman like I belong here. Chin up, pace steady. The way Cain walks through the world, like every surface was built for his feet.
"Evening, sir." The doorman nods.
I nod back. Don’t stop to explain or give him a name. Names are how people track you down later, when they decide you’re a problem.
The elevator requires a keycard.
I have one.
Not the one I took from Cains desk, that one is for the executive floor at work. This one is different. This one I made myself, using the serial number I copied from his own keycard three months ago while he was on a conference call.
The elevator lights up , the doors close and then I’m rising. The hallway on floor forty-seven is quiet. The carpet so thick my shoes make no sound. Sconces on the walls, warm and low. A single door at the end of the hall, black, unmarked, closed.
I walk toward it. My heart is calm. My hands are steady. My mind is clear. This is what I’ve been waiting for. This is why I’ve been patient. Tonight, I get to be inside his life.
The lock is electronic. Keypad. His birthday? No. Too obvious. His ex-wife's? No. He hates her. The year he made partner? I type 2017. The lock blinks red. The year he got divorced? I type 2019. Green.
The door opens. I laugh, low. Of course it’s the year he got divorced. Is he lazy to change it, or does he want me to know?
Stop. Don’t start that again. He doesn’t know.
His apartment smells like him. Not just the cologne, though that’s here too, lingering in the entryway like a ghost. Something older. The smell of leather and paper and the particular warmth of a space where one person lives alone.
I close the door behind me, I want to hear if someone comes. No one is coming. He’s not here. I checked the calendar. I checked the GPS. He’s at a dinner downtown.
The entryway opens into a living room, huge windows. The same view as his office, but higher. Wider. The city sprawled out below like a circuit board, all lights and movement and distant noise.
The living room is immaculate, beige couch, glass coffee table. A bookshelf full of things I want to touch. Photographs I want to study. Objects I want to take but not yet.
First, I need to really feel him. I walk to the bedroom. His bed is unmade. The sight stops me cold. Cain, perfect, controlled, untouchable Cain, left his bed unmade this morning. He was in a hurry. Or he knew I was coming and wanted me to see.
Stop looking for messages.
I walk to the bed and run my hand over the sheets.
They’re cool. But underneath the cool, there’s a trace of warmth, his warmth.
I lie down, face up, staring at the ceiling.
My arms at my sides. This is where he sleeps.
This is where he dreams. This is where he lies awake thinking about everyone but me.
I roll onto my side. Bury my face in his pillow. Yes. God, yes. His smell is overwhelming here. Concentrated. Intimate. I breathe him in until my lungs ache.
Perfection didn’t keep my family. My old life. They all left anyway. If he finds out what I’ve done here, he can leave too. Fire me. Cut me out. But if he doesn’t find out, I’ll stay a piece of furniture in his office forever. I don’t know which is worse.
I don’t know how long I lie there. Minutes. Hours. Time doesn’t exist in his bed. Eventually, I sit up. Theres a bathroom attached to the bedroom. Marble floors. A shower big enough for the two, us. A counter covered in things I recognize: his cologne, his razor, his toothbrush.
I pick up the toothbrush. Hold it in my palm.
This has been in his mouth. I put it back.
Take his cologne instead. Spray it on my wrist and press it to my nose, now I smell like him.
I walk back to the bedroom. Open his closet.
Suits. Shirts. Shoes in neat rows. Everything expensive.
Everything chosen. I run my fingers along the sleeves of his jackets. The fabric is soft. Expensive.
The same jacket he wore yesterday. The one I held against my face in his office.
I take it off the hanger. Put it on. It’s too big.
His shoulders are wider than mine. The sleeves hang past my wrists.
But it’s warm. It still holds his heat. I button it closed.
Walk to the mirror on the back of the closet door.
I look like him. Like I belong to him. Like I could be part of his life instead of something lurking at the edges of it.
I go back to the bed. Lie down again. Still wearing his jacket. Close my eyes. If I leave nothing behind, he can keep pretending I’m just a good employee. If I leave something he can’t ignore, he has to decide what I am.
Kept. Or discarded.
Loved. Or left.
And then my hand moves. Down my stomach. Over my belt. Lower.