Chapter 4
Chapter four
The Light Knows
Isit up straight against my headboard to smell the pillow that leaves traces of him: mint and eucalyptus. His body is creased into the memory foam.
Where did you go? I type.
Once I hit send, I bury my face in that same pillow, letting out a muffled scream before I bounce off the mattress and into the kitchen to begin my day. Even on our nights where he sleeps over, he is never lying there next to me when I open my eyes the next morning.
Just for once, if his body allowed himself to, he would see the dreams that jolt me awake at four a.m. Living alone never felt lonelier than at this time of night.
Resting my phone on the counter, I start the soundtrack of my morning. Work is in a few hours and going back to bed would be pointless.
All I need is a little Norah Jones to whisk my way into a better mood. The smell of cinnamon could cure everything. Every bit of it makes my shoulders relax as I put the tray of cookies in the oven at 350 degrees for fifteen minutes until they are ready.
I don’t even want to take a bite after the cookies finish baking, only admiring my creations as I set the cooled batch in an empty piece of Tupperware.
In my try-hard, fancy blazer and linen pants, I leave the cookies outside Ms. Silva’s door with a note—a carefully crafted note that took seven drafts, only to end up saying exactly what I wrote in the first draft.
After the cookies are dropped off, I send another message to Aidan that he’ll see whenever he decides to wake up—in his own bed.
Charlotte: Late-night drive tonight?
It seems like ages ago that we did those. Lately, I crave it.
During our first year of dating, Aidan always insisted on a late-night drive to McDonald’s whenever I was down, convinced that there was no better cure for a dreadful day than some loud music and greasy food.
Last time that happened—well, I can’t even remember. Maybe he hasn’t noticed that I’ve been off. I walk away from her doorstep with the weight of it all pressing on me, heavy and debilitating.
My thoughts have been a nonstop race where I am desperate for a pit crew—someone to hand me water and just give me a few seconds to regroup. It doesn’t help that Chris appears to be wide awake as well.
A text from him at five thirty in the morning, packed with new demands, sets off my nervous system. It’s never a good sign if I am on Chris’s mind this early in the morning.
Unfortunately for me, I don’t have the luxury to regroup. I’m back to my regular scheduled program of my everyday life.
First stop, coffee run.
My online pick-up order is ready as soon as I walk into the shop. Another day of rinse, wash and repeat.
Chris’s order is black. No extras. An order fitting for his personality.
What sane person doesn’t add anything to their coffee?
I call it a strange, acquired taste, drinking it straight just to seem cooler.
Not me, I require all the sugar and pumps of vanilla.
My order: an iced oat-milk blueberry vanilla latte with two sugars.
Pure heaven in a cup, slipped into the daily pick-up, charged to the corporate card.
My small act of selfish rebellion at Blackburn Press.
My collapsible cart is always ready to go in the mornings when I hop into my rideshare from my house to the coffee shop. I would never have enough hands for the tasks Chris assigns me, so a cart felt like the most natural thing to order on within the first month of working here.
Placing the last cup into the carrier, stacking each tray in my cart, carefully creating five neat rows of coffee, I walk from the shop to the lobby where I pray that nobody speaks or bumps into me as I head to the fifteenth floor.
When I get to our suite number, a sigh of relief always hits me. I’m giddy when I can finally start my day. I unload my cup, laptop, planner and lunch from my heavy tote, arranging my things along the edges of my cubicle as I boot up my computer.
My first order of business is to review the emails from Chris, all time-stamped before nine a.m.
Once I’m done with that, a new calendar invite catches my eye. A calendar invite was sent at 11:57 p.m. that included eight attendees to be at Giardino Segreto’s by one o’clock this afternoon.
The organizer? Holden Strauss. I am an invitee to the meeting. My shoulders stiffen as I reread the meeting instructions.
1. Pick a table near the exit sign.
2. Use the name “Lorenzo Bellarosa” when making the reservation.
3. Don’t let anyone know I will be there.
I mime slamming my head repeatedly into my computer when it hits me. This is a same-day reservation at the busiest Italian restaurant in LA…
I love my job.
And the code name? Never have I had to use one when calling up for a reservation.
It’s funny having to relay a weird, made-up Italian name over the phone to the hostess.
My body seemingly rejects it as the name barely comes out of my mouth.
She seems to notice too when she cuts me off mid-sentence.
“This seems like an important gathering. I would love to accommodate you, but I can’t make this time slot. Unless—”
“Unless what?”
“Generous tips are welcome. Digitally, of course.”
“Of course.” I pause, pulling out the corporate card.
“What’s your number?” I ask.
“234-6782.”
Once the hundred-dollar tip goes through, the call drops. I send a follow-up message to the invite that everything is secured for this afternoon.
The rest of the morning, all I can seem to notice is Chris missing from his glass box in the center of the office.
With his ominous early-morning text hanging over my head, I’ve been riddled with anxiety. He was just another prospect…
Why did Holden Strauss matter this much?
A soft chime goes off in my pocket as I reach for my phone. A new notification for the upcoming meeting appears.
Lena Davis’s name has been added to the list. One of our most senior strategists at the firm. A small smile flickers across my face.
She’s my only friend at the firm. “Friend” is a generous word, as we rarely talk outside of work. But she’s kind—and kindness is a rare commodity around here.
I roll my chair back and glide past on my way to her cubicle.
Lena’s head is buried in her laptop, fingers flying. With a hefty client roster and the clout to do whatever she wants, Lena is a workaholic who somehow always looks calm and collected.
Two a.m. calls from clients panicking over unsavory photos online barely faze her, neither do the seven-figure brand deals she pulls together with finesse. Watching from afar, it feels like witnessing someone wield magic.
Chris probably wouldn’t bat an eye if she got a DUI or tangled herself up in a romantic affair with a client. A power like that at BP was lethal. Hell, it was a powerful status to have anywhere.
I tap her on the shoulder, sparking a frantic jump.
Masking a smile, I whisper, “So, what’s going on?” She doesn’t respond, but she continues to type.
After that meeting with Holden yesterday and the dreams, I’ve felt like I’ve been regressing—unraveling quietly in my own mind. With Aidan’s focus on this new gaming company, I don’t know what to do with myself.
Lena’s the only person I trust to be honest with me. The kind of person who tells you that you have lettuce between your teeth or toilet paper on your shoe before anyone notices…
At this point, a coworker who’s been kind a few times feels like a lifeline. I clear my throat to try again. Louder this time.
“Whatcha doing?”
She is still typing when her eyes furrow slightly.
“Huh?”
She is locked into whatever she is typing. The only logical thing to do is close her laptop and signal her quietly so nobody notices.
“What was that for?” she whines.
I don’t answer verbally, only tilting my head toward the exit, playing a clumsy game of charades, signaling her to the bathroom down the main hall. You never know who is listening.
When I’m on the verge of a panic attack, every precaution is necessary. After the third attempt to get her out of her chair, we walk to the bathroom.
Lena and I squeeze into the largest stall. The stall that is supposed to be for families or wheelchairs, but now is apparently for breakdowns. I wait for a few moments until all I can hear is a pin drop.
“Look,” she says teasingly, “I’ve tried it. It’s not my thing.”
My eyebrows pinch together. “What?”
My eyes notice her hand on my shoulder. She is body-checking me.
“I don’t swing that way.”
I blink rapidly, carefully lifting her hand off my shoulder. “Oh my god—no. That’s not what this is about. At all.”
She laughs. “So what’s this about then?”
“It’s Chris. He texted me earlier, and…”
I turn my phone toward her and she recites it back to me word for word: “Study Holden. Watch the most recent media outlets. Your ideas are MINE. If you do well, this could mean big things for you. Like we have always discussed.”
Lena remains stoic. Unreadable as always. I ramble forward, unloading the recap of yesterday’s meeting.
There are no breaths in between.
“Holden basically antagonized me in the first meeting. Practically daring me to tell him what is wrong with him—and I did. I told him he needs to get his head back in the game and take his job seriously. At the end of it all, I think he told Chris that the meeting went well. Then I get this text at five thirty in the morning.”
Lena blinks furiously, taking a minute to let what I said sink in.
“You told Holden all of that?” she says questioningly. Her response alone makes me want to throw up.
“I’m just really confused why they would add me to this meeting. It doesn’t make any sense.” My foot taps incessantly against the gray and white tile. The bathroom door creaks open as another employee walks in—instantly, we freeze in place.
Lena places a steadying hand on my leg, grounding me, stopping me from shaking. I mouth a silent “thank you.”
We wait for whoever walked in to exit. Once the door slams shut, I start up again.
“What am I going to do?”