CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
CATHERINE
I stand in front of the towering skyscraper, sunlight flashing off mirrored windows so bright I have to squint.
The bold square letters of the Camdon Corp logo loom overhead like they’re judging everyone who walks beneath them.
Heat clings to the city streets, thick and humid, carrying the scent of exhaust, concrete, and something vaguely metallic.
Goddess, I’d gotten so used to Crescent Cove.
To salt-heavy sea air and ocean wind curling through open windows. To streets humming with magic beneath my feet. Compared to Crescent Cove, the city feels grimy. Hollow. Like someone scrubbed all the enchantment out of the world and left only steel and smog behind.
“You’ve got this, Cat,” I murmur, more command than encouragement as I straighten the lapels of my blazer.
The outfit had seemed perfect this morning—professional, tailored, elegant. The kind of outfit worn by women who knew exactly what they were doing. But now sweat prickles at the base of my hairline despite the sleeveless dress beneath the jacket. My palms are damp. My pulse won’t slow.
The anxiety in my stomach twists tighter.
Maybe it’s because this interview suddenly feels bigger than a job.
Like proof.
Proof that I can survive outside Crescent Cove. Outside magic. Outside him.
I push the thought away immediately.
The double doors slide open before me, and icy air conditioning blasts across my skin hard enough to raise goosebumps. I step inside, heels clicking sharply against polished marble floors, and head straight for the gleaming stainless-steel elevators.
My fingers nearly slip on the button for the thirteenth floor.
Of course this building has a thirteenth floor.
Didn’t anyone here have even a shred of magical sense? Most magically inclined architects skipped straight from twelve to fourteen. Why tempt fate unnecessarily?
“I’m not going to let that deter me,” I whisper under my breath, though the words sound thin.
The elevator doors slide shut. As the car rises, I catch my reflection in the steel—slightly flushed cheeks, shoulders too tense, lips pressed together harder than necessary. As if all the tension I’d let go over the past month and a half came flying back in a single step.
Breathe.
I inhale slowly, but my chest still feels tight.
Soft instrumental music drifts through the elevator, faint enough that I almost miss it at first. Then recognition clicks into place.
“Wouldn’t It Be Nice.” The Beach Boys.
The same song that played during that first dinner at Elliot’s house.
My stomach flips for an entirely different reason.
“Nope,” I mutter quickly, shaking my head as if physically dislodging the memory will help. “Absolutely not.”
The elevator dings. The doors slide open onto the thirteenth floor, and my pulse spikes again. Every breath feels too shallow as I step out. My sweaty palms tighten around the strap of my bag while I smooth my expression into something hopefully resembling confidence.
The receptionist looks up from behind her pristine white desk.
“May I help you?”
Her dark hair is twisted into a severe bun, her expression perfectly composed and utterly humorless. Even the space around her feels sterile—white walls, silver fixtures, not a trace of charm or magical energy anywhere. Not even a hint of anything remotely hers.
The entire floor feels dead in a way Crescent Cove never could.
“Ah, yes. I’m Catherine Prescott. I have an interview at one with Mr. Mallory.”
She glances at me before turning back to her computer, fingers clicking rapidly across the keyboard.
I wait as patiently as I can, trying not to shift my weight from foot to foot like an anxious child. Trying to project calm professionalism instead of the violent, oceanic turmoil churning through my chest.
“Take a seat. Mr. Mallory will be with you shortly.”
She gestures toward a row of stark white square chairs lining the wall.
Of course they’re uncomfortable-looking.
I make my way over, painfully aware of how loudly my heels crack against the marble floor in the cavernous lobby.
Every step echoes. The entire building feels too polished, too sterile.
Crescent Cove would’ve filled a space like this with driftwood accents, sea glass, soft blues and greens. Something warm. Something alive.
I lower myself into one of the chairs.
Instant regret.
Within moments my lower back aches and my legs feel stiff from the awkward angle. I cross one leg over the other, then uncross it a second later, smoothing invisible wrinkles from my skirt before folding my damp hands in my lap.
Across the room, the receptionist sits perfectly straight behind her desk, eyes glued to the monitor, fingers still flying across the keyboard.
Not a single personal item anywhere. No photos. No plants.
Nothing.
And suddenly, without warning, loneliness crashes into me hard enough to steal my breath.
I miss Mango and his dramatic little sighs whenever dinner is five minutes late.
I miss Gin trying to steal food off my plate when she thinks I’m distracted.
I miss the smell of saltwater drifting through open windows.
I miss Elliot.
The realization hits like a wave against my ribs.
What am I doing here?
I already spent years clawing my way up one corporate ladder just to get shoved back to the bottom the second a merger made me inconvenient. Endless overtime. Office politics. Pretending exhaustion was ambition.
Did I really want that life again?
“Miss Prescott?”
I blink, jerking back to the present.
The receptionist gestures toward the hallway behind her.
“Mr. Mallory will see you now. Second door on the left.”
My stomach twists as I push to my feet.
I follow her directions and stop in front of a massive wooden door, smoothing my sweaty palms against my skirt before knocking twice.
“Come in,” a deep voice booms.
I push open the door and step into a sprawling office lined with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city below. Cars crawl between skyscrapers like ants. The skyline stretches endlessly grey beneath the afternoon haze.
A miniature putting green sits off to the left, mid game, complete with scattered golf balls and a tiny red flag.
The massive mahogany desk dominating the room somehow manages to look both expansive and strangely bare. No computer monitor. No sleek tech setup. Just a corded rotary phone, a framed photo turned away from me, a single manila folder, and a crystal paperweight.
Behind the desk sits Mr. Mallory.
He’s older than the polished company photos suggested, dark hair streaked heavily with silver, deep creases around sharp eyes and thick brows, a neatly trimmed mustache peppered grey.
But there’s an alertness to him that makes me straighten instinctively.
“Sit down.”
I lower myself gratefully into the leather chair across from him, silently thanking every sea deity alive that it isn’t another rigid plastic torture device.
“You have an impressive résumé, Miss Prescott.” He flips open the folder.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Almost too impressive.”
The comment catches me off guard.
He rises from his chair and walks toward the windows, clasping his hands behind his back.
“I’ve been CEO of Camdon Corp for nearly twenty years. Did you know that?”
“Yes, sir.”
After getting the interview invitation, I’d spent half the night researching both him and the company.
“Of course you did.” There’s amusement in his voice now. “You’re hardworking. Thorough. Persistent. According to your former employer, you don’t back down from a challenge.”
My brows pull together.
“I called your old boss.”
The bottom drops out of my stomach, heat rushing to my face as a faint ringing starts in my ears.
Of course he did.
This wasn’t some entry-level receptionist interview. This was a lead marketing position. A high-level executive role. They were going to investigate every part of my background.
I force myself to focus as he continues.
“It’s a shame about the merger,” he says. “Greg told me you’d have replaced him when he retired if corporate restructuring hadn’t happened. Said his hands were tied.”
I stare at him.
“Wait… he said that?”
Because that didn’t match the version of Greg I knew.
The man who pushed harder every time I succeeded. Who critiqued every campaign. Who rarely offered praise.
Mr. Mallory turns back toward me, leaning one hip against the edge of his desk.
“Yes. Apparently he considered you one of the best employees he’s had in years.”
I don’t know what to do with that information. It rattles around my chest uncomfortably, colliding with years of resentment and self-doubt.
“So.” He studies me carefully. “With a background like yours… why Camdon?”
A thousand polished interview answers rise to the surface. Growth opportunities. Company values. Innovation.
But none of them make it past my lips.
Instead, I see Elliot grinning at me across the kitchen counter while we chopped vegetables together. Feel cool pool water splashing my skin while he praised my efforts instead of demanding more as he taught me to swim.
I think about Crescent Cove. About sea turtles. About mornings on the beach instead of fluorescent office lights.
Did I really want to spend the rest of my life trapped in boardrooms and quarterly reports?
Then I remember the banner hanging outside town advertising the turtle sanctuary. Camdon Corp listed as one of the sponsors. Ocean cleanup initiatives. Waste-removal systems.
That was why I’d applied.
Not because I wanted the city back.
Because I wanted purpose.
I rise slowly to my feet before I can second-guess myself.
“Because, Mr. Mallory, I grew up in a small beach town three hours south of here.” The words come faster now.
More honest than rehearsed. “Camdon Corp develops oceanic waste-removal systems that actually help marine ecosystems. With my marketing background and my passion for the ocean, I thought maybe I could help bring attention to something that matters.”
He watches me carefully.
“Anyone can crunch numbers and turn them into a presentation,” I continue, my pulse pounding harder with every word. “But I can bring firsthand experience. Passion. I know what’s at stake when these ecosystems are damaged in my own backyard.”
Emotion thickens unexpectedly in my throat.
“But…” I swallow hard. “I don’t want the life I used to have anymore. I don’t want fifty- or sixty-hour workweeks where everyone’s stabbing each other in the back just to climb higher. I don’t want to spend every day trapped behind a computer screen.”
I draw a shaky breath.
“I want my toes in the sand. I want to actually make a difference.”
Silence fills the office.
A clock ticks faintly somewhere behind me.
For one horrifying second, I’m convinced I’ve completely ruined the interview. At the same time, I feel relieved. I don’t want to be trapped in this city a moment longer in these too-tight dress heels and suffocating blazer.
I want to be home.
Then Mr. Mallory smiles.
Slowly at first.
Then broadly.
“Well, Miss Prescott,” he says, “that is exactly why we want you.”
I blink.
“What?”
“I’d like to offer you the position of Chief Marketing Executive.” He folds his hands together. “Remote.”
My brain short-circuits.
“Remote?”
“You’d come into the city once or twice a month for meetings and attend two yearly conferences, but otherwise you’d work from wherever you’d like.” His eyes gleam knowingly. “Preferably somewhere with sand, apparently.”
I can only stare at him.
“Wait… really?”
“Yes, really.” He glances at the watch on his wrist. “Now, unfortunately, I have a very important meeting with my grandchildren in”—he checks the time again—“forty-three minutes, so HR will handle the remaining details.”
I’m still standing there in stunned silence as he walks me toward the door.
“You’ll hear from them within the week regarding salary and benefits,” he adds. “Though I suspect you’ll find both acceptable.”
Acceptable.
I nearly laugh.
By the time I make it back through the pristine lobby and out onto the humid city sidewalk, it takes every ounce of restraint not to outright sprint down the block.
The second the building disappears behind me, I yank my phone from my bag with shaking hands.
My heart pounds for an entirely different reason now as I pull up Elliot’s contact.
I got the job.
And all I can think about is getting back to Crescent Cove early to celebrate with him.