Chapter 4
* * *
Barely two hours after I’d wrestled Candace into the guest bedroom, the alarm carved through the dark. My eyes burned with every blink. I pressed my palms to them until stars burst behind the black.
The lock screen flared to life—overnight emails, calendar pings, investor prep. Noise I expected.
But at the very top was something else.
CoreConnect.
A groan slipped out. “Oh, for the love of God.”
The app opened in a wash of light. Sleek serif font. Grayscale palette. A faint pulse behind the words: Smart matchmaking for the exceptional people.
My brows edged up.
Not “Find your forever.” Not “Love awaits.” Exceptional people.
Typical Candace.
I could practically hear her voice, smug and bright. “See? It’s classy. You’ll thank me when you marry a venture capitalist.”
I scrolled through the profile she’d built, braced for damage. Career. Hobbies. A quote she’d lifted from one of my old interviews, answered with unnerving certainty.
“Success is built, not inherited.”
The photo loaded last.
A blurred black-and-white side shot. Hair pinned back. Gaze angled down. Mysterious. Intentional. Curated into something softer, quieter, more desirable than I ever felt.
I buried my face in a pillow.
The phone buzzed again.
CoreConnect: You have 3 new matches.
“Already?” The word came out rough with sleep. “God help me.”
The first profile opened—only to satisfy curiosity, I told myself.
Ethan, 36. Looking for something fun, not forever.
The photo: bathroom mirror shot. Flash over one eye. Flexed arm. Towel riding strategically low.
The abs were… respectable.
One brief, shameful second of appreciation before swiping left.
Colt, 39. I like fishing, shooting, and women who don’t complain.
The photo loaded like a warning. Shirtless, clutching a fish bigger than his ego.
Swipe.
Read, 34. Looking for long-term commitment. I enjoy travel, Thai food, and good documentaries. Biggest inspiration: my mother.
No face. Just a photo from the neck down—an undone white button-up, sleeves rolled, throat visible. Olive skin against crisp fabric. Hands resting loosely on a desk, veins faint beneath the surface.
His bio was simple: I take great pride in my work, and it takes up a majority of my time. I’m looking for someone equally dedicated in their own life.
I read it twice, looking for red flags. Nothing flowery. No filters. On paper, he was infuriatingly perfect.
A brief spurt of interest hit my veins before I shook it off. “Nope,” I said under my breath. “We’re not doing this.” The phone landed beside me with a muted thud—
Then buzzed.
CoreConnect: Match confirmed.
My stomach dropped. “What? No, no, no—” I snatched it back.
The screen glowed.
Read: Good morning, E.
“Oh, my god.” Mortification flooded through me, and I tossed the phone on the blanket.
This time it landed face-up, clock reading 5:56.
Two hours until Elion.
The kitchen greeted me in a haze of golden light and the scent of mushrooms and garlic.
“Morning, Ms. Sinclair.” Susan offered a knowing look—dark brown pixie cut, lean frame, and the kind of callused chef’s hands that spoke to years behind a stove. I’d hired her when Elion finally took off, a quiet way of telling myself I’d earned softness. “Rough night?”
My face twisted. “Is it that obvious?”
“Absolutely.” She laughed, then lowered her voice. “I saw the guest-room door cracked. I left her lemon water and Tums. I made her a mushroom, spinach, and green juice. And your usual avocado toast, egg, and microgreens.”
A meal prepared from experience. Candace was all about strict diets and clean slates. But after last night’s twelve-cookie spiral, I could already hear the apology tour winding up. I’d tell her it didn’t matter. She’d nod, pretending to believe me. We both knew the script.
By the time I’d eaten, packed, and claimed my seat in the car, the notification wall had rebuilt itself—three voicemails, twenty-seven flagged emails, two texts, and the CoreConnect icon glowing like an accusation.
Voicemails first, I told myself, mentally triaging.
Kevin: Minor redlines on Calyx positioning.
Sarah: Confirming the 10:15 with Kevin and Jennifer.
Next, texts:
Jennifer: Let’s review the Falkirk brief today. I have post-investor edits.
Me: Okay.
Sarah: Sam is asking for five minutes before the 10:15. 10:05 OK?
Me: Yes. Thank you.
I slipped my phone into my bag as we pulled up to Elion.
Sarah waited by the elevator, tablet in hand, expression sharp with organized urgency. “Good morning, Ms. Sinclair, your morning coffee is on your desk. I shifted your schedule—Sam at 10:05, Kevin and Jennifer at 10:15.”
“Thanks,” I said with more enthusiasm than I felt as the elevator doors slid shut.
Upstairs, peonies and rich coffee softened the edges of glass and steel. Kevin’s overnight PDF got a quick skim—most redlines approved, one roadmap phrase swapped out—less scalability, more strategic flexibility—before sending it back.
At 10:05 on the dot, a single knock cracked against the door.
“Come in.”
Sam, head of metrics and efficiencies, stepped in, sleeves rolled, tie slightly askew.
“Morning.” He held up his tablet. “CND Projects is melting down again. Their system keeps erroring out. I can either do a quick fix that’ll hold for now or rebuild the connection from scratch.”
“Timeline?”
“The quick fix is done today. Rebuild takes about three days.” He hesitated. “If I’m being honest, the quick fix looks faster from the outside.”
“And from the inside?”
His mouth quirked. “Inside? It’s like slapping lipstick on a corpse.”
“Rebuild it. Elion doesn’t ship half-finished anything.”
His brows lifted, a flash of admiration—or wishful thinking—crossing his face. “Noted. I’ll loop in Martinez. We’ll just call the delay a proactive upgrade.”
“Good. And next time? Don’t wait for me to approve it. You already know what I’m going to choose.”
His grin broke wide. “I just like hearing you say it. Makes it official.”
“Get out of my office,” I teased, shooing him away.
He laughed, tablet jostling against his stomach. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Sorry about that,” Sam managed, nearly colliding with Kevin in the doorway.
Kevin waved him off. “No problem. I like to sneak up on people.”
“We were just walking through the CND Projects issue.” Sam chuckled, recovering quickly. “Deployment’s stable by Monday. You’ll have the updated report before lunch.”
“Good. Nice work,” Kevin said, impressed.
Sam offered a mock salute. “Just trying to keep us off fire watch.”
As he disappeared down the hall, Kevin glanced back at me with a crooked smirk. “He’s a good one.”
“Yeah, he is,” I agreed, attention already drifting toward my phone and the message I’d left unanswered.
Kevin dropped into the velvet chair across from my desk with a grunt belonging to someone who’d slept less than five hours. “So…” he began, rubbing the back of his neck.
“I know,” I cut in. “I saw them.”
His hand paused. “You did?”
“I did. Reviewed everything, sent back notes and approvals.” I took a long sip of coffee, savoring the hazelnut.
“Seriously?” He blinked. “Then why am I here?”
“I have no idea,” I said lightly.
He huffed a laugh and pushed to his feet, but before he could escape, Jennifer appeared—perfectly timed, as always.
“Nuh-uh,” she said, blocking the doorway with a manicured hand. “You’re not getting away that easily.”
Kevin looked back at me with exaggerated sitcom-coded despair. “Help,” he mouthed.
A shrug was all I offered.
He turned back to Jennifer and sighed dramatically. “Yes, ma’am.”
She rolled her eyes, plucked the coffee from his hand to take a sip, and started down the hall.
Kevin trotted after her, grumbling something about tyrants in heels. Their voices faded into the city noise beyond the glass.
* * *
By four, everything on my checklist had been cleared. Every call answered, every deck reviewed, every line item checked off.
Nothing left to hide behind.
My eyes traveled to the dark screen again. Read’s unanswered message from this morning felt like a character accusation. Every hour I’d let it sit made the internal chorus louder, fueling the hate and criticism they spewed.
I scanned the room, searching for anything else to keep me busy, but nothing surfaced. Even the plants had been watered, though it did nothing for their health. Their leaves withered under the artificial light.
So, with resignation, I gave up, packed, and let Harold escort me home.
Traffic did what New York traffic does—the closest thing to quick the city allowed. We crept through a sea of yellow cabs and delivery trucks, the city’s neon glow flickering across the window as I tried—and failed—to still my thoughts.
“In the shower,” Candace called from down the hall, her voice floating over the steady rush of water as I stepped from the elevator.
The smell of umami drew me toward the kitchen, curling through the air.
“Good call on dinner tonight,” Susan said, dropping fresh linguine into a pot of boiling water.
“I thought she’d appreciate it. Plus, I was craving it,” I admitted with a shrug.
Susan’s chuckle followed me as I plopped onto the couch. My phone rested face down, my hesitation mirrored in its silence.
Work couldn’t save me now. I reached for it, the app opening with a twist of guilt. His message waited at the top: Good morning.
A morning that was long gone.
With damp palms, I typed the only safe words—small, neutral, pathetic in their simplicity.
Me: Good afternoon.
It found the cushion again, bracing for delay—for him to make me wait the way I had. If he even responded.
The screen flared. Bright as a struck match. I jumped.
Read: Hi
Read: Sorry, good afternoon. I’m happy to hear from you.
Heat climbed my neck.
Another flash.
Read: How was your day?
“Oh shit,” I whispered into the empty room.
Me: It was okay. A bit stressful, but nothing out of the norm. How was yours?
Read: Mine was about the same.
His message was simple. Unforced. Effortless in a way mine weren’t.