Chapter 26
Evelyn
Monday
This last week felt like a stolen miracle.
A blissful, impossible bubble of love—or whatever dangerous, trembling thing sits beside it.
I’ve been happy. Truly. Painfully. Terrifyingly happy.
Every morning, I have coffee with him. Every soft laugh in my kitchen.
Every stolen kiss in hallways not meant for us.
And yes…I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Because happiness like this has never been mine forever. And today, it finally happens.
The heels are the first thing I hear. Sharp, authoritative clicks across the marble lobby floor. Not rushed. Not hesitant.
A performance. A declaration.
I look up. And there she is. Blonde. Unbothered. Effortlessly, ruthlessly beautiful. A long camel coat flows behind her like a cape. Designer bag. Perfect red lips—the kind that require maintenance, wealth, and a confidence I’ve never known.
She walks like the building owes her rent. Like the world is simply a well-lit stage designed for her entrance. She stops in front of my desk without even glancing at the surroundings. “I’m here to see Alexander,” she says, voice smooth as lacquer. “He’ll want to see me.”
No appointment. No context. Just the kind of certainty only people who've owned someone before can wield. My chest tightens. But my expression remains professionally blank. “Your name, please?”
Her smile is sharp enough to slice confidence. “Grace.”
Oh, that Grace. From the story he told me about when he got mugged. Something about her is immediately familiar—like a scent I once caught in a dream or a nightmare. Jasmine laced with something metallic. Memory coated in danger.
I glance at my screen, then back at her. “He’s in. I’ll walk you there.”
She doesn’t thank me. She just turns and walks ahead—her strides confident, elegant, cruelly graceful. Like, I’m the assistant. And she’s the queen returning to her throne.
We move down the hallway in silence. My hands are cold. Something inside me whispers wrong, wrong, wrong—but I shove it down. I do my job.
At his door, I knock once and open it. “Sir,” I say evenly. “Grace… is here to see you.”
I step aside. I see it immediately—The shift in his face. From bored professionalism…to something else. Something fractured. Something haunted.
He stands slowly. “Grace.” She beams. A sharp, predatory happiness.
“Missed me?” Before I can even process it, she glides forward, one fluid motion—leans in—and kisses him on the cheek.
Her hand lingers on his chest. Her lips brush dangerously close to his jaw.
She looks at him like she owns him. Like she never stopped.
And he…He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. Doesn’t push her away.
He goes still. Too still. And that’s all I need to see. Something breaks cleanly inside my chest—quiet, precise, a pain too sharp to make a sound.
I step back. Turn. Close the door with a soft click that feels like a goodbye. My heels echo down the hallway, but all I hear is the blood in my ears. She’s beautiful. Polished. Effortless. The kind of woman who belongs in boardrooms and penthouses and designer sheets.
Not like me. Not the girl with secondhand shoes and discount lipstick.
Not the girl with a scarred soul and a background she never talks about. Not the girl who thought—just for a second—that she might be enough.
I walk back to my desk. I sit. And I keep working. Because heartbreak doesn’t get recorded on company time.