Chapter 18
18
EB: When you’re done texting we need to talk through tomorrow’s Heimach meeting.
The message pops up on my screen the literal second my arse hits the chair. Seriously, does he have a tail on me or something? I scan the words three times and blow out an overdramatic breath, rolling my eyes as I push myself away from the desk, pick up my laptop and stride purposefully to the reception of Ignite, face-to-face with Harriet, Mr. Catcher’s assistant. Catch Group’s CEO likes to have his office next to the Ignite offices to safeguard his flagship app.
She glances up at me and then back to her computer. “Welcome to Ignite. Name, please?”
I study her in silence. “Harriet?”
She looks up again, a smile spreading across her face and pure, unadulterated joy in her voice: “Oh my God, snap! I’m Harriet too.”
“No, my name isn’t Harriet. It’s Grace. From Fate? Grace Hastings?” I clarify.
“Oh, hi, Grace.” She looks disappointed to have not met a name twin. “You don’t have a meeting, do you?”
“Um, no.” I give her a polite smile.
“Then what are you doing here?” She looks down at her keyboard and starts typing, back to being uninterested in our exchange.
I lean on the desk and speak in a hushed voice: “There’s a rumor going around the eighth floor that Ignite is run by aliens in human suits. I’ve been sent to confirm.”
She blinks at me, expressionless.
“Never mind. I’m here to see Bancroft. Is His Majesty available?” I ask.
“Right!” She laughs. “Eric is in his office. I’ll let him know you’re coming.”
“Thanks.”
She beams. “You’re welcome!”
I spin on my heel, opening the door to the main floor before Harriet calls me back.
“Oh, Grace?” I turn around expectantly. “Could you be a doll and give this to Jeffrey? You’ll pass right by his desk on the way to Eric’s office.”
She holds out a thick wedge of papers with perfectly manicured fingers. Jeffrey is the epitome of Ignite culture and he gives me, and just about every other woman in the Catch Group, serious heebie-jeebies.
“I’d love to,” I say sarcastically.
She doesn’t catch my tone but shoots me a thankful look.
Walking into the Ignite office always feels like stepping into an alternate universe where feminism never existed. I never understood why they put the Product and Development teams at the front of the office. Maybe it has something to do with their complimentary coffee and snack bar being an arm’s reach away, but the first impression it gives off is awful. They all adopt a uniform of stained meme-based T-shirts paired with baggy jeans or sweatpants, finished off with the most expensive trainers I’ve ever seen. Nothing says “I get paid a ton but don’t care enough to shower” like drifter on the top, party on the bottom.
Conversely, the women of Ignite are all immaculately styled from the highest point of their sleek ponytails to the lowest point of their stilettos.
“Gracie Hastie!” Jeffrey points finger guns at me as I walk toward his desk, making myself as small as possible.
“Jeffrey... Schmeffrey,” I wince out.
“What brings you to my... humble abode?” He holds his arms out and gestures to the four computer screens creating a glowing semi-circle around him.
“Codes to the nuclear missiles from Harriet,” I say, flopping the papers in his direction. I keep my hand as close to the edge of the folder as I can without throwing it at him the way you throw a flip-flop at a cockroach.
“Thanks, babe. You look great by the way—got a hot date?”
I look down at my outfit, a black blazer and jeans with a vintage Rolling Stones T-shirt.
“Funeral,” I respond in a deadpan tone.
“Oh, right...” He purses his lips, studying me. “Must be my funeral, closed casket because I’d be upright at the sight of you... if you catch my drift.” He winks.
“Good thing they take your eyes out first when they embalm you.”
He laughs. “You’re feisty today. If you need a shoulder to cry on just let me know.”
“Will do!” I reply sarcastically across the rows of desks; then I hesitate, feeling the hmmm of my phone searing a hole of curiosity in my pocket. “Actually, I could do with your help if you’re not too busy?”
“Never too busy for you.” He winks again.
“Great.” I flash a breezy smile. “Could you find an account for me?”
I try to keep my hand from shaking as I hold the screenshot of William’s profile out to him like a “Wanted” poster.
“Sure.” He shrugs. “For a price.”
My stomach sinks as I mentally check my bank account. “How much do you want?” I sigh, trying not to fiddle with my necklace.
He shakes his head. “Not your money, beautiful.”
I cross my arms. “Then what?”
“Four words: me, you, lobster dinner.” He grins, mouth full of coffee-stained teeth.
“How about...” I say seductively, leaning in and lowering my voice. He creaks forward in his seat to meet me. “... you do this for me and I won’t tell all my female colleagues you still live with your mother and her six cats?”
His face blanches. I don’t tell him that everyone at Fate already knows this fact, but that’s not the reason they avoid him.
He clears his throat and returns to his keyboard, not meeting my eye. “I need the phone number attached to the account.”
I pull up William’s number and read it out loud.
We remain in an awkward post-blackmail silence for a few seconds while Jeffrey’s software filters through millions of Ignite users to find the right account.
“William... Salter?” he asks.
I nod my head. “How long has he been a user?”
“Looks like he’s had an account for a few years.” His beady eyes continue to scan the account information. “Is there anything specific you’re looking for?”
My heart begins to pound so hard I can feel it banging against my rib cage. I try to keep my breathing in check, not wanting to give Jeffrey the satisfaction of seeing me squirm.
“He must have just set it up and forgotten about it,” I say more to myself than Jeffrey.
“Mmmmmm.” He squints at the screen. “Nope... he’s been pretty active since he first created the account.”
I hear the sound of a door clicking open. Jeffrey glances up briefly as Bancroft strides over to us.
“How ‘active’?” I manage to get out in a tight tone, ignoring Bancroft’s intensifying stare.
“Give me a second. His account has some extra permission barriers on it, which is unusual for this subscription level.”
“Do you have authority to get through them?” I ask, leaning toward the screen and trying to keep my tone steady.
“Grace,” Bancroft says in a soft tone over the computer screens separating us; his voice barely registers over the ringing in my ears.
“Hmm, he’s been active almost daily for about four years, aaaaand...” Jeffrey drags out the word as he scrolls down further. “... his account has been flagged multiple times during that time for sending lewd images.”
Goose bumps erupt across every inch of my skin as I stare at the lines and lines and lines of documented logins from William’s account. The ringing intensifies, a wind-up monkey banging cymbals relentlessly between my ears.
“Wait.” Looking up from his screen at Bancroft: “Isn’t this the same guy you had me look up? Couldn’t you have just sent her your file?”
The ringing stops suddenly, replaced by a deafening silence.
I turn slowly to find Bancroft, grim and stone-faced, standing a few paces away. He ignores Jeffrey’s questions and fixes his creased gaze on my prickling eyes.
“We should talk, privately.” He stalks off, hands in his pockets.
We enter his office in complete silence and he gestures for me to sit on the burgundy leather Chesterfield sofa tucked into a corner. That’s right, he not only has his own office, but an office large enough to have specific areas for business and more casual conversation.
The whole space gives off a reserved but sensual vibe that makes total sense for his brand persona. The walls are lined with matte-black cupboards and shelving. The floor is a dark brown wood, part covered with a brown and black printed rug that complements his modern wooden desk. If this room was wearable, it would be a black cashmere turtleneck. Professional but not taking itself too seriously, and very comfortable. I want to question why he used to spend so much time at my cramped, crumb-covered desk when we could have been in here, but his cool voice brings me back to the bitter present.
“Do you want a drink?” he asks, taking a seat next to me. He stares at my arm and flexes his hand, then tucks it under his own leg.
“I want you to show me whatever it is that Jeffrey was talking about,” I say, eyes fixed resolutely on the chasmic dark walls.
It feels as if I’m having an out-of-body experience but my body is also being slowly crushed by a steamroller. I’m somehow not present yet hyperaware of every speck of dust floating in the streams of harsh sunlight piercing the windows.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea.” His voice softens to melting butter.
My head turns toward him, trying to gauge how bad it’s going to sting. His expression is dancing back and forth through guilt, pity and fear all while wearing a half-functioning mask of neutrality. My face creases as I try to remain calm despite the clarifying fury rising to the surface.
“I don’t think you’re in a position to decide what is or isn’t a good idea right now,” I snap. “Show. Me,” I repeat slowly, the or else silent, but heavily implied.
His pupils constrict: lasers building with energy before unleashing utter destruction.
He sighs and clears his throat, standing up and smoothing his hands down his navy trousers. His shoulders are stiff as he pulls out a light brown folder from a tall gunmetal filing cabinet in the corner of the room. He drops it down on the glass coffee table in front of me and puts his hands in his pockets, jaw ticking as he nods to the folder. “Everything you want to know is in there.”
I stare at the Folder of Doom and then flick my eyes back up to his face. His mouth is tight, and his eyebrows creased in the middle. Maybe if I hadn’t just received a slew of messages from William about why breaking up wasn’t the best thing for either of us , I could have let this go. Could have picked up the folder, thrown it in the nearest shredder and lit the pieces up into ash. I know it would probably be better for my mental health in the long run, but that doesn’t stop my hand from flicking open the elastic clasp and letting the papers fall out across the table.
Messages, pictures and arrangements spread out over the table like photographs from a crime scene. A timeline of betrayal and deceit laid out over almost our entire relationship. Bancroft silently perches against his desk staring at his hands. The pages blur in my foggy brain into meaningless letters and skin until they start to resemble a word salad with breasts, lips and dick pics sprinkled on as dressing.
Eventually, my eyes snag on a timestamp: three days before he proposed. I rip the page from the table.
Laura: Last night was great x
William: Next week will be even better ;) x
The page drops from my shaking hand onto the floor. Bancroft and I watch it fall; then we stand in sync to meet each other. All I can hear is the giant gong banging against my brain.
I step toward him, head spinning, and with a hoarse voice that doesn’t even sound like mine I ask, “How long?”
He strides around the desk toward me, bringing his arms out to touch mine. I jump back, crossing my hands over myself. Bancroft takes a step backward and holds his hands up.
“How long have you known?” I repeat, louder this time.
The dark walls feel as if they are moving inward, pressing against me, trapping me here, but it’s my body pressing up against the hard surface of the wall.
He looks at the floor, then up at me with hooded eyes. “I found out after you’d broken up, a couple of months after we...” He pauses, trying to find the right words. “... when we weren’t on speaking terms. His account was flagged multiple times for sending unsolicited pictures and I recognized the name. I didn’t want anyone else to connect the dots and bring it up to you, so I buried it.”
I swallow the hard lump in my throat. “And you didn’t even have the decency to tell me?”
“You weren’t talking to me. You told me you didn’t want to be friends anymore,” he says matter-of-factly. “The last thing I wanted to do was cause you more pain.”
“Well, congratulations. You did an excellent job.” My voice wobbles.
I feel like a handbag being shaken upside down, everything important falling out at once and rolling under the sofa never to be seen again.
His voice softens as he looks at the ground. “I just—I didn’t know how to tell you when you could barely stand to be in the same room as me.”
“And what about now? You could have told me when I was talking about him at the gallery, or when Iris told you he’d been texting me! ” The words emerge through gritted teeth.
“I’m sorry,” he continues. “I thought... I was trying to protect you.” His usually bright eyes fill with a dark storm cloud glaze as they flick back and forth between me and the papers.
I spew out a laugh, emotion constricting my throat. “That’s what you’ve been doing? Protecting me?”
“I didn’t want you to get even more hurt than you already were. I wanted to tell you, but it just felt like I would be kicking you while you were down,” he blurts out, running a rough hand through his hair.
“Oh, so you talking shit about me in your office wasn’t doing that?”
Hastings is a clingy psycho... She’s not worth going there, not even for a quick shag. The words ring in my head, overlapping his current words like some sick chorus.
He blinks, halting his pacing. “What?”
I open my mouth and throw my hands up in disbelief, leaning against the wall as my knees begin to shake.
“Great.” I gesture to him, trying furiously to blink away the hurt from my eyes. “So you tell your whole office I’m a psycho, I’m desperate and pathetic and you don’t even fucking remember. Just... great.”
I cross my arms, cradling the part of me that feels like taking its first breath after being punched.
He furrows his brow and shakes his head in confusion. I just stare at him until, finally, his expression softens, and he steps closer.
“Grace... I didn’t know you heard that.” He rubs the back of his neck and then brings his hand to hesitantly touch my arm, the warmth searing into my prickled skin. “Would you believe me if I told you that wasn’t what it sounded like?”
My mouth is clamped shut as I stare to the side. Now that this is out there, I know anything I say will come out jerked and teary. I don’t want to give him an answer or the satisfaction. I pull my arm away from him.
“I’m so sorry,” he says, his head lowering.
“Sure you are.” I sniff, turning my head to avoid his intense stare, knowing that it will only take one look at his pained expression for me to burst.
Bancroft looks at the ceiling, curses to himself, then lowers his gaze back to me. “Jeffrey heard about your breakup and said he was going to try it with you. I didn’t want you to have to deal with his sleaziness on top of everything else, and I panicked. Admittedly, it wasn’t the best idea I’ve ever had but I said those things to put him off you. I swear to you, Grace, I didn’t mean a word of it. No one else was ever meant to hear it, I promise.”
I meet his soft, regretful gaze and sigh, feeling almost hungover from the conflicting emotions coursing through me. “That doesn’t mean it didn’t hurt.” I turn my head to wipe away an escaping tear clumsily with my palm.
His brow furrows as he takes my chin between his fingers and lifts my head to meet his eyes. “Is that why you refused to talk to me? Why you blocked me out?”
I nod, the ghosts of the shock and betrayal vibrating through my skin as though it was yesterday.
“Fuck, Grace. I thought it was because you were embarrassed about what happened with us. This whole time, we could have—Fuck, I’m so sorry.”
We stand in silence for a few moments, our heavy, panicked breathing mixing in the small space between us. I release my crossed arms and let them hang by my sides. His hands fall with them, slowly drifting down my arms as if they’re magnetically fused to me. My body heats as he takes a deep breath. “By the way, you never had to be embarrassed. Grace, if things were different that night at the Christmas party—”
“Don’t...” I interrupt, pressing my hands against his warm chest. “I don’t need your pity. I just—I need some time.”
I know I need to clear my head because I can’t fully comprehend what I’m upset about, whose betrayal hurts more. The person who tried to force me into a life he wanted or the person who kept secrets from me under the guise of “protection.” I can’t work out why Bancroft lying to me feels just as bad as William’s betrayal.
Susie has gone home for the day so I’m free to leave the office without attracting suspicion. When I finally reach my flat I let out a sigh of relief I’ve been holding in for months, but before I drop my bag on the floor I feel a hot tear roll down my cheek. Everything comes to the surface. William, Fate, Bancroft, the crushing pressure of this promotion, the betrayal, my stupidity and blindness to the obvious truth. My chest cracks open and I let out a deep sob. Just let it out, my brain says to itself, to my heart, to my entire body as it shakes and drops to the ground.