2. Cloe
CLOE
The elevator dinged.
I stepped out onto the same floor where I’d been humiliated less than twenty-four hours earlier—and the air felt colder.
It wasn’t just in my head. The lights seemed dimmer. The marble under my heels sharper. The silence heavier. Like the whole building had shifted itself one inch farther from me, like it had decided I didn’t belong and was now adjusting accordingly.
I clutched my bag tighter to my side, my knuckles whitening. My heels scuffed softly against the polished floor, not bold enough to echo like they had yesterday. I didn’t want to be heard this time. I just wanted to survive the next eight hours without bleeding all over someone’s designer carpet.
Today I wore the nicest thing I owned before last night. An off-white blouse that wrinkled no matter how many times I ironed it, with a seam that puckered awkwardly under my right shoulder blade. A navy pencil skirt that clung too tightly to my hips, climbing higher with every step.
The elastic in my stockings was tired. I could already feel it giving up on the left side. But there was nothing left to replace it with. I couldn’t afford another run. Couldn’t afford another mistake.
Not after yesterday.
Not after what I said to Barron. What Wolfe had seen in my face. What I offered—whether I meant to or not.
I reached the reception desk and forced a breath into my lungs. The receptionist today was different. Younger. Polished. Cold .
She glanced up from her screen with the exact kind of precision that made it clear she’d been trained not to smile unless necessary.
Her foundation was matte. Her liner perfect. Her bun flawless. She didn’t offer a hello.
“Name?” she asked.
“Cloe Woods.”
She blinked once. No flicker of recognition. She typed my name like she was logging a complaint.
“New hire?”
The way she said it made it obvious she didn’t believe me.
I nodded anyway, trying to sound steadier than I felt. “Intern, I think. I’m supposed to be meeting with…”
I trailed off.
Because the truth was—I didn’t know. No one told me who I’d be reporting to. No welcome email. No folder. No first-day checklist.
I was a stray someone had let in through the side door, and now everyone was pretending not to see the dirt on my shoes.
The woman typed something else. Her nails clicked against the keys with tiny, deliberate stabs.
“Go through,” she said. “Office C. Third on the right.”
That was all.
No badge. No instructions.
Just a direction.
I mumbled a thank-you and turned, heels wobbling slightly as I moved.
The hallway looked even longer than it had yesterday. The walls were too white. The light too bright. The air too clean. It felt like a hospital pretending to be a jewelry empire.
I passed two glass offices—each one sleek, occupied, silent. I didn’t look too closely. I didn’t want to see who was inside. I didn’t want to see who was watching me.
I stopped in front of Office C.
It wasn’t an office.
It was a storage closet with a desk shoved inside.
The light above flickered. The chair squeaked.
The desk was shoved so far back into the corner that my knees hit the metal lip every time I tried to sit.
And there were no drawers—just hollow shells, stripped clean like someone had emptied the whole thing out for me without thinking I’d actually need it.
Like someone didn’t expect me to last long.
A sticky note had been slapped crookedly to the top of the monitor:
CLOE WOODS.
Not printed.
Handwritten. Black Sharpie. Block letters like a warning.
No title. No department. No designation.
Just a name.
Just mine.
Naked. Unclaimed. Floating in a place where nothing belonged to me.
I dropped my bag beside the desk and lowered myself into the chair. It groaned in protest, the back tilting at an angle that made me feel like I was on the verge of falling.
Everything smelled like toner, dust, and old coffee. Like broken promises and bureaucracy.
I pressed the power button on the computer.
The screen lit up. Loading.
And loading.
And kept loading.
The Lawlor empire had cameras in every corner. I was sure someone somewhere was watching this and taking notes. Seeing if I’d curse. If I’d give up. If I’d start crying.
I didn’t do any of those things.
I just sat.
Waited.
Pretended I knew what I was supposed to do.
I pulled out my notebook from my purse and laid it gently beside the frozen screen. Opened it to a blank page and clicked my pen, the sound echoing too loud in the silence of the office.
I started to write a heading—my name, the date, a vague attempt at looking productive. But my hand didn’t move. The words didn’t come. And the screen didn’t change.
I leaned back slowly. The chair gave another pathetic squeak, tilted too far, and for one sick second I thought it might give out beneath me. My heart leapt. My body tensed.
But it held.
Just barely.
Was this a test?
A punishment?
A joke?
My cheeks flushed. My body went hot and clammy. I felt like I was shrinking into the vinyl seat. Like I was a ghost already halfway out of the building, and no one had even needed to push.
People passed the doorway without looking in. The soft tap of expensive heels. The murmur of voices. The rhythmic clack of keys. Laughter somewhere down the hall, filtered and soft like it didn’t belong to me. Like I couldn’t ever reach it.
I sat in a world apart. No one poked their head in to check on me. No one welcomed me. No one handed me a schedule or login credentials or a flimsy plastic badge.
I had no tasks. No assignments. No guidance. Just a name taped to a monitor and a screen that refused to load.
I shifted again. My skirt rode higher. I tugged it down. It caught on the edge of the chair, dragging fabric against skin. I touched the hem like it mattered. Like it gave me control over something. But it was already as far down as it would go.
The office wasn’t quiet. It was full of noise. Phones ringing. Printers humming. Footsteps. Conversations that turned to whispers when someone important walked by.
But none of it touched me. It passed right over me. Around me. I wasn’t a part of it. I was background. I was exile.
After twenty minutes of pretending to be busy, I gave up. The screen was still spinning. The fan inside the CPU clicked twice—soft, broken. Like it was tired of trying, too.
I pushed back from the desk and stood. My knees cracked. My legs were stiff. My back ached from holding my posture like a shield. And I couldn’t sit there any longer.
I needed to breathe. Or scream. Or disappear. So I wandered. I was a ghost in kitten heels.
I drifted down the hallway like I had no weight, no anchor—just a body moving on autopilot through a world that didn’t want to acknowledge I existed. I passed glass conference rooms, each one gleaming with polished furniture and people who fit into this world with ease. Not me. I kept moving.
Marble counters. Gold-trimmed plaques. The walls were lined with magazine covers and business awards. Their name was everywhere. Their legacy encased in glass.
The Lawlor brothers in every frame.
Barron’s stare on the cover of Forbes—cold, unwavering .
Royal on GQ, grinning like he’d stolen something and dared the world to take it back.
Loyal—softer, in a way—caught in a candid photo from a charity gala. Smiling with someone who looked like they belonged.
And Wolfe?
Always in the background.
Always shadowed.
A shape just beyond the light.
And then I saw her.
The photo stopped me like a slap.
It was framed in silver. Smaller than the others. Mounted delicately in an inset alcove across from the executive elevator—subtle, easy to miss unless you knew where to look.
But I saw it.
Her.
Hair swept to one side. Shoulders bare. The sapphire gown clinging to her like it had been painted on. Her mouth wide with laughter, her eyes squinting like she couldn’t contain her joy.
Alive.
So blindingly alive it made something in my chest split open.
Camille.
Her name hit me like a breath and a blade.
My best friend.
My almost-sister.
The girl who once swore she’d never leave me behind.
And did.
Or maybe... I left her.
The last time I saw her, we argued.
Over nothing.
She wanted to take me out—some party, a rooftop lounge opening. Something loud and ridiculous and beautiful in the way everything she touched was.
I had the flu. Couldn’t keep down water. Couldn’t sit up without shaking.
I told her to stay. To skip it.
“I’ll stay,” she said, brushing my curls back from my face. “It’s not important.”
But I told her to go.
I told her I’d be fine.
She kissed my forehead. Laughed.
“One drink. I’ll be careful.”
That was the last thing she ever said to me.
I reached out without thinking. My fingertips grazed the edge of the frame. Cold glass. Warmer metal. I didn’t touch her face. Couldn’t. I pressed my fingers to the background, to the shadow behind her, like maybe I could absorb the moment she existed into my palm.
A lump built in my throat. Thick and useless. I wanted to press my forehead to the glass, to say something—anything—but the words wouldn’t come.
What could I say?
I’m sorry I didn’t make it to the funeral until the last minute?
I’m sorry I left the reception without a word?
I’m sorry I couldn’t face what you became—ashes and memory?
I swallowed it all.
Like I always did.
I didn’t hear the footsteps behind me until they stopped just a few feet away.
A pause.
No movement.
Just presence .
Then—
“She hated that photo.”
I turned slowly.
Loyal stood with his hands in his pockets. His tie was half-loosened, his hair slightly rumpled, like he’d run his fingers through it one too many times today. He wasn’t smiling.
“She said it made her look too polished,” he added. “Said she looked like she belonged to someone else’s life.”
His voice cracked a little. Just a hairline fracture.
He gave a bitter smile. “I liked it. She looked happy.”
I nodded.
Too hard. Too fast.
“She was,” I whispered.
The air shifted between us.