Through the Storm

chapter one

I’m Drowning

Nashville, Tennessee

I study my reflection, taking in every exhausted line etched into my face.

The harsh glare of the fluorescent lights overhead wash me out, making my already pale skin look sickly, casting my strawberry-blonde hair in an unfortunate shade of coppery orange.

My blue eyes look hollow—dimmed, distant, and ringed with shadows my concealer is failing to hide.

Even the freckles across my nose and cheeks seem muted, as if they, too, have given up trying to brighten anything.

I release a long, tired breath and turn away, pushing open the door and stepping back into the office.

The walls are gray. The carpet is gray. Both are trying their damnedest to out-dull one another. They are both succeeding.

I drag myself back to my desk and collapse into my creaky swivel chair, its cushion flattened from years of indifference. I barely have time to exhale before a voice I’ve grown to despise cuts through the air like a paper cut to the ear.

“Ramona, we are going to need you to take on the mixed-use development proposal that’s due next week.”

Alden’s voice drips with casual authority, his presence looming at the edge of my cubicle like an omen.

He leans lazily against the flimsy partition, the fragile structure groaning under his weight—much like my patience.

The harsh lights catch the waves of his slicked-back, dirty blonde hair, giving it an almost plastic sheen.

He is decked out in the classic corporate bro uniform: a crisp blue button-down, neatly tucked into dark gray dress pants, the fabric perfectly pressed, as if he spends his mornings ironing out his personality. His suede dress shoes are flawless, probably expensive, but lacking any real character.

And then there’s that smug face, paired with a chin big enough to qualify as a second ass, which honestly tracks. He’s sporting the kind of expression that screams entitled confidence, like he has never once been told no in his life.

I barely look up from my screen.

I am already juggling two other proposals—both due within the next two weeks. Managing those alone is going to be a Herculean feat, and now he is throwing another onto my plate?

Perfect.

For the past four years, I’ve been working as a marketing coordinator for a land development firm, which, if I’m being honest, is not where I imagined myself after college.

When I first took the job, I thought I’d be doing brand management, social media, maybe even some cool campaign work. You know, actual marketing. Instead, I got pigeonholed into assembling 50-page proposals, each one more mind-numbing than the last.

It isn’t what I want to do. I want to work in a creative field, something that feels alive.

I pictured myself working for a sports team or a band, maybe managing player branding or fan engagement, something fun, something that actually excites me. But it turns out that breaking into those industries is a lot harder than I expected.

I have zero bandwidth for this. But one thing about me: I have always struggled to say no, even when it comes to my incompetent boss.

I’m the reliable one, the person everyone can count on, the one who always shows up, who never lets anyone down. In theory, it’s great, but in reality? It’s a fast track to being taken advantage of.

And that happens. A lot.

But the worst part is, I don’t know how to stop.

Somewhere along the way, I became the doer in everyone’s life, except my own.

Need a party planned? I got it.

Need a ride to the airport at an ungodly hour? Sure, why not.

Need someone to build you a rocketship? I have no idea how, but I’ll figure it out before I ever say no.

Don’t get me wrong, I love helping people. I love the feeling I get when I make someone else’s day better or easier or simply make someone laugh. But sometimes, I get really tired of being a doormat.

“Sure thing, Alden,” I reply, plastering on a polite smile, forcing appreciation into my voice as if this is an exciting opportunity rather than an attempt to slowly dismantle my last shred of sanity.

Alden doesn’t even acknowledge the strain behind my words. He is already scrolling through his phone, probably crafting another half-assed email riddled with typos before strolling off to take credit for my work.

I glance at the bright red stapler perched on my desk, its obnoxious color standing out against the monotony of my workspace. A deliciously satisfying image flickers through my mind: hurling it directly at Alden’s smug face, watching it bounce off his perfectly slicked-back hair with a dull thud.

A smile tugs at my lips before I can stop it.

Tempting. So very tempting.

But sadly, assaulting my boss with office supplies would probably get me fired. Not that the idea doesn’t hold at least some appeal, considering how much I hate this job.

And unfortunately for me, I am actually really good at this job—too good, in fact. That’s how I always end up doing everyone else’s too. Doormat.

Instead of splitting tasks evenly between myself and the other marketing coordinator, Mindi, everything inevitably lands on my desk.

Because Mindi is just as useless as Alden.

I glance down at my watch—4:57 p.m.

Almost quitting time. At least it should be. Except I still have at least a few more hours of work left if I am going to get all of this finished by the due dates.

A frustrated sigh escapes me as I drop my elbows onto the desk, pressing my fingertips into my temples, trying to ease the dull ache creeping into my skull. Stress coils inside me, tightening like a vice around my ribs, forming a dense, suffocating knot in my chest.

It’s Friday night. I should be out somewhere, doing something that makes me feel alive, not trapped in this godforsaken cubicle, drowning in work I don’t get paid enough to do or even get the credit for.

I drag my gaze back to my screen, reluctance settling heavily in my bones, and brace myself for the uphill battle ahead.

With a deep breath, I roll my shoulders, crack my knuckles, and begin the slow, grueling climb. One miserable keystroke at a time.

After the week I’ve had, I am in desperate need of a drink, preferably something strong enough to erase the memory of my workload and Alden’s insufferable presence.

I have finally managed to pull myself away from my desk at 7:00 p.m., leaving the pile of unfinished work for next week’s version of me to suffer through.

My company hosts a monthly Friday happy hour, and despite my general disdain for my job, I actually enjoy seeing some of my coworkers outside of the office. With two notable exceptions.

I silently pray that neither of them has stuck around for tonight’s festivities, though when I text Kat on my way out, she informs me some of them are still “raging.” Hopefully, Alden has already stumbled out of the bar, off to find some poor soul to mansplain marketing strategies to.

I climb the stairs to The Gilded Tap, the bar our office has unofficially claimed as its own, and approach the entrance.

The heavily tattooed and bearded bouncer, a guy named Liam, barely glances at my ID before motioning me inside with a lazy wave.

I offer him a small, tired smile before stepping into the crowded space, the air thick with the scent of spilled beer and fried food.

Scanning the bar, I spot Kat nursing a beer, her straight blonde locks swaying as she laughs at something Joanie has said.

With a sigh of relief, I slip onto a stool across from them, my body already unwinding at the sight of friendly faces.

The moment they notice me, their eyes light up.

“Hey, girl!” Kat exclaims, clearly already a few drinks in.

I manage a weary smile in return.

“Please tell me you didn’t just leave the office,” Joanie scolds, swirling her whiskey before taking a slow sip. A faint imprint of her red lipstick stains the edge of her glass.

I let out an exaggerated sigh, slumping against the bar.

“I could tell you that, but it would be a lie.”

From across the bar, Steve, the owner and bartender, catches my eye. We are regulars, and he prides himself on remembering everyone’s drink orders. He raises a brow, mouthing “the usual?”.

I nod in gratitude before turning back to my friends.

“Alden is going to be the death of me.”

“He’s truly the worst,” Kat groans, her face twisting in disgust.

“Please tell me he isn’t here. I’ve seen enough of his Lannister face for a lifetime.”

“Thank God he isn’t,” Joanie assures me, but then her steel blue eyes flick over her shoulder. “But his little lackey is.”

I follow her line of sight and immediately regret it.

There, draped over some bearded man like a silk scarf, is Mindi.

To the untrained eye, you’d think the guy is her husband, the way she clutches his arm, laughing a little too loudly, lips brushing dangerously close to his ear.

Except he isn’t her husband. And she isn’t his wife. No, he is a client, one of our company’s biggest accounts.

Which is already morally murky. But add in the fact that both Mindi and Mr. Big Account are very much married with children, and it becomes downright repulsive.

I make a face of pure disgust, my stomach turning at the spectacle.

Steve miraculously appears at my side, personally delivering my glass of prosecco with a flourish. Sensing my immediate need for alcohol, he gives me a small, knowing bow before disappearing back behind the bar.

I lift my drink, muttering a “bless you” under my breath before taking the first glorious sip.

I sit my glass on the table, the golden bubbles catching the dim glow of the bar lights, and snap a quick pic for my Instagram story. It’s been a week.

I take another slow sip, savoring the crisp bite of the drink, letting it burst against my tongue as the bar hums around me—laughter, clinking glasses, the faint bass of a classic rock song vibrating through the floor.

Then comes the ping of my phone. I sigh and pull it from my blazer pocket; my stomach tenses.

Heidi: I thought you said you couldn’t go out tonight.