Chapter 3
Idon’t sleep, not really, but I lie to myself about it and keep my morning routine unchanged.
Espresso, shower, makeup applied in thirty precise strokes.
I choose a women’s power suit with a sharper cut than usual, the jacket tailored so tight it might hold me together by force of will.
My reflection in the elevator’s chrome is an ice sculpture of someone far more stable than I feel.
Beads of condensation still cling to the office windows when I arrive, forty minutes before anyone else.
The space is eerily silent, save for the digital thrum of the security panel as I key myself in.
I could use the quiet for one more pass at the pitch, but my mind loops over last night’s evidence file instead, all the ways I could have missed it, all the ways I still don’t want to believe.
We walk the length of the office without exchanging a word.
At the corner conference room, the one with frosted glass that does a laughable job of hiding its occupants, I stop and hold the door open for her.
Elise hesitates for a split second, reading my face, then ducks inside.
I follow, let the door click shut, and for the first time since yesterday, I exhale.
“Trouble sleeping?” Elise asks, setting her mug down.
“More like insomnia by design.” I sink into the chair, arms folded tight. The conference table gleams too bright, and in the reflection, my hands tremble.
Elise arches a brow. “Let me guess. Tomorrow’s pitch is imploding, and you’re running on caffeine and spite.”
I almost smile. “You’re half right.”
“Which half?”
“The one where everything’s going to shit.”
She chuckles, pushing her glasses up. “Welcome to corporate America, darling. Learn to compartmentalize or start packing.”
It should sound like a joke. It doesn’t. The words settle between us, dry and real. I twist my watch once, twice, the metal biting my wrist.
“I need to ask you something,” I say finally.
Her tone shifts softer. “What’s wrong?”
“Not about work.” My voice sounds foreign. “Personal.”
That earns me a blink. “You’re scaring me a little. Go on.”
I exhale, hard. “I think Lawrence is cheating on me. With Isabella.”
The pause stretches. Even the hum of the vent sounds louder, like static between radio stations.
Elise doesn’t flinch. Just a low whistle. “Well. Fuck.”
A laugh bursts out of me, too sharp. “Yeah.”
She studies me carefully. “You sure?”
“Ninety percent.” My throat tightens. “Maybe more.”
Elise leans forward, elbows on the glass. “What happened?”
“I heard them. Voices in the corridor. The conference room door wasn’t closed. I—I saw shadows.” I stop, pressing my nails into my palm until they sting. “Then he said my name.”
Her eyes soften. “Oh, Veronica.”
“I keep thinking maybe I misheard.”
“You didn’t.”
A beat.
“I wish I had.”
Elise looks down at her mug, then back up. “What do you want to do?”
“I want to confront them. Both of them. I want—” My voice breaks on the word want. “I want to see their faces.”
“Don’t.”
“Elise—”
“No.” She cuts me off gently, like she’s afraid I’ll shatter. “You won’t get satisfaction. Just lies. Denial. You’ll end up looking—” she hesitates “—emotional. He’ll use that.”
“I already look emotional.” I gesture weakly at the table. “And unstable’s the word you’re dancing around.”
She exhales through her nose. “Fine. Unstable. But smart women can be both, and still win. You need proof. Screenshots. Receipts. Something digital. Men like Lawrence never think they’ll be audited.”
I let out a shaky laugh that turns bitter halfway through. “Already ahead of you.”
Her head tilts. “Of course you are.”
Outside, the window washers drift past. Water streaks the glass, catching the light in thin silver ribbons. For a second, it looks like the skyline’s crying for us.
“You’re not paranoid,” she says quietly. “And I’m sorry you had to find out like that.”
I nod, throat tight. “At least I’ll have time to write a killer closing argument.”
Elise smirks. “That’s my girl.” Then, after a pause: “You need backup, you call me. Until then, stay quiet. Gather everything. Don’t give them a reason to spin the narrative.”
“Thanks,” I say. “For not telling me to move on.”
“Forgive, maybe,” she says, weary smile returning. “Forget? Never. That’s how we survive.”
The squeegees scrape against the glass again, screeching like punctuation.
I stand, smoothing my skirt, pretending I’m composed. “Thanks, Elise.”
“No problem.”
I leave her in the hum of the fluorescents.
In the corridor, Isabella’s silhouette glides past the break room, her laughter trailing behind her like perfume. Somewhere in this maze, Lawrence is probably drafting an email about “alignment” or “stakeholder buy-in,” blissfully unaware I’m already ten moves ahead.
The machinery outside drowns my footsteps. Nobody looks up.
I walk to my office, close the door, and start building my case.
From the thirtieth floor, the city sprawls in organized disorder—headlights threading through rain-slick streets, towers blinking Morse code across the dark. I leave the overheads off and let the world outside do the lighting. It’s enough. There’s comfort in altitude. No one can see in.
The apartment looks like it always does: curated to perfection. Two shades of gray, one violent blue. Chrome edges. Crisp lines. The kind of space people call “minimalist” when they mean “sterile.” That blue chair by the window used to feel like focus. Tonight, it’s warning.
I drop my bag on the island, kick off my heels. The floor is cold, immaculate. My reflection flickers in the oven door—pale, stretched, unfamiliar.
The bar cart waits. I pour a glass of wine, the good bottle, but it smells too sweet. I take a sip anyway. It tastes like the kind of mistake you make twice just to be sure.
The dining table sits where it always has, a slab of reclaimed wood that doesn’t match anything else. My father called it “character.” I call it heavy. I clear the mail, open the laptop, and let the hinge click echo through the quiet.
Blue light spills over my hands. Lawrence’s calendar opens first into client meetings, strategy sessions, the same lies wearing business-casual names. I start cross-referencing without thinking. Patterns emerge fast. Too fast.
Receipts. Ride shares. Hotel lunches. Repetition is its own confession.
Each new entry lands like a heartbeat I can control. I color-code them: red for confirmed, yellow for possible. I name the sheet Patterns of Deceit, because calling it what it is feels cleaner than pretending.
My phone buzzes once, a calendar reminder breaking the silence. I swipe it away. Silence reclaims the room.
I move to his iPad, still synced, still unlocked. Photos. Locations. A snapshot of a hotel bar. Isabella’s reflection in a chrome surface behind him, smiling like she’s in on a joke. Of course she is.
I switch tabs, open her Instagram. Wine glasses, city lights, “Girls’ Night.” The timestamps overlap with his expenses so perfectly it’s almost poetic.
I mark each overlap with another color—violet, maybe, the shade of bruising before it fades.
The process is methodical, almost soothing. My heartbeat slows, my mind sharpens. The pain is still there, but now it has structure.
A reflection moves across the glass window. The citylight catches the violent blue chair—electric, alive, too bright. It feels like a pulse. Or a threat.
I check the time: 3:47 a.m. My laptop hums; my wine is untouched again. The skyline is paling at the edges, turning from ink to steel.
When I match the last transaction—a hotel charge from a night he swore was an “all-hands dinner”—something inside me settles. Not peace. Just precision.
I sit back, fingers stiff from typing, eyes burning. The file is airtight: screenshots, timelines, call logs, cross-referenced down to the minute. Bulletproof.
My father’s photo sits on the shelf across from me, black-and-white, frame unadorned. His expression is stern enough to make me straighten automatically. The difference between being smart and being right, he used to say, is having the receipts.
I have them now. Every single one.
I stack the papers, close the laptop, and catch my reflection in the screen. The face looking back isn’t soft. It’s sharp enough to draw blood.
I drink the last of the wine—it’s bitter and perfect—and rinse the glass, placing it back on the bar cart like evidence returned to its shelf.
The sky shifts fully to morning.
I don’t close the blinds. I let the light find me. Exactly where I am.