Chapter 4 #2
I find Isabella exactly how I expect to.
One AirPod in, laptop balanced on a heap of pre-press samples, her left hand conducting silent commentary as her junior team stumbles through a pitch on Teams. She doesn’t see me at first, so I watch her work: the micro-pauses, the silent are you fucking kidding me?
raised eyebrow, the way she scrolls her phone while making the intern believe he still has her full attention. Ruthless, I think. Almost admirable.
When the call ends, she pivots immediately—all composure and perfect teeth. "Veronica! To what do I owe this pleasure?" Her voice is bright, but her body’s still braced for impact.
"Just wanted to grab you for a minute," I say. "Nothing urgent. And," I glance at the junior staff, who scatter under my gaze, " preferably in private."
She ends the call and crosses one leg over the other, her skirt riding up just enough to project power. Her nails are painted in a French fade, and she’s wearing a necklace I’ve only ever seen in Vogue editorials.
"So?" she says.
I mirror her posture. "I was talking to Lawrence this morning. We’re putting together a little work outing. Friday night."
The smile doesn’t slip, but her knuckles whiten around the pen she’s been twirling. "Work outing," she repeats, the syllables stretched thin as cellophane.
"Elise from strategy is coming with me," I say, as if it’s the most natural pairing in the world. "Thought you might enjoy a break from the grind. You and Lawrence have been practically living at Westfield when he’s not working on Bedder."
She gives a soft laugh, all breath, no conviction. "Lawrence and I don’t really… hang out. Outside of work, I mean. He’s pretty private."
I let my own laugh slip, low and complicit. "That’s what he says about you. I guess I wanted to see what the chemistry’s like off the clock." I hold her gaze, watch it flicker, recalibrating.
"Where are we going?" she asks, then regrets it in the way her voice tightens, like she’s caught herself leaning in.
"Still deciding," I say. "Someplace nice, but not stuffy. You have a preference?"
She shakes her head, just a touch too fast. "No, I’m… whatever works. Honestly, I have a ton of deliverables this weekend, but I can make it work. If you really want me there."
"I do," I say. "I’m fascinated by you, Isabella. You always seem so composed. I’d kill for your energy." The compliment is both genuine and barbed; I see her parse it, then file it under social due diligence.
She takes a breath, sets the pen down, and then, as if catching herself in the mirror, starts rearranging the clutter on the side of the table, lining up sample packets, flipping the cover on her planner closed, straightening a stack of business cards.
It’s subtle, but textbook self-soothing. "So, Friday at seven?"
"Seven," I confirm, and stand. She stands too, a beat late, and we’re nose-to-nose in the little glass cage. Her perfume is something expensive and deliberately androgynous, spice, citrus, nothing sweet.
I make a point of brushing her shoulder as I step past, not quite an accident. She flinches, infinitesimal, but I catch it.
Interesting.
After work, I kick off my heels at the door, only to line them up neatly against the wall.
I set my phone on the island, open the reservation app, and scroll through the top five restaurants in the city.
Lumière is the obvious choice: newly Michelin-starred, with a waiting list so smug it doubles as a social filter.
Luckily for me, I have connections. I want a table where every guest can see us, where every passing server can register our performance.
It takes exactly two minutes to secure a four-top for Friday at seven.
The confirmation hits my inbox with a cheery chime.
I read it twice, memorizing the details as if the email might auto-delete.
I can almost see the scene: Elise to my left, Isabella directly across, Lawrence trapped at the end with nowhere to escape.
The thought makes me smile, a real, involuntary twitch at the corner of my mouth.
I pour myself a glass of Sancerre and drink it at the window, one hip pressed against the cold frame. I go through the steps of preparation in my head, but it’s not nerves.
First: wardrobe. I’ll allow myself a little drama, a red dress I’ve worn only once, so sharp it might leave a mark on anyone who gets too close.
I pull it from the hanger, hold it to the light, and picture how it will look under Lumière’s photogenic glare.
I choose shoes to match, nothing sensible, just enough heel to put me slightly above Isabella for the evening.
Second: conversation. I practice the lines aloud in the bathroom, the acoustics turning every phrase to marble.
“How are you finding Westfield?” “You and Lawrence make such a great team.” “Did you know he’s allergic to shellfish?
” Every word is bait; every smile, a lure.
I adjust my tone until it lands somewhere between warm and lethal.
Third: composure. I check my reflection in the mirror above the vanity, eyes clear, posture straight, no trace of fatigue or anger. I want them to remember this unbreakable version of me.
Next, I run through possible outcomes: public blowup, private confession, awkward silence stretching the length of a tasting menu. I’m ready for all of them.
The wine is gone before I realize it, and my apartment is so quiet I can hear my own heart. I like the sound, it’s steady, unsentimental.
I change into the red dress, just to see. The fabric hugs every edge of me, the color so saturated it threatens to overtake the room. In the mirror, I don’t see vengeance or desperation. I see someone who has decided, once and for all, never to be blindsided again.
Once I’m done, I remove the dress and fold it over a velvet hanger before placing it at the front of the closet. I rinse the wine glass, dry it, and return it to the cart, ready for tomorrow.
The city outside is nothing but points of light now. There’s a kind of comfort in knowing exactly what comes next.