9. Chapter 9
Chapter nine
~DARCY~
This is a nightmare.
It's Thursday morning, eleven AM, and I am crouched behind the reception desk trying to make myself as small as possible while two men in expensive suits stand fifteen feet away in the lobby waiting for Declan.
Ricardo Dominguez and Alexander Webb.
I know them both.
Ricardo used to come to our house in Miami for my father's poker games. Alexander sent me a graduation gift when I finished undergrad — a Tiffany bracelet I gave to Goodwill the day I left Florida.
They know me as Darcella Cole.
Richard Cole's daughter.
And if they recognize me here, everything I've built in the last twelve months — the name change, the distance, the meticulous construction of Darcy Madison — falls apart.
I'd been at the desk when they walked in. I'd looked up with my business smile ready and almost made eye contact with Ricardo before my instincts kicked in.
I'd dropped a pen. Ducked down to "retrieve" it.
And now I'm here, behind this desk, trying to figure out how to get to the back hallway without being seen.
The problem is that the back hallway requires me to cross twenty feet of open lobby.
The other problem is that I can hear Declan's voice now, greeting them, apologizing for the delay, and any second he's going to walk them past this desk and see me crouched here like an idiot.
I need to move.
Now.
I grab my phone — because leaving it would be suspicious — and I'm about to make a run for it when I hear footsteps.
Coming toward the desk. Coming fast.
I look up.
Declan is standing on the other side of the reception desk. Dressed to kill in a dark navy suit, his stare looks lethal enough to skewer me on the spot.
He blinks.
"Miss Madison," he says. "A word."
It's not a request.
He turns and walks toward the hallway that leads to the private offices, and I have exactly two choices…
Follow him like a lost puppy.
Or stay here and get recognized by my father's business associates.
I follow him.
He doesn't stop until we're in a storage room — actual storage room, full of printer paper and office supplies and industrial shelving — a space definitely not meant for human occupation.
He closes the door and turns to look at me.
"Explain," he says.
My brain goes into overdrive. I need a lie. A good lie. A believable lie that doesn't involve my criminal father, securities fraud, or the fact that I'm hiding from my father's poker buddies.
"I dropped a pen," I say.
"You were hiding."
"I was retrieving a pen."
"From behind the desk. While crouching so you could avoid being seen."
"It rolled."
"The pen rolled."
"Very far. It's a slippery floor."
His aqua eyes narrow. "Darcy—"
“I thought we were sticking to Miss Madison," I correct, because if he gets to use the formal address as a weapon, so do I.
"Fine. Miss Madison." He crosses his arms, and the movement makes his oversized shoulders look even broader, which is not helpful for my current state of panic. "Why were you hiding?"
"I told you. The pen—"
"Do you know those men?"
Shit.
"No."
"You're lying."
"I'm not—"
"You were crouched under the desk like you were dodging sniper fire. So, I'll ask again: do you know them?"
I need a better lie.
A more elaborate lie.
The kind of lie that's so absurd he'll either believe it or give up asking.
"Fine," I say, straightening my shoulders and throwing my head back. "Yes. I know them."
"From where?"
"Miami."
"How?"
"I... dated one of their sons."
His expression doesn't change, but something flickers behind his eyes. "You dated one of their son."
"Yes."
"Which one?"
"Ricardo's. His name was... Miguel. Very handsome. Terrible relationship. Ended badly."
I'm making this up as I go and it shows.
"Ended badly how?"
"He cheated on me. With my roommate. In my bed. I walked in on them. There was screaming. Some light property damage. His father got involved. It was a whole thing."
"A whole thing."
"Very dramatic. But that’s Miami for ya. Anyway, I left, moved to New York, changed my hair, and now I avoid anyone who might remember me as Miguel's ex-girlfriend because it's awkward and I'm trying to move on with my life."
I can’t tell if Declan believes it because his overly broad, towering body is as still as stone.
"You're hiding from an ex-boyfriend's father."
"And the ex-boyfriend, technically, if he's here. Is he here?"
"I didn't see anyone else."
"Good. Then I just need to avoid Ricardo, which should be easy as long as I stay at the desk and don't make direct eye contact."
"That's your plan."
"That's my plan."
"Miss Madison, I’m certain—"
"Unless you have a better suggestion, Mr. Shaw?
" I tilt my head, channeling every ounce of deflection I've learned in the last twelve months.
"Should I go out there and greet the father of the man who cheated on me with my roommate and ask how Miguel is doing these days? Would that be more professional?"
His jaw tightens, literally pulsating. "No."
"Then I think we agree that avoidance is the best strategy."
He's quiet for a long moment, and I can see him processing this, trying to decide if he believes me.
He shouldn't believe me.
It's a terrible lie.
Miguel doesn't exist. The cheating roommate doesn't exist. The whole thing is a soap opera I invented thirty seconds ago.
But my new boss thankfully doesn't know that.
"This is why the rules exist," Declan says finally. "This is why we stay professional. Because personal complications—" he gestures between us, "—make everything harder."
"Agreed."
"Can you do your job with those men in the building?"
"Yes."
"Without hiding behind furniture?"
"Yes."
"Without creating a scene if you run into them?"
"I'm not going to create a scene. I'm twenty-four, not twelve. If it comes to, it I can handle seeing my ex-boyfriend's father without having a meltdown."
"Good." He reaches for the door handle. "Because I need people who can handle unexpected situations without disappearing. If you can't do that—"
"I can do that."
"—then you shouldn't be in this position at all."
The words sting, but I lift my chin. "Understood, Mr. Shaw. It won't happen again."
"It better not."
He opens the door, then stops, turning back.
"For the record?" His voice is lower now. "Miguel sounds like an asshole."
"He really was," I say, committing fully to the lie. "Terrible taste in cologne, too."
"Of course." He almost smiles. Almost. "Get back to work, Miss Madison. And next time you need to avoid someone, use the supply closet on the fourteenth floor. Better sightlines."
"Yes, Mr. Shaw."
He leaves, and I stand in the storage room for exactly thirty seconds, trying to process the fact that I just invented an entire ex-boyfriend and his cheating scandal to avoid telling Declan Shaw the truth.
Miguel. I named him Miguel.
And I gave him bad taste in cologne.
I'm either a genius or I'm losing my mind.
Possibly both.
I go back to the reception desk, and Ricardo and Alexander are gone — in the meeting with Declan, presumably — and the lobby is empty.
I sit down and pull out my notebook — the color-coded one where I've been tracking my thirty-day plan.
The plan that involves making myself indispensable to Wyeth Shaw.
The plan that involves learning everything about the hospitality operation.
The plan that involves earning a promotion on merit before the sixty-day annulment window closes.
Because I need the money, yes.
But more than that, I need the proof — for myself — that Darcy Madison can do this without the Cole name or the Cole money behind her.
I open to a fresh page and write:
Day 14: Invented fake ex-boyfriend named Miguel to avoid revealing actual identity. Boss may or may not believe me. Still employed. This is fine.
Then I add more.
Note: If anyone asks about Miguel, he was pre-med, drove a BMW, and his favorite restaurant was that place on Lincoln Road. Commit to the bit.
And finally, I write—
Also note: Return Declan's jacket. The bloodied Armani from Tulum. Still in closet. Definitely becoming creepy now.
My phone buzzes.
A text from an unknown number.
UNKNOWN: Sightlines on 14 are better but the door locks from outside. Just FYI. —D
I look up.
Through the glass walls of the executive floor, I can see Declan in the conference room with Ricardo and Alexander, mid-presentation.
He's not looking at me.
But he was.
I can tell.
I text back.
ME: Noted. Thank you.
His response comes thirty seconds later.
UNKNOWN: Stop thanking me for things. It's unsettling.
I smile, a flutter blooming in my stomach.
ME: Yes, Mr. Shaw.
UNKNOWN: Also, Miguel sounds like he had terrible judgment.
I stare at the message.
Oh no.
He's engaging with the lie.
Which means either he believes it, or he's playing along to see where this goes.
I type back.
ME: The worst. He also had a tribal tattoo.
UNKNOWN: Not surprising, actually.
ME: And he played lacrosse.
UNKNOWN: I’m retroactively offended on your behalf.
I'm grinning at my phone now, which is dangerous, because anyone walking past can see me, and I'm supposed to be professionally distant from the CEO, not texting him about my fake ex-boyfriend's fictional flaws.
UNKNOWN: Get back to work, Miss Madison.
ME: Yes, Mr. Shaw.
I put the phone down and get back to work.
Because Declan's right about one thing: I can't afford distraction. I can't afford exposure.
And I absolutely cannot afford whatever is happening every time we end up in the same room.
Or, apparently, the same text thread.
Sixty days until the annulment.
Forty-six days left.
Progress is moving in the right direction.
For now.