Chapter 1
ONE
TORI
The HR building smells like floor polish and new beginnings.
I repeat my internal mantra as I cross the threshold: Back straight. Head high. Be thankful. Be kind.
Is working as a secretary for a pod of math professors my dream job? Not even close. But, it’s a paycheck.
And after everything I left behind in Moraine—including ten years of a marriage that chipped away at my soul—I need this clean slate more than I care to admit.
I owe Dexter for pulling strings to get me in. I was on the cusp of partner at Smith Accounting, a title I practically bled for. Years of 4 a.m. mornings and 10 p.m. client calls.
I gave them everything.
And they gave me… nothing.
Well—worse than nothing. They let me think I had a chance. Maybe I did. But you can only break in the same spot so many times before the whole damn structure collapses.
My phone rings just as I reach for the door. I don’t have to look to know who it is.
Chase. Again.
I silence it and shove it back into my purse.
Let my attorney handle him.
Well, the attorney I have yet to actually acquire. But I will. And when I do, the attorney will handle Chase.
Because I can’t. Not now.
I miss him. God, I miss him.
But I miss me more. And I’m finally doing something about it.
Squaring my shoulders, I shake off the feelings bubbling up in my chest and walk through the door. The building is incredibly clean, more modern than I would have expected for a university. I locate the directory on the wall and see that Human Resources is, thankfully, on the first floor.
I really don’t feel like stairs today.
The door is already open as I approach, and I knock quietly so I don’t startle the woman typing at her desktop. She looks up and smiles brightly as I enter, greeting me warmly.
“Good morning! You must be Victoria Foster.”
Yes, I gave them my maiden name. It’s not that I’m worried about Chase finding and physically harming me, but I need the space and anonymity to think clearly and don’t need him finding my place of work and disturbing the peace.
“Hi, yes. Good morning. Ms. Malcolm, is it?” She nods in the affirmative and gestures for me to take a seat.
“It was so wonderful to speak with you on the phone last week.” My, she’s bubbly.
“We appreciate your ability to start on such short notice, all things considered. Poor MaryAnne will be out for at least six months recovering from surgery. We were afraid we’d end up shuffling student workers around to fill the gap but this is much more preferable.”
Six months. That’s plenty of time to figure out what I actually want to do with my life. If I even want to stay in Grand River long term.
“I’m happy it all worked out. I just moved to the area and am excited for the opportunity.”
If she senses the lie in my tone, she doesn’t show it, instead pulling a folder with a stack of paperwork from the side of her desk and handing it to me.
“You can go ahead and fill these out here, and when you’re finished I’ll take you on a tour of the campus and then over to the mathematics department.”
I smile, nodding along as she speaks. Am I smiling too much? I feel like I’m smiling too much.
“Do you need a pen?”
“No, thanks, I have my own,” I say, taking the folder from her and opening it to see a handful of forms.
Some I’ve seen before: standard tax withholding forms and a straight forward employment application. Some that are specific to the university: employee code of conduct, an informational brochure, a campus map.
And behind it all, a sheet detailing the compensation package.
My God, secretaries make barely anything. How do these people afford to feed their families on this little income?
Trying not to react to the abysmal sum in front of me, I return my gaze to Ms. Malcolm, nod, and smile again—my God, Tori, you probably look like a lunatic—before getting to work completing the forms.
I stop when I reach the tax form boxes that ask if I am filing single, married filing jointly, or married filing separately.
I don’t know.
Am I going back to Moraine? No.
Will the divorce be finalized before tax season is upon us? I’d hope so, but I can’t be certain.
Ugh. All I want to do is keep a low profile and not clue anyone into my personal business, and here I am not five minutes into the day and I’m about to ask a stupid and revealing question, all because I can’t figure out a tax form?
For fuck’s sake.
I mark single.
If that’s incorrect, I’ll update it later. But for now, I’m claiming my independence, be it legally factual or not.
Once I’ve finished the forms, Ms. Malcolm takes me on a brief but informative tour of the campus. I won’t need to wander much as my job is limited to one pod of professors, but it’s nice to get the lay of the land nonetheless.
Finally, we make our way to the mathematics department and into the pod of professors I’ll be working with for the foreseeable future.
The pile of papers sitting on the secretary’s desk—my desk, now—is a disaster of mismatched sheets and post-its, and I’m suddenly concerned about what I’ve gotten myself into.
None of the six offices in this pod have the lights on, so I assume I’m here alone.
“Here you are, dear. Why don’t you get settled and familiarize yourself with your workspace,” she gestures toward the warzone that is my new desk and I plaster another awkward smile onto my face. “I’m sure one of the professors will be around soon if you have any questions.”
I thank her and as she turns to leave I ask, “Do you happen to have any advice for how to best interact with these professors? I know personalities vary and I’d like to make a good first impression.”
Ms. Malcolm chuckles and responds, “You just be yourself, dear. If they don’t appreciate your first impression, that’s their own problem.”
Then she leaves.
That’s their own problem.
Okay, so, I like her. I like her a lot.
I spend the next few hours organizing the warzone that is my new desk, sorting through papers and piecing together what MaryAnne left behind.
Most of it, thankfully, is just meeting requests from students—a scribbled, stapled, sticky-noted catastrophe that begins to feel like progress as I sort them into neat piles.
A binder labeled TASK MANUAL catches my eye, and I crack it open.
Inside I find step-by-step instructions for logging in, navigating the email server, printing class rosters, and even a section with handwritten notes about each professor’s quirks.
Damn, MaryAnne. You’re a freaking unicorn.
The binder boosts my confidence, offering a whispered assurance that I won’t drown today.
I let myself breathe a little easier, flipping through her notes about things like Dr. Patel’s obsession with calculators and aversion to scented pens and Dr. Johnson’s need to be reminded to eat lunch.
Every page is layered with a kind of quiet competence I both admire and envy.
By 10 a.m., the first professor finally arrives.
A short, elderly man with kind eyes and round glasses steps into the pod. He’s got a shuffle in his walk and the kind of presence that immediately lowers your blood pressure.
“You must be our new administrative assistant,” he says, smiling warmly. Thank you for not calling me a secretary. I’m not sure why that matters, but, it does.
“I am,” I nod, standing up. “Hi, I’m Tori.”
“Dr. Johnson,” he replies, clasping my hand in both of his. “We’re very thankful to have you here, Miss Tori.”
Miss. I almost correct him, but don’t. I’m not ready to explain anything yet. Not to a stranger. Not even to someone this gentle.
“I worked in accounting for the last ten years, so I’ll probably have questions as I go.”
He chuckles. “Questions are welcome. MaryAnne kept us all afloat, so we’ve been paddling in circles since she left. We’ll figure it out together, yes?”
His kindness is disarming, and I find myself smiling—a real one, not a awkward one—as he disappears into his office. If they’re all like him, this job might actually be bearable—maybe even enjoyable.
What does it say about my last workplace that a soft-spoken man remembering my name already feels like a balm?
I return to the meeting requests, checking them against posted office hours, highlighting conflicts and penciling in tentative time slots. The steady rhythm of the task settles my nerves.
Or, it does… until a voice slices through the air.
“Who are you?”
Okay, rude. I glance up.
Tall. Brooding. Displeased.
The man standing in front of me radiates judgment like heat off asphalt. I recognize him—he’s Dexter’s friend. Leo.
His eyes are dark brown and hard, the kind that search for weakness. Or maybe I’m just sensitive. Either way, he’s staring at me like I’m the punchline to a joke he didn’t laugh at.
I stand, smiling—awkward, not real—and offer my hand to shake.
“Hi. It’s Leo, right?” I ask. I’m trying for polite.
Does it work?…
He glances down at my hand, not touching it, then returns his gaze to mine, obviously displeased.
…No. It does not work.
“Yeah. You’re… Trina?” Asshole.
“Tori,” I correct, my tone firmer. “I’m Alis’s friend. We met at the apartment a couple weeks ago.”
His eyes narrow slightly in recognition.
“Right.” He scans my body, top to bottom. Still not impressed. Still an asshole.
“You’re the one who ditched her husband.”
The words slap harder than I expect, and I freeze.
It takes every ounce of composure not to let my expression crack.
I could explain. Could tell him how many times I begged Chase to care, to show up, to try. I could even tell him about the therapy sessions I booked alone, the nights I cried myself to sleep next to a man who didn’t even notice.
But what’s the point? He’s already made up his mind about me.
Instead, I clear my throat.
“I’m filling in for MaryAnne while she recovers from surgery. She’ll be out for around six months.”
“Fucking hell,” he groans, dragging a hand through his hair. “What kind of surgery takes six months to recover from? I thought she just fell or something.”
I shrug, because honestly, I don’t know.
“That’s all I was told. But I’m here to help while she’s out. If you need anything—”
“I’ll handle my own shit, thanks,” he cuts in, brushing past me.
He disappears into his office and kicks the door shut behind him.
The silence that follows is deafening.
I stare at the closed door for a beat too long, trying to decide whether I’m more embarrassed or furious.
Probably both.
My stomach clenches, but I square my shoulders and turn back to my desk.
Fine. Handle your own shit, then.
I didn’t come here to be liked. I came here to rebuild, to prove to myself that I can start over.
Still, a knot sits heavy in my chest.
It’s one thing to be judged by people who know me—family, friends, Chase’s side of things.
But Leo? A stranger who knows nothing about me?
And yet, his words linger.
You’re the one who ditched her husband.
I didn’t ditch anyone. I survived him.
That’s the difference. And I don’t owe Leo—or anyone else—an explanation.
Still, I reach for MaryAnne’s binder again and flip to the section labeled Faculty Notes.
There, scrawled in the margins under Leo’s name:
· Brilliant but volatile. Don’t take it personally.
And in slightly darker ink below it:
· Keep chocolate in the drawer. Works better than logic.
· Random bouts of happy puppy behavior.
I exhale a laugh through my nose.
So, he’s in semi-permanent dementor recovery mode? Lovely.
And what the hell is happy puppy behavior?