I accept the envelope, hoping my trembling hands aren’t too noticeable. What is this? A severance package?
Before he can see the moisture pooling in my eyes, I turn and walk away. My heart feels like it’s being stomped by my own stilettos.
I make my way through the open office plan to my desk, bracing myself. I’m half expecting a “Congrats on banging the boss!’” balloon waiting for me.
But everyone just stops and stares with needle-prick eyes as I pass. Even the hardcore coders halt their typing. This is worse than when I first came back with amnesia.
To my shock, Matty is already at his desk, working diligently.
“Matty! Look at you, a new man,” I say.
“Yeah, don’t get used to it,” he snorts. “Tried the whole ‘responsible adult’ thing, but turns out I’m still a lazy asshole. You’ll have to pick up at least 60 percent of my slack as usual.”
I laugh for the first time in days. I’ll take 60 percent over his normal 90.
Then they descend—my colleagues swarming in with their endless questions. From the mundane to the outright outrageous.
“So what’s the deal with you and Wolfe then?”
“You two an item now or what?”
“I heard he’s being indicted for smuggling drugs. That legit?”
“Think he’ll give us a budget bump?”
“Is it true Wolfe’s in the mafia?”
“Can you sweet talk him into extending the deadline?”
In the commotion, Matty leaps up, rolls up his sleeves, and does a perfect impression of Andy, sniffing his pits theatrically. “All right, people, show’s over! We’ve got actual work to do here.”
Reluctantly, the crowd around my desk disperses.
I dip my chin and smile, while inside, my heart shrivels like a sad little raisin. I put on a mask, keeping my head high and my heels steady. But the truth? I’m barely holding it together.
I race to the bathroom, JP’s letter in my white-knuckled grip. Hands shaking, I tear it open. Photographs spill out—snapshots of a life erased from memory. My breath catches as I stagger back against the cubicle wall.
There we are, paddleboarding at Bear Mountain, so happy and carefree. A selfie of us nestled between towering trees, his strong arms around me. A picture of us on his mansion’s viewing deck, the mountains as our backdrop. Him kissing me as I laugh.
Candid shots he’s taken of me when I wasn’t looking. One of us lounging on his couch. One where we’re fumbling to kiss while taking a selfie.
And there’s a note in his scrawl: “These are my memories. JP.”
I sink to the floor, photographs scattered around me like memories I’ll never get back.
???
Two hours later, we’re presenting the final grand Tangra solution to the terrifying Quinns and the rest of the vulture suit circus.
Taylor’s at the helm, with Angry Andy—God love him—bouncing out of his seat, offering his pearls of irrelevance at the worst moments.
Killian Quinn, in a rare occurrence, smiles at me. He knows everything. Of course he knows.
JP, though, is conspicuously absent. A pang of disappointment twinges within me. Despite still feeling utterly betrayed by the man, I want him to witness me in action, maybe beam with a bit of pride. Ugh.
With sweaty pits and knocking knees, we lay out our game plan to drag all those other casinos into the cashless era, one agonizing milestone at a time. I can feel my blouse gluing itself to my back with sweat.
The suits, they’re not letting us off easy. It’s an eternal tug-of-war between the creative peasants and the corporate overlords.
