The ding of my phone cuts through my thoughts like a blade.
My pulse kicks.
It’s stupid that I still half-hope it’s him.
But it’s not.
Meeting Invite: CONF. B – 8:30 a.m. (Internal: Board Transition Review)
From: Corrine Ashwood
Sent: 8:31 a.m.
Fucking hell.
I roll my eyes and resist the urge to throw my phone across the elevator.
Last-minute invite. No subject context. Scheduled right now. Probably sent to everyone else a week ago.
Classic Corrine—make me look disorganized, unprepared, always two steps behind.
Grant pretends it’s not personal, but it is.
It always has been.
I snap a screenshot of the invite and fire off a text to Grant:
DANTE: Care to tell me what the hell this is?
Or are we still pretending Corrine doesn’t do this shit on purpose?
The elevator slows.
The doors open to the executive floor, glass and steel gleaming around me like we’re all trying to convince ourselves this place is modern, untouchable, invincible.
But all I feel is the weight of legacy. Of war. Of whatever Grant and I are.
I slip my phone into my jacket as I walk.
Two minutes late. No prep. No agenda.
Exactly how she wanted it.
I reach the conference room, fix my cuffs, and push open the door. Corrine’s already seated at the head of the table when I walk in, handing out pristine white folders like she’s hosting a fucking awards ceremony.
Seven board members. All eyes flick to me as I enter. No one speaks.
Except her.
“Nice of you to join us. Even late.”
I don’t take the bait. Not really.
“Nice of you to include me,” I reply smoothly, taking the one empty seat opposite her. “After the meeting has started. Shall we get on with it?”
She offers a saccharine smile and gestures to the stack of folders. “By all means.”
I open mine.
