Noah’s door swings open, his voice a growl. “Stop gossiping and get me the investor list for the Newside project,” he orders with crazed eyes like he’s a bear who just came out of hibernation and doesn’t know what year it is, his ragged knuckles tense as he grips the doorframe.
“Already on your desk,” I reply coolly, pointing through the open door to the folder I placed there an hour ago, alphabetized and color coded. He hates my color coding. And this is why I keep doing it.
His jaw ticks as he glances at it and retreats without a word. He hates that I’m prepared, and I’m beginning to enjoy it.
14
Bea
By Friday afternoon,I’m ready to either quit or commit murder.
The second option is looking more appealing by the minute as Noah emerges from his office for the fifth time today, his six-foot-three frame filling the doorway like a storm cloud. His jaw is clenched tight enough to crack walnuts, and those obsidian eyes of his purposely scan the room with predatory focus before landing on me, narrowing slightly at the corners—the telltale sign that another impossible task is brewing in that tyrannical mind of his.
“I need you to track down the original blueprints for the Riverside project,” he announces, dropping a manila folder on my desk like it’s contaminated. “They’re somewhere in the archives. Probably misfiled.”
I glance at the clock—4:47 p.m. The archives close at five, and they’re about a million floors down in the basement labyrinth I’ve never attempted to navigate.
“The archives that close in thirteen minutes?” I ask sweetly, my pen hovering over my notebook.
His mouth curves into that infuriating smirk. “Better hurry then, princess.”
I slam my pen down harder than necessary. “Anything else while I’m performing miracles?”
“Don’t get lost,” he drawls, already turning back to his office. “I’d hate to have to send a search party.”
I grab my purse and storm toward the elevators, my heels clicking an angry rhythm on the polished floors. This is exactly the kind of bullshit test he’s been putting me through all week—impossible deadlines, ridiculous errands, tasks designed to make me crack.
But I won’t give him the satisfaction.
The archives are a maze of filing cabinets and dusty boxes that smell like old paper and someone’s broken dreams. I weave through the narrow aisles, scanning labels that look like they haven’t been updated since the Carter administration. My phone’s flashlight illuminates rows of identical brown folders, and I’m starting to think Noah sent me on a wild-goose chase just to watch me fail.
Then I spot it—a section marked “Riverside Development, 2001–2003.” I don’t think Noah was old enough to drive during those years, so his request for this specific project sounds more curious now. Maybe they’ll be redeveloping and building something new.
My fingers fly through the files, and there it is: the original blueprints, exactly where they should be. I snatch them up with a triumphant grin that Noah will never see.
The elevator ride back up feels like a victory lap. I march into the office at 5:30 p.m., blueprints in hand, ready to wipe that smug expression off his face with this dusty folder.
But his office is dark. Empty.
With blueprints in tow, I march to my desk to dial Martin and ask if Noah is there. It’s not unheard of the brothers being cooped up in one of their respective offices, plotting the board’s demise.
“He left twenty minutes ago,”Martin says cheerfully.“He stopped by Ezra’s office, and I heard him saying that he had a date.”
I stare at the blueprints in my hands, fury building in my chest like steam in a pressure cooker. He sent me on a frantic mission to the archives, made me race against the clock, and then just… left? For a date?
“Did he say it very loudly?” I ask through gritted teeth, even though I know it’s not Martin’s fault.
A pause is my answer. Then:“Actually, yes. It was unusually loud. And he was in a very good mood.”
“Of course he was,” I mutter, dropping the blueprints on the desk with enough force to scatter my perfectly arranged pens.
Hands shaking with rage, I grab my coat and purse. This isn’t about work—it’s about power. And it looks like the caveman has won this round.
The weekend isboth a blessing and a curse. A blessing because I don’t have to see Noah’s smug face for two whole days. A curse because I’m left stewing in my own anger, replaying every infuriating interaction on a loop while I scrub my tiny bathroom tiles with a toothbrush to avoid thinking about Monday. Or about Noah King having a good time with some faceless woman.
He can screw whoever he wants, it’s none of my business. And I can do just the same. The problem is that I haven’t beeninterested in anyone. Literally anyone because my body seems to respond to only one particular jerk.
My apartment feels especially small after spending all week in that glass-and-steel palace where Noah reigns supreme. The leaky faucet’s steadydrip-drip-dripcalms my never-stopping anxiety, and I rethink the idea of calling my landlord to fix it. It’s sort of like white noise at this point, and I don’t think I can sleep without it.
