“Something good must have happened,” Blake mutters from behind me, urging me to step out into the corridor. “Come on.”
Footsteps swallowed by the ornate carpet beneath us, Blake and I creep to the archway, peering into the sea oftables.
I spot Thomas and his uncle on the stage, both wearing matching shark-like grins.
“Thank you. Thank you,” Thomas addresses the crowd, standing a step in front of his uncle. “I am so grateful, and honoured, to be taking over from my uncle. He has created this company from scratch, from nothing, and I can’t wait to build on this amazing foundation we already have. Yes, there will be some changes, but nothing major I promise…”
The rest of Thomas’ words disappear into the background, replaced by the loud roaring of blood in my ears.
Thomas is taking over from his uncle.
Thomas is going to be my new boss.
Holy—
“Breathe, Calla,” Blake directs, gripping my hand tightly.
Gulping in a jagged breath, I tune back in to the bullshit Thomas McAvoy is spouting. I watch as he holds up a single finger, his eyes searching the crowd until they land. On me.
He smiles but it holds no warmth. I swear, nothing good can come of this. “One thing my uncle always taught me, something I feel is so important, is respect. As long as you respect me then I will respect you. That’s how this works.”
A second raucous round of applause follows Thomas’ words, some even standing up.
Leaning into Blake for support, I peer among the crowd until I find Carmen and her soon-to-be husband, Jack, noticing her withdrawn face.
“You alright?”
“I-I—”
“It’s okay.” Blake winds his arm around my waist, gently kissing the top of my head. “Everything’s going to be okay, I promise.”
Chapter 22
Calla
Work is the last place I want to be right now.
After riding such a high with Blake on Saturday night, I can’t believe how quickly everything feels like it’s coming crashing down around me.
Everything but Blake and I.
I know I’m not the only one feeling the uncertainty.
It might be a Monday, but I don’t think that’s the only reason that the office floor is unusually quiet.
Usually it’s a hubbub of chatter, outrageous stories from the weekend traded over steaming cups of coffee. Groups crowded around one cubicle, laughing and joking, faded stamps still etched onto the back of their hands – evidence of the notorious London bar hopper.
But today, everybody appears to be sitting alone in their cubicles, heads bent, shoulders hunched over their pixilated computer screens. The whole energy field appears to have changed, as if the whole place is holding its breath, waiting for the next unwelcome surprise to drop.
Moulding my hand to my computer mouse, I refresh my inbox.
Three emails later, I flick my eyes to up to check the time. Almost lunch.
Usually, I’d be trading gossip with the reception girls, right about now. They’re always the first in the know about anything; probably because they get to answer the phones and chat to people all day, gathering intel. But even they, I notice with a quick glance over my shoulder, are unnaturally quiet.
“Why aren’t you working, Miss Becker?”
I nearly jump out of my skin.
