The rest of the day passes. I try to work. Fail. Try again. Fail again.
At 4:47 PM, my phone rings.
Bree’s name on the screen.
My heart stops. Restarts. Hammers against my ribs like it’s trying to escape.
Ianswer. “Bree.”
Silence for a moment. Then her voice. “We need to talk.”
Three words.
The most terrifying three words in any language.
“Okay,” I say. “When?”
“Tomorrow morning,” she replies. “Your office. Eight o’clock.”
“Tomorrow, eight o’clock,” I tell her.
She hangs up without saying goodbye.
I sit there holding my phone, staring at the screen, feeling something unfamiliar bloom in my chest.
Hope.
35
Bree
The subway ride to Hudson Yards felt longer than usual. Or maybe that was just the anxiety making time stretch out.
Three days. I’ve had three whole days to process everything, including the letter that arrived yesterday afternoon via Cressida’s apologetic hand delivery.
I must have read it a hundred times. Analyzed every word.
Executive Director of the Rossi Foundation.
When I first saw those words, I laughed in disbelief. You know, the slightly unhinged sound you make when reality disconnects from what you thought was possible.
I’d been expecting... I don’t know. Special Advisor to Paloma, maybe. A fancy title bump. “Senior Communications Strategist” or some corporate nonsense that would look good on LinkedIn but wouldn’t actually change anything.
Notthis.
A position of real power.
My first reaction was pure shock.
My second was suspicion.
Because here’s the thing about accepting less than you deserve for long enough, you start to distrust it when someone finally offers you more. You start looking for the catch.
He broke my trust, and now he’s offering me my dream job?
It feels too much like a bribe.
Like he thinks he can buy his way back into my good graces.
