9:07 PM.
My stomach growls. The granola bar I had at six is a distant memory. There’s leftover Thai in my fridge at home that’s probably achieved sentience by now, and I’m still here, changing font sizes.
The 28th floor is deserted except for us. Everyone else clocked out hours ago like rational humans with healthy work-life boundaries. Even Piper, the overly beautiful receptionist, who usually lingers until six-thirty, managed to extract herself by seven.
But not me.
And not him.
Through the glass walls of his office, I can see Nico’s silhouette against the floor-to-ceiling windows. He’s on the phone, pacing like a caged animal. His jacket’s been discarded somewhere and his shirtsleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing those forearms that I absolutely am not noticing.
I force my eyes back to the screen.
Row height. Column width.
Someone please kill me.
From inside his office, I hear the low rumble of his voice. Not the words, just the tone. The voice he uses when he’s about to eviscerate someone.
I’ve heard that voice directed at me around twenty-two times since Monday.
Not that I’m counting.
Okay, I’m totally counting.
The voice gets louder. Angrier. I catch fragments now.
“...not a discussion, Martin...”
“...board authority doesn’t extend to...”
“...question my expenditures again and...”
Oh. Martin Hale. Board member and investor.The guy Elspeth mentioned last week with the kind of polite disdain usually reserved for people who don’t return their shopping carts.
Nico’s pacing intensifies. He catches me looking at him, and angrily fiddles with the smart glass controls, so that the glass becomes opaque and I can no longer see him.
“I FUCKING TOLD YOU NOT TO—” He’s shouting in there now.
Then I hear it.
The unmistakable sound of ceramic meeting glass at high velocity.
CRASH.
My fingers freeze over the keyboard.
Silence.
His office has gone completely quiet.
I should mind my own business. I should keep my head down and finish this stupid report and pretend I didn’t just hear my boss have what sounds like a minor breakdown.
That’s the smart thing to do.
But I am, apparently, not very smart.
I save my document, stand up, smooth my skirt. My work heels click against the floor as I cross the twelve feet to his door.
