I feel my fists clench at my sides. Adjust. Like it’s that simple. Like years of building relationships, landing Boeing, holding this place together mean nothing compared to a college buddy shaking the right hand.
“You made him the head of my department without even consulting me,” I say, my voice low but steady. “I brought Boeing in. That’s my account.”
Knore’s smirk barely twitches. “You had no business approaching Boeing in the first place. You’re a manager. From now on, do the role you were hired for.”
The words slam into me, but I keep my face blank. Inside, though, I’m seething.If I hadn’t gone after Boeing, no one would have. Knore’s more concerned about his golfing buddies than this company. And Hughes? Our illustrious President is more interested in taking advantage of free flights than showing up at the damn office.
Knore leans back, adjusting his cufflinks like the conversation is already over. “Dan is a proven strategist. He’ll be good for us.”
Good forhim, he means. Another old friend with a safety net, gifted a title someone else actually bled for.
Knore’s eyes lift to mine, cold and calculating. “And Matthew, don’t mistake me. If you can’t adapt, there are plenty of people who would be grateful for your position.”
The words hang in the air. A threat, plain as daylight.
My jaw aches from clenching, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of a reply. If he wants me to just do the role I was hired for? Fine. I’ll do it. I’ll bury myself in the work.And when he and his golden boy screw this up, we’ll see who’s indispensable.
I turn on my heel and walk out, almost shouldering someone in the hallway because I’m too pissed to watch where I’m going.
“Ugh, they keep sending me to get coffee,” Trudy says, exasperated as she juggles a coffee cup and a stack of papers. “Like we don’t have a perfectly good coffee maker here. Please say you’re back.”
“I am back. If they’ll ever get out of my office,” I say flatly.
Trudy hesitates, logic tripping over politeness. She chews the inside of her cheek, glances around, then jerks her chin toward the tiny office tucked behind the bullpen, the one with dusty filing cabinets that we use to store old contracts.
“They’re not in your office,” she says, voice low now. “They…uh…said that as director, Mr. Barrett deserves the big office and… well.” She trails off, then adds, “I had them clean it out and put in a new desk.”
My mouth goes dry. Of course: not only does he get my job, he also gets my office.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing my voice steady. The smile I give is for show, brittle and small. “Thanks, Trudy.”
She gives a tight little grin and scuttles off, muttering something about entitled shits.
My fists clench. I want to march into what used to be my office and string Dan up by his neck. Instead, I swallow the rage, because I’m a professional. Because I have to be. But God, what a stupid name for a man who thinks a title and connections make him untouchable.
I head to my new office, smaller than half the size of my old one. Trudy wasn’t exaggerating. The desk is spotless,and the chair still has plastic on it.
There’s an upside, though. Instead of staring at the brick wall of the building next door, this one faces the street. The Manhattan skyline gleams in the distance, like something out of a movie. For a second, it almost feels like mockery.
I should be at home right now, basking in the newborn glow of my daughter. Instead, I’m here, sitting in someone else’s office, fighting for a job that shouldn’t be slipping through my fingers.
A stack of paperwork waits neatly on the desk, crisp and heavy, like it knows I have no choice. I take a slow breath and pull out my phone, staring at the dark screen. I hate that I left her. Hate that this is where I am. But I’m the sole breadwinner right now. Brooke will have to understand. I didn’t have a choice.
I should call her, just to hear her voice, to apologise for not being there, but the thought of waking her makes my hand still. I slide the phone back into my pocket, deciding to wait for her to reach out.
This chair doesn’t creak like my old one when I lower myself onto it. Silver lining.
“Time to get to work, I guess,” I mutter, more to myself than anyone else.
Chapter Seventeen
Brooke
After my shower-slash-breakdown, I towel off and get dressed. The hot water helped in the moment, but now the pain is sharper, radiating with every step. I take a Motrin, because apparently a stitched-up vagina isn’t “bad enough” for the good stuff. And with my father’s history of addiction, I’m not about to risk stronger painkillers anyway.
After dealing with the pad situation, I pull on one of my maternity dresses. Pants are out of the question, I’d need an assistant just to get them over my knees.
Matthew must’ve plugged my phone into the charger before he left, but he didn’t turn on the switch. Of course. The screen stays stubbornly black when I tap it.
