“No need,” Gaines cuts me off. “We appreciate your effort, but we’ve seen enough.”
The finality in his tone sets me on edge.He’s dismissing me?
“But I?—”
Gaines holds up a hand, halting me. “Please give my regards to Laurel.”
The mention of Laurel’s name punches straight through my gut. She’ll be disappointed. Possibly furious. I’ve already tested her patience more than once, and I’m hanging by the thinnest thread of a promise she made to a ghost.
But part of me—theI dare you to survive me part—believes this isn’t over yet. That there’s still a sliver of space to prove I’m worth the gamble here.
“Have a wonderful day,” he says.
Well, that answers that.
Pressing my lips together, I nod once in forced politeness. While gathering my notes with trembling hands, my mind flutters back to a time when my name held weight. When I was the one ruling over the room. Not being dismissed as just another name on a list, instead of the woman who was once the future of this industry.
Once everything is packed, I pause, keeping my phone in hand instead of burying it. “Thank you for your time,” I manage, voice steady even as a lump pushes up in my throat.
I’m almost out the door when it swings open, and in walks the notorious Nolan Rhodes, Chief Creative Executive for one of the most ruthless firms in the game–Big Stream Marketing.
The air shifts subtly with his arrival. I’d expect nothing less. Nolan Rhodes doesn’t just show up to the meeting, he declares war and wins.
And here I am, shaking from a rejection I didn’t see coming.
My pulse stutters when I see he’s moving in my direction with quiet confidence, commanding the space. Everything about him exudes power and control, wrapped in a package so stunning it’s unfair. As though he was meticulously designed to make everyone else seem average.
His dark hair is styled with precision, yet unruly enough to tempt my fingers into ruining it. He’s tall, with a lean, muscular strength that speaks for itself. The tailored suit jacket hugs his frame, emphasizing broad shoulders and a trim waist in a way that’s almost criminal.
His honey gaze falls on me, making me feel even smaller. It’s infuriating. And kind of… annoyingly attractive.
“Excuse me.” I attempt to sidestep him, but in my haste, my phone slips from my grip and crashes to the floor with an abruptcrack.
“Shit,” I mutter, crouching down.
He reaches it first, fingers brushing mine as he picks it up. The screen now sports fresh, jagged cracks running diagonally across it.
Straightening, he studies the fractured glass, then looks up and says, “Crack’s mean change. They let the light bleed in.” And hands it back to me.
I blink, caught off guard by the weird poetry of it.
“Thanks,” I say, too flustered to come up with anything smarter.
But his line sticks, threading itself into the moment as one I’ll remember later.
His gaze meets mine again. Flecks of gold shimmer inside amber, so intensely, it’s like he’s seeing more than I want him to.
I step to the left. So does he.
To the right. Blocked again.
A frustrated huff escapes me. We keep shuffling awkwardly until I stop and look up at him fully.
Carved features, a tiny dimple teasing the corner of his cheek, somehow making his god-tier face even more ridiculous.
“After you,” he says, his voice silk-wrapped and smug.
Then he smirks.
