Heyyyyy Nolan :) Long time, no talk!
Daddy Thatcher set up happy hour like he’s your social secretary. Cute!
Are we still on for next Thursday? Should I bring coloring books to keep your attention?
Also… no RSVP yet for Crossfire? It’s TOMORROW, my dude. Way to be fashionably late. LOL
You do know the point is to show up, right?
Let me know if I need to drop flashcards at your office to help you remember how career-making moments work
xxoo Shelby
I groan and rub my temples. I hate shotgun texts. No structure. Just emojis and threats like she’s throwing glitter at a forest fire.
Still. She’s the gatekeeper to one of the biggest clients we’ve ever gone after. And the world doesn’t stop just because I got my heart kicked in and my pride lit on fire.
I’m flattered by the sheer volume of your follow-ups. Somewhere between message four and the emoji assault, I nearly RSVP’d out of fear. I’ll be there tomorrow. No need for flashcards or crayons—though if you DO bring coloring books, Rishi might actually stay past the first drink. Try not to spontaneously combust before then. -N
Once I step outside into the New York humidity, heat presses against my skin like judgment. People laugh. Horns blare. The city doesn’t care if my head’s a war zone.
It just keeps moving.
I should, too.
The streets blur as I walk. Asphalt sweat and car horns, scaffolding shadows, someone yelling at Siri across the intersection, another walking and talking while FaceTiming—it’s all too loud. Too much. Like the world’s at full volume, and I forgot how to turn down the dial.
I walk two more blocks and duck into my building. The doorman nods. I don’t wait for the elevator. Fifteenth floor.
Inside my loft, everything’s still where it shouldn’t be. The space is lopsided without Chloe’s things. One side of the closet looks like it’s been robbed. I never realized how many clothes she had here until now.
The bookshelf has a blank spot where her picture used to live. The kitchen counter is missing that stupid ceramic utensil holder shaped like a swan. God, I hated that swan.
I grab a protein shake from the fridge, chug half of it, and stare at the cork board by my desk. It’s covered in pitch material for a company named Bone Dust, specializing in gourmet coffee. Unique. Grim Reaper meets high-end coffee house. Think death-themed branding with beans dark enough to haunt your ancestors and caffeine strong enough to wake the dead.
And Rorie Adams.
I saw her name on the internal docket. I knew she was competingfor this account before we even showed up at trivia. But it hits differently now. More like a collision course.
My phone buzzes again. Tammy.
You owe me an answer on the Crossfire wardrobe. No, a navy button-down isn’t “timeless,” it’s boring. Do better.
Shelby wants a reply too. Be charming. But not like, predator charming. I beg you.
It’s handled.
Handled? That’s vague Bond villain energy. Please try to act like a man who hasn’t emotionally shut down.
Can you pull all correspondence related to Vanguard? Emails, texts, budgets—anything with a timestamp and a paper trail. Someone played fast and loose, and I want to know who.
On it, Boss.
CHAPTER 12
BAD BITCH ENERGY: ACTIVATED
RORIE
