- Call Sparne’s agent re: installation details
- Email high-res images to catalog designer
- Lunch with Mortons @ 1 pm (BRING CATALOG!!!)
- Pick up dry cleaning before 6 pm
And, at the bottom, in slightly smaller script:
Your planner misses you. So do we.
My cheeks flush all over again. It’s... weirdly thoughtful. And undeniably effective. I had completely forgotten about the Sparne installation call. And the drycleaning.
Those sneaky, manipulative alphas.
I tuck the note into my desk drawer and head to Helen’s office, bracing myself for the worst. But when I knock on her door, I’m greeted with a smile so wide it borders on manic.
“Zoe! There you are. Come in, come in.”
I step inside, closing the door behind me. “About the Davelles?—”
“They’ve committed to sponsoring the entire Sparne exhibition!” Helen interrupts, clasping her hands together in delight. “Full naming rights, VIP reception, the works. It’s our biggest sponsorship of the year!”
I blink in surprise. “That’s... wonderful.”
“It certainly is. And it seems we have your... connection to thank for it.” There’s a meaningful pause as her eyes flick to my neck, where the turtleneck hides the claiming marks. “Mr. Davelle was quite impressed by your friend Mr. Sterling.”
Friend. Right. Is that what we’re calling it?
“Tristan Sterling has a way with people,” I say neutrally.
“Indeed.” Helen leans forward, her voice dropping conspiratorially. “Now, Zoe, I’m not one to pry into my employees’ personal lives...”
Yes, you absolutely are, I think but don’t say.
“...but if your relationship with the Sterling pack could benefit the gallery in any way, well...” She trails off, the implication clear.
My stomach churns. “Helen, I don’t think?—”
“Just something to consider,” she cuts me off smoothly. “In the meantime, excellent work with the Davelles. Take the rest of the afternoon to work on the Sparne catalog. You look like you could use some quiet time.”
I recognize a dismissal when I hear one. “Thank you.”
Back at my desk, I collapse into my chair, a fresh wave of mortification washing over me. Great. Now my boss thinks I’m sleeping with powerful alphas to bring in donations. Which, technically, isn’t completely wrong, but it’s not like that was myintention.
The quiet hum of the gallery continues around me as I try, once again, to focus on work. Meanwhile, the claiming marks continue pulsing gently beneath my turtleneck, a constant reminder of what happened—of what’s happening—to me.
My phone buzzes with a text message. I check it, half expecting and half dreading to see something from Tristan. Instead, it’s Leah.
Leah
UPDATES??? Did they show up at your work? Mason says alphas always show up at work. It’s like, a thing.
I groan and type back a quick response.
Me
I hate that your beta is right. Will call you later.
