“I’m sick.” I hate how that sounds, so I hurry to add, “Not cancer or anything; don’t freak out; but my eyes… I’m… I’m going blind, Yas. In ninety days. That’s what the doctor said. Three months before it all goes dark.”
The restaurant noise continues around us—the clink of bowls, the hiss of the kitchen, someone laughing at the next table—but Yasmin has gone completely still.
“… What?” she asks at last.
“It’s calledLeber congenital amaurosis. It’s genetic, apparently. Super rare for it to show up this late, which makes me a unicorn in all the wrong ways.” I try for a laugh, but it comes out cracked and miserable. “So yeah, that’s why I was practicing walking around with my eyes closed last night. That’s why I ran into shirtless Bastian. And that’s why I brought everyone pastries thismorning—because I wanted to do something good while I still can, and look how that turned out.”
Yasmin reaches across the table with her other hand and sandwiches both of mine in her palms. “Elly, oh my God.”
“Please don’t cry,” I beg, because if she cries, then I’ll cry, and I’ve already used up my bathroom breakdown quota for the day.
“Me? Cry? Never.” She wipes tears from her eyes and sniffles. “Is there treatment? Surgery? Anything?”
“Nope. Just a big ol’ fuck you from the universe.” I squeeze her hand back. “Which, yeah, is another reason I can’t quit. I need the health insurance for all the fun adaptive equipment I’m going to need. Screen readers, mobility training, the works.”
“Forget the insurance.” Yasmin is scowling again, my fierce little tigress. “You have three months of sight left, and you want to spend them letting Bastian Hale make you feel like shit? Fixing Kyle’s dumbass spreadsheets? No. I refuse to let you waste away in that gray cubicle all by your lonesome.”
When she puts it like that, it sounds insane.
“But—”
“No buts. You know what you should be doing? Seeing the Aurora Borealis. Walking through the Louvre. Watching every damn sunset and reading every book you’ve been putting off. Looking at the faces of people you love.” Her speech stumbles on the last one before she recovers and finishes, “Not wasting precious days being Bastian Hale’s verbal punching bag. I won’t let you.”
I look away so she can’t see my eyes studding with tears. As I do, I see my phone light up through the open mouth of my purse.Email notification. I almost ignore it, but the subject line makes my stomach drop.
URGENT: Revenue Analysis Required.
I free one of my hands, grab my phone, and tap to open it, already knowing it’s going to be bad.
FROM: Bastian Hale
TO: Eliana Hunter
RE: URGENT: Revenue Analysis Required
Ms. Hunter,
Given your apparent abundance of free time this morning, I’m confident you can handle the attached revenue analysis. I need a complete breakdown of five-year projections, including seasonal variations, competitive positioning, and risk assessments for each of our three proposed market penetration strategies.
Due: 5 P.M. today.
I’m sure someone of your capabilities won’t find this challenging.
B. Hale
CEO, Hale Hospitality Group
I check the attachment. It’s fifty-eight pages of raw data.
“That’s impossible,” Yasmin says, reading over my shoulder. “That’s at least a week’s worth of work.”
“That’s the point.” A hot, sharp feeling surges up in my chest. Not tears this time—this is something else. This is twenty-seven years of keeping my head down, of being underestimated, of being overlooked and underappreciated, all crystallizing into a single moment of absolute fury.
“He’s trying to make me fail. He wants me to either kill myself trying to meet an impossible deadline or flounder publicly so he can justify whatever sicko power trip he’s on.”
“So don’t play.”
I look at Yasmin. “Huh?”
