He’s the reason I built all this. The restaurant group, the empire, all of it. But looking at him now, I wonder if I’ve been building the wrong things for the wrong reasons.
“Good work tonight, you two,” I tell them. “Sage, Z is gonna take you home. I’ll see you later.”
I leave them behind and go get the car. The drive to the office is quiet and still, but my veins are still surging with adrenaline from the work. I raise a finger to my lip and taste lemon from the sauce.
The office building is mostly dark when I arrive. Just security lights and the red glow of exit signs. My floor is empty except for the cleaning crew, who nod respectfully as I pass. They know me by now—the CEO who works late enough to overlap with the night shift, who always says good morning in Russian to Jovanni because she mentioned once that her grandson refused to speak anything but English to her and it was nice to hear her own language for a change.
My office door is closed, but I can see light seeping around the edges.
I stop, key card in hand, suddenly uncertain. It could be Patricia, working late. It could be building maintenance. It could be anyone.
But somehow, I know it’s not.
I slide the key card through the reader and push the door open.
10
ELIANA
prix fixe: /?pre 'feks/: noun
1: a complete meal offered by a restaurant at a set price, with limited or no choice in the courses served.
2: committing to an experience that you have to see through to the end—whether you like it or not.
I’ve already prepared the paperwork. We both knew you were always going to say yes.
I read it again and, same as the first time, I want so badly to be angry. But try as I might, I can’t muster up the fury. Whether I’ve spent it all or I never really had much in the first place is unclear to me, but it doesn’t really make too much difference.
The only spark of defiance I have left is to choose when I sign my life away. If I’m pledging my not-quite-undying allegiance to LeBastard Hale in exchange for the sweet, sweet nectar of health insurance, I’m doing it onmyterms.
Tonight.
Now.
While I still have the electricity of rebellion crackling through my veins.
My access badge is still in my purse. I never did leave it in my desk drawer like I’d written in my resignation letter. Some part of me must have known I wasn’t really done with this place. Or maybe it just knew that Bastian Hale doesn’t let people leave that easily.
The whole train ride there, I’m antsy, one knee bouncing like a piston. Security Guard Kyle looks surprised when I swipe in at 10:28 P.M.
“Ms. Hunter? Didn’t you leave hours ago?”
“Forgot something in my office,” I lie smoothly. “Won’t be long.”
He nods and waves me through. The elevator ride up feels longer than usual. My reflection gawks back at me in the polished steel doors. I look tired. Reckless. Maybe a little unhinged.
All fairly accurate.
The executive floor is tomb-quiet, not a soul in sight. It’s better that way. No one to witness me offering up the last crumbs of my dignity as a palate cleanser to a man who couldn’t care less about whether I live or die once these ninety days are over.
I don’t go to my desk. Instead, I head straight for Bastian’s office.
Inside, it is exactly as sterile as always—glass, chrome, leather,boring.It’s the most impersonal place I’ve ever seen in my life, like a museum exhibit titled “Successful CEO, Circa 2024.” Where are the personal photos? Where’s the row of clicky-clacky silver balls on the desk that every evil boss is supposed to have?Does he not at least need a small hand mirror off of which to snort cocaine and gaze adoringly at his own features?
He does have a quintuplet of Michelin star awards on a bookshelf by the window, so in his defense, maybe that’s all the decor he cares to have. Kind of a cool flex, if we’re being honest.
I drop my bag on his conference table and walk around to his side of the desk. The leather chair sighs when I sink into it, like it’s grateful to be bearing the weight of my ass. But when I try to wiggle around to get comfy, it sort of squelches at me, as if to say,Hold on now; we both know you don’t belong here.
