They recognized me. From the photo. The one Karen shoved across the table at that board meeting. The one I didn’t even know existed until Anthony showed me. I’m not a person to them. I’m a story. A punchline. A rumor with legs.
The cardigan slips out of my fingers and lands back on the table without a sound. I don’t buy anything. I don’t look at the women. I don’t give the sales associate a chance to ask if I need help.
I just turn and walk out like my body is on autopilot, like my brain has pulled the emergency cord and shut down everything but movement.
Outside, the city hits me again: noise, wind, traffic, people brushing past. The cold air stings my eyes. I blink hard, refusing to cry in public, refusing to give any of this the satisfaction of seeing me break.
But my confidence is gone. Not cracked.Gone. Like it evaporated into thin air.
Because the worst part isn’t that they were mean. The worst part is that they sounded… certain.He always does.
I keep walking, aimless, and my thoughts start to turn into knives.
What if they’re right?
What if this is a pattern? Women rotating through his life until he gets bored, until he decides they’re inconvenient, until the softness ends and the steel returns? What if the last few days, the bed, the warmth, the way he held me like it mattered were just him practicing the role of “family” because he needed it?
What if I’m just a solution he’s getting used to?
My chest tightens. My pulse skitters.
I need space. I need distance. I need to stop letting him reach into me and rearrange everything. I should quit. I should get out. I should go back to my apartment, back to something I can control.
And then the next thought comes—sharp, practical, merciless.
Money.
Angela. Ava. Bills that don’t care about my pride or my heartbreak.
I stop walking so abruptly that someone bumps into me and mutters an apology, but I barely hear it. My hand dives into my bag for my phone. I stare at the screen, thumb hovering.
Aidan Snow’s number isn’t saved. But I’m not an idiot. I can find it. I can pull it from the missed call log like it's nothing.
My stomach churns as I hit call.
He answers like he’s been waiting.
“April Swan,” Aidan says smoothly. “I was wondering when you’d call.”
The sound of his voice makes my skin crawl, but desperation is louder than disgust right now. “I want to meet,” I say, thewords coming out flat because if I let emotion in, I’ll shatter on the sidewalk. “About the job.”
“Of course,” he says. “When?”
“Tomorrow,” I blurt. “If you can.”
“I can,” he says, warm as a knife. “I’ll send you details in the morning.”
I swallow. “Fine.”
He chuckles softly. “You’re making a smart choice.”
I end the call before he can say anything else, hand shaking. The moment it’s done, nausea rolls through me. I lean against a cold stone building and close my eyes, breathing hard.
I don’t even know if I want the job. I just know I need an exit, need proof I’m not trapped, need to feel like I have something that’s mine again. My phone feels heavier now, like it knows what I just did.
I open my messages and stare at Anthony Voss’s name. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a long moment, throat tight.
Me:
