Dad follows with one of his signature bear hugs, the kind that presses the air from my lungs and snaps me right back to being five years old and invincible in his arms. “We’re just a phone call away, kiddo,” he murmurs.
“Thanks, you guys. I’ll be fine,” I manage, blinking hard against the sudden sting behind my eyes.
As the door closes behind them, the apartment suddenly feels vast and empty, despite its modest square footage. Night falls quickly, shadows stretching across these unfamiliar walls.
I perch on the edge of my mattress, phone clutched in my hand like a lifeline. My thumb hovers over the screen before I type in our group chat:Thanks for today. Love you both.
I set my phone on the nightstand when the unmistakable jingle of keys in the hallway slices through the quiet. My head snaps up, every nerve suddenly alert.
Must be my mystery neighbor, the proud owner of that monstrosity masquerading as furniture.
For a moment, I imagine marching out there and delivering a strongly worded request about hallway etiquette and the basic human concept of not blocking doorways with swamp furniture.
The impulse evaporates almost as quickly as it appears, snuffed out by bone-deep exhaustion. There will be another time for neighborly confrontations.
Tonight, I just need to survive my first night alone with my thoughts in this strange new space and try not to let Monday sink its teeth into me. Try not to dwell on my first day at work…on Jake.
Chapter 6
After a weekend of stress-eating chocolate-covered pretzels, practicing professional smiles in my bathroom mirror, and mentally drafting twenty different ways to say “good morning” without sounding like I still remember what Jake’s face looks like when he sleeps, Monday morning arrives with the delicacy of a sledgehammer to my chest, and with it comes the day I’ve been both dreading and bracing for, anticipating and resenting, ever since I accepted the offer.
Orientation. My first official day at Lantern Bridge. I’ll meet my new coworkers, learn the lay of the land, find my desk, pretend I’m not vibrating out of my skin.
And then I’ll face my ultimate challenge.
My new supervisor.
“Yay,” I mutter with all the enthusiasm of someone scheduled for a root canal.
I smooth down my cream silk blouse for what has to be the thirteenth time this morning, like the fabric can absorb my panic if I press hard enough. “Okay, Sarah. You’ve got this.”
Claire was right. I’ve worked too hard for this dream to let anything, or anyone, ruin it. Even if that anyone happens to be six-foot-one of heartbreak wrapped in an unfairly well-fitted suit.
When I open the door, I pause, eyes on the hallway. To my relief, the bike and that hideous sofa is gone.
Maybe my neighbor isn’t a complete disaster after all. With a small, satisfied nod, I lock the door and step out, determined not to let anything rattle me today.
Fifteen minutes later, my messenger bag slung over one shoulder, I step into the elevator, my nerves simmering beneath my skin like water on the verge of boiling over. The metal box shudders, then lurches upward, and with each passing floor my stomach tightens, my pulse ticking faster.
Closer and closer to what could either be the greatest opportunity of my career, or the most exquisite form of emotional torture ever devised.
The tenth floor opens onto a bright, modern hallway that feels more like a showroom than an office. Gleaming hardwood stretches beneath my heels, flanked by pristine white walls lined with the agency’s greatest hits. Soft recessed lighting spills down in careful pools, illuminating each framed campaign like an art piece in a gallery, curated and polished and meant to impress.
And it does.
I walk the length of the corridor, letting my gaze skim over the visual timeline of Lantern Bridge’s achievements like I’m paging through a history book I never thought I’d get to touch. Award-winning billboards for national chains. Magazine spreads that helped redefine beauty advertising. Television storyboards for commercials everyone can quote by heart.
This place doesn’t just sell ideas. It makes them unforgettable.
My heart nearly stops when I see the next one.
There, perfectly lit and professionally framed, is the campaign I created for Jake’s uncle’s RainSafe Backpack, the one I poured myself into that summer after high school graduation. The tagline I spent three sleepless nights perfecting. The color scheme I fought for when Mr. Matthews insisted on “something more masculine.”
My work. On this wall. In this place.
And next to it, there is a small plaque with Jake’s name as the creative lead.
My lungs constrict, like invisible fingers are wrapping around them and squeezing. That—that louse! A new level of low, even for him. He didn’t just break my heart. He took my work, too.
