Vivien is perched on the desk beside him with a tablet in her lap. They look up in unison.
“Kai. We were just about to send the findings,” Vivien says.
“Hey, Viv. Thank you. I need a minute with Maddox, is it ok?”
“Vivien for you, Rhodes,” Maddox growls in my direction. He looks at his partner with a softness he reserves only for her. Vivien squeezes his shoulder as she passes me.
“Later, boss,” she says to me with a wink.
The door clicks shut. Maddox leans back in his chair. “What do you need?”
“A background check. Full workup. Employment history, family, financials. The works.”
“On who?”
I hesitate. The words feel heavy. I have learned what happens when I trust the wrong person. Standing here asking my friend to investigate a woman whose only crime was kindness makes my stomach turn.
“Her name is Emma. She starts at Global Venture Marketing on Monday.” I forward her contact info. “That’s her number.”
Maddox looks at his phone. “How do you know her?”
“I don't. That’s the problem.” I move to the window. “She approached me last night. Victor is ramping up pressure, and suddenly, a stranger appears to offer me a breath of fresh air. It feels like a plant.”
“Or she could just be a woman with terrible taste who found you attractive,” Maddox says.
“Then the check will confirm that. My father has used people before, Maddox. I won’t be caught off guard again.”
“I’ll have something by tomorrow.”
“Thank you. Keep this between us.”
I head back upstairs. My footsteps echo in the stairwell. I just asked a friend to investigate a woman because she smiled at me. This is who I am. I am someone who cannot accept a gift without searching for the trap.
My parents made me this way. I don't know how to be anything else.
CHAPTER 7
THE CROISSANT INCIDENT
EMMA
Monday morning arriveswith the unavoidable urgency of a fire alarm. I arrive at work forty minutes early, my blazer hanging loose on my shoulders despite my best efforts to adjust it. The lobby is enormous. Glass everywhere, reflecting a version of me that looks less sure than I need her to be. The mirrors catch me from every angle. I look like someone pretending to belong.
The creative department occupies the entire twelfth floor, an open-plan expanse of chaos posing as organization. There are mid-century modern sofas and brightly colored brainstorming pods, but the atmosphere is oxygen-starved. It smells like burnt coffee, expensive cologne, and fear. The coffee station has real espresso. Not the instant powder I've been rationing for three weeks. I nearly cry.
“Emma Sinclair!” Hawthorne appears from his corner office, his silver hair groomed to perfection. He’s polished, professional, and surprisingly friendly. “Ready for the grand tour?”
I follow him through the maze of desks and pods, trying to memorize faces that blur together in their mutual suspicion. The recession has made everyone protective of their squarefootage. Every introduction is a handshake and a calculation. Am I a threat or a temp? I understand the calculation. I’ve spent months on the other side of it, desperate enough to take any seat at the table.
“This is Miles,” Hawthorne says, stopping at a desk occupied by a man in his fifties. “Miles is our senior creative. He will be helping you get oriented.”
Miles offers a smile that is entirely hollow. “Another fresh face. How wonderful.” His tone is warm enough to satisfy Hawthorne, but I spot the jagged edge underneath. “GVM certainly believes in the potential of new talent.”
“Emma comes highly recommended,” Hawthorne says. “Her portfolio was one of the strongest we’ve seen in years.”
“Oh, I am sure it was to be selected.” Miles stands, extending a hand. “Welcome to the trenches.”
His hand barely closes around mine before he pulls away.
