EIGHT
olivia
I’m packedbetween strangers on the subway, shifting my weight from one heel to the other, wedged between a suited man scrolling through his phone and a student with earbuds in. The steady thrum of the train is a low, constant rattle beneath my feet. The stale air clings to my skin. I check the time again, my resume folder pressed so tightly against my chest that the corner digs into my palm.
In just under twenty minutes, I’ll be sitting in the office of one of the most prestigious consulting firms in the world. Castor & Wyatt—global, elite, and terrifying. I made it to the final round. The thought should excite me. It used to.
Now, all I can think about is Nathaniel.
The morning’s argument plays on repeat in my mind—the way his voice dipped low, how he refused to admit what he’d done even as the memory of it still pulsed between my legs. He weaponized pleasure as punishment, and I let him. Just as I always do. And then I soothe him when he spirals, when his jealousy burns too hot to touch.
But not today. Today, I asked for space—and took it.
Even though part of me wants nothing more than to run back to him.
Not because I regret it, but because I know how Nathaniel must be feeling. His mind doesn’t let things go. I imagine him pacing the penthouse, calculating how long he’ll have to wait before he can see me again. It feels cruel, but I need this—for me.
The yearning doesn’t cancel out the boundary. If anything, it makes holding it harder.
The opportunity to work at Castor & Wyatt after graduation first came up last semester. Before Nathaniel. Before any of this. Back then, the goal I’d set when I was still clawing my way through Halford’s maze of privilege was simple: get a high-paying job as far away from home as possible. That was why I applied to their overseas Management Associate Program, along with roles at several other firms in cities across the West Coast.
Their program is one of the most competitive in the world. I applied on a whim, not expecting to get this far—especially not while tangled up with someone like Nathaniel Caldwell.
When we started dating, I kept him in the loop as things progressed—shared updates on interviews, walked him through the questions they asked, even let him read over one of my case prep notes. It felt natural, back then, to let him into that part of my life. At that point, he knew the roles I was interviewing for were all far from New York. Opening up to him wasn’t something I had to think through—it just happened, slowly, then all at once.
But as our relationship became serious, I went back into my applicant portals and changed almost all my location preferences. It was the logical choice—the only one, really—if I meant what I said. And I do. I love him. I choose him.
Except…there was one application that I just couldn’t bring myself to update.
This program at Castor & Wyatt has always been the dream. It was the first application I submitted—the one that made all the others feel like contingency plans. Removing the overseaspreference felt like sealing off a path I wasn’t ready to abandon. And it had nothing to do with Nathaniel at all. This opportunity was just difficult to let go of because it was tied so intrinsically to the version of my life I’d been building long before him.
So, I let him assume that it was in the New York pool with everything else. And I rationalized the omission by telling myself it didn’t matter unless I actually got the offer.
By the time the Castor & Wyatt callback came through, I’d already completed final interviews at two other firms and was waiting to hear back. Their processes had been faster, as local roles tend to be. Castor & Wyatt’s international track followed a different cadence altogether: tiered placement decisions, staggered interviews, slower timelines. It made sense that their call came later.
Nathaniel was thrilled. I remember the way his eyes lit up like I’d done something incredible. He assumed I’d be placed in Manhattan. He said it so matter-of-factly, like it was already written in stone.
The Caldwell empire is based there, and in his mind, I was already part of it. Part of him.
I couldn’t bring myself to tell him that the role I applied for wasn’t in New York at all, that it was overseas. And the way he held me as he told me how proud he was…it made me lie by omission. Just for a while. At least until I know whether I have the offer.
After all, they were still finalizing placement decisions for the international offices—Dubai, London, Singapore. I’d made it past the domestic shortlist in the fall, but the overseas roles would require a longer wait. For this reason, I told myself I still had time to come clean with him.
This is the last open door, and the one I haven’t fully let him see—because I know Nathaniel could make one call and make this entire opportunity disappear. Not to be malicious,but because in his eyes, love means proximity. Knowing exactly where I am and who I’m with. And maybe I’ve enabled that more than I’d like to admit. Maybe that’s why this interview feels like my last lifeline to who I used to be.
I haven’t told him because I can’t handle seeing the disappointment in his eyes. The panic. The desperation. And selfishly, I don’t want to argue.
I’ve told myself that if I don’t get the offer, it won’t matter. No harm done. And if I do—well, I can frame it differently. Spin it as a triumph. Something I earned on my own. Something he can’t take away.
The irony is that the fight this morning gave me the perfect excuse to follow through.
I spent last night at my dorm, telling Nathaniel I had to work with Professor De Vries. It was half true—I did meet with her briefly. But I spent the rest of the night prepping for this. Going over my resume. Re-reading case studies. Trying to remember what it’s like to want something that has nothing to do with him.
If we hadn’t fought this morning, I don’t know what I would have done. I probably would’ve waited until the last possible second to tell him. Not enough time for him to stop me. Just enough time for me to run.
When I step off the Red Line at Downtown Crossing, I’m sweating under my coat. The sun glints off the glass towers ahead, and my eyes immediately find the pristine marble of the Castor & Wyatt building. It rises above the sidewalk like a monument—sleek, commanding, impossible to ignore.
I adjust my grip on my resume folder, square my shoulders, and walk through the revolving doors into a lobby that’s as intimidating as I imagined. Polished stone, tall ceilings, quiet efficiency. I keep my pace steady as I approach the reception desk.
