I hear Sandra suck in a sharp breath beside me.
Mr. Portrait doesn’t even blink.
He just lets the moment stretch, unbearable, suffocating, before delivering the final, brutal blow.
“I’m your new boss.”
The air collapses.
Mark chokes on his own spit.
Jenna makes a noise that can only be described as a muffled scream.
Sandra? She just stands there. Frozen. Like someone unplugged her brain.
I don’t know how long I stare at him, but it’s long enough for my thoughts to cycle through every single terrible possibility.
This is a joke.
This is a scam.
This is divine punishment for every parking ticket I’ve ever ignored.
His gaze never wavers, steady, unbothered, like he has all the time in the world to watch me implode in real-time.
And then—he lifts his hand.
A simple gesture. Effortless. Controlled. Infinitely more dangerous than it should be.
An invitation.
To what, exactly, I don’t know.
“Let’s not make this more dramatic than it needs to be.” His voice is low, smooth, but there’s something amused under the surface, like he’s watching a game play out exactly as he expected.
I hate that I notice how big his hand is. How it dwarfs mine, how his fingers are long, precise, steady—
Like they’ve never known hesitation.
I should walk away.
I should demand answers.
But my body isn’t listening because before I even realize it—I’m reaching out.
My fingers brush his.
