Ford appears in the doorway a moment later, launching straight into a question about next week’s campaign rollout. I half-listen, eyes still on the space Madeline just vacated, until Ford’s voice cuts through. “You with me, Jess?”
“Yeah,” I say quickly, reaching for the folder she left behind. That’s when I see it — a bright pink sticky note pressed dead center on the cover in her tidy handwriting.
Revise page 3. Push the feeling even further.
I stare at it, a laugh catching in my throat. Of course she’d leave me with homework.
Ford’s still talking, but I barely hear him. I peel the note free, turning it between my fingers, the faintest trace of her perfume clinging to the paper.
“Yeah,” I mutter under my breath, tucking it into my pocket. “She’s going to drive me insane.”
NINE
Madeline
I escape to the back lounge on the second floor—it’s the quietest corner of the Cove office. It’s mid-afternoon; a little late for lunch but it’s the first chance I’ve had to take a break. Light spills in through the tall industrial windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the sunbeams. From here, I can just make out the muted hum of the main workspace: keyboards clacking, printers whirring, laughter from the creative team down the hall.
My phone is on the table in front of me, the voice on the other end of it coming through the speaker while I try to finish my chicken salad and the last of my lukewarm mug of tea.
“Madeline, you can’t be serious,” my mother is saying, her tone crisp and perfectly clipped. “It’s the Legacy Tribute Gala. Your father is being honored. Everyone who matters will be there.”
“I know, Mom.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to keep my voice even. “It’s just…I would need to fly out on Thursday to make it there on time and I don’t think I can get away. I just started my new job, and we’re prepping for a big campaign.”
My parents moved to Bluewater, a three-hour flight from Vancouver when my dad realized he had a better shot at winning a seat there than he ever would in the city. Bluewater is a smaller riding with an easier audience to impress, a place where he could control the narrative.
“Well, that’s very unfortunate,” she says, the words dripping with disapproval. “It will look terrible for your father if both you and your sister aren’t there. You know how these things are. People talk. And I can already hear them: ‘Poor Peter Ashcroft, even his daughters couldn’t be bothered to show up.’ Is that really what you want?”
I close my eyes, leaning back against the chair. The metal is cool against my spine, grounding me. “Mom, it’s not about what other people might think. This job is important to me. I’m doing well here. I’m?—”
“Oh please, Madeline.” Her sigh is a delicate, weaponized thing. “Are you talking about that marketing job? Honestly, darling, you’re wasting your potential there. How long do you really plan to work in that silly town?”
My throat tightens. I stare out the window, at the water glinting in the distance. “It’s a great job, Mom,” I say quietly. “Cove’s a global brand. I’m part of their campaign team.”
“Yes, fine,” she says dismissively, her tone making it clear she’s not interested in talking about my career. “Cara has a new baby; people will understand why she can’t make it. But I’ve already told everyone you’ll be there. It’s in two weeks at the Hotel Pacific ballroom. Please wear something classic. Not one of those linen things you seem to be living in lately.”
A bitter laugh escapes before I can stop it. “Should I pull out my old debutante dress?”
Her sharp inhale crackles through the speaker. “There’s no need to be sarcastic.”
There is, actually. It’s the only way to survive these calls.
“Mom, I really have to go,” I say finally, my patience fraying. “I’ll see what I can do, but I can’t promise anything.”
“Well,” she says, voice frosted. “I suppose that’s all we can expect from you these days.”
The line goes dead.
I close the screen on my phone, letting out a slow, shaky exhale. My pulse still hums with irritation, my jaw aching from holding back everything I wanted to say. For a long moment, I just sit here, staring at the broken shadows the windowpanes cast across the white wall. The hum of the office feels a world away.
“You okay?”
I jump, my head snapping up. Jesse is a few feet away, leaning in the doorway. He’s holding a folder under one arm, one ankle crossed over the other, his brow drawn just slightly, his usual easy grin nowhere in sight.
“How long have you been standing there?” I ask, afraid of his response.
“Long enough,” he says quietly. “You looked like you were about to throw your phone through the window.”
“Hardly,” I say, feeling the heat rise up the back of my neck.
