The printer whirs again behind me, louder now, spitting out someone’s pages. A door opens down the hall. Two voices murmur, soft and professional, and I pretend I’m just another person in another office who has never been naked in bed with her boss.
Which is an oversimplification of what happened, really. I add a splash of cream with more care than it deserves because if I spill, I might cry, and I refuse.
I take the first sip too fast and burn my tongue, which feels like some kind of deserved punishment. I wince, swallow anyway, and turn back toward my desk with the mug cradled in both hands as if it can steady me.
The office is still mostly empty, and I wish it weren’t. I wish it were filled with people. More people feel safer.
Halfway there, the elevator dings. The sound is small, ordinary, and it sends a jolt straight through me. My steps slow without permission. I keep my face neutral. I keep walking. And I listen for the rhythm of footsteps that I know too well now, even without seeing him.
My stomach drops. My spine goes rigid. My hands go cold while my body goes hot. My body remembers, and my nipples go tight. I pick up the pace and slip behind my desk just before he rounds the corner.
I keep my eyes on my monitor like it’s a shield. I pretend the numbers on the screen matter. I pretend I’m reading. My cursor blinks in the middle of an empty email draft.
His footsteps stop at my cubicle.
I feel him there before I let myself look. The air shifts. The space tightens. My throat closes like I’m about to swallow something sharp.
“Morning,” he says.
I make myself lift my eyes to the edge of my screen first, then to him. Nico looks the same as he always does—tailored, controlled, not a hair out of place. Like he didn’t spend an entire night turning me inside out.
“Good morning, Mr. Conti,” I manage, not able to make myself say “sir.”
His gaze flicks to the coffee in my hands, then to my face. Just a quick assessment, the kind he does without thinking. “Any fires?” he asks, like this is any other Monday. Like the only thing between us is club schedules and vendor disputes.
“No,” I say. Then I clear my throat and force myself into motion. “A bar is short two bartenders for Friday. There’s a vendor dispute over a delivery window. And I printed the security report from last night.” I tilt my chin toward the stack by the printer, like pointing at paper will keep my hands from shaking.
“Put the security report on my desk once it’s filled out,” he says. “And refer the vendor dispute back to them. That’s an in-house problem, not ours.”
I nod too fast.
He lowers his voice a fraction. “Have you scheduled that procedure for your father?”
I swallow. “They have a couple of tests to do, then they’ll let me know when he’ll go in. But it’ll be within the next week. I’m— I’m going to need some time off.” I suck in a sharp breath. “I know I just started but—”
“Email the dates when you have them,” he says, then turns to walk away.
“Yes, sir,” I say automatically.
Nico pauses for just a fraction at that. I still and hold my breath. But he just continues to his office and shuts the door behind him,
I slump back in my chair, then force myself into motion.
Maddy and I end up in the far back corner of the café, the one half-hidden behind a fake potted tree and a tall divider that makes it feel like our own little booth.
We’re only here because my dad is having tests in the hospital across the street, but it’s surprisingly nice. Warm lights. Small tables. Cinnamon in the air. A case of pastries up front that look pretty.
I chose this corner on purpose.
I don’t want anyone overhearing what I have to say.
Maddy slides into the seat across from me and sets her iced coffee down.
She doesn’t even pretend to ease into it.
“Okay,” she says, voice low, eyes sharp. “Where the hell have you been?”
My stomach tightens.
