Ethan steps out of his office as I’m heading for the elevator.
He’s on his phone again, and his voice is low. He’s not looking at me, but he’s aware of me. He ends the call, and his eyes settle on me. “You’re leaving.”
“Yes,” I say. “It’s after six.”
He checks his watch, and his brows knit together in a frown. “You’re paid to be available.”
I don’t flinch. “I’m paid to be your assistant, and I’ve been your assistant for ten hours today.”
His eyes flash. For a second I think he’ll say something sharp, something that cuts. Instead, he says, “Tomorrow, be here at seven.”
My brows lift. “I’m here at eight.”
“Tomorrow,” he repeats, and he steps closer again. I can feel the heat of him, even though he isn’t touching me. “Seven.”
It’d probably be wise to say yes. My rent is overdue and my bank account is in the negative. I have no safety net.
I still say, “Then you’ll need to approve overtime, because I’m not doing charity work.”
Ethan’s stare hardens, and a small, dangerous thrill moves through me, because I’ve just said something no one says to him.
Then, slowly, he nods once.
“Fine,” he says. “Submit it.”
I blink again, because he agreed.
Then he turns and walks away like the entire exchange meant nothing.
But it meant something to me, because I can still feel his eyes on my body even after he’s gone.
I ride the elevator down with my heart pounding for no logical reason, and I tell myself to stop.
He’s my boss, and he’s rich and cold and probably dates women who don’t check their bank apps before they buy coffee.
Outside, the wind has a bite, the city is loud, and my feet ache in a way that feels personal. I walk two blocks to the subway, and I count my steps, telling myself I’m fine. I’m not fine.
I’m just used to it.
By the time I get home, my apartment smells faintly like old carpet and the neighbor’s cooking, and the ceiling stain over my kitchen sink looks bigger than it did last week.
I kick off my heels, drop my bag on the couch, and stand there for a second, staring at my own life.
This is what I’ve got.
A tiny one-bedroom with peeling paint and a faucet that drips, and a fridge that hums like it’s holding a grudge, and a job that keeps me one bad day away from disaster.
I open the pantry and stare at my options.
Pasta. Again.
I boil water, dump noodles, and lean on the counter while it cooks, because my body is tired in a way that makes me want to cry and punch something at the same time.
My phone buzzes again.
It’s my group chat.
GIRLS NIGHT EMERGENCY
