Fucking professional boundaries.
FIFTEEN
Jenna
Mid-afternoon sunlight slices through the windows of my office as I rummage through my briefcase for the third time. My purple notebook—the one with all my color-coded tabs and meticulous notes—isn’t here. I close my eyes and mentally retrace my morning: coffee, shower, fifteen minutes of trying to find matching shoes while Matthew complained about something and everything... yeah, I left the notebook on my desk at home. Fuck.
I check the time—2:35. My meeting with Benjamin isn’t until 4:30. Just enough time to grab a cab home and back. I shoot a quick text to my assistant:
Jenna
Stepping out again. Back by 4. Hold my calls.
I hail a cab and slide into the backseat, rattling off my address as I check e-mails on my phone. Three from Benjamin about the Wilson deposition, one from the guardian ad litem confirming our meeting, and—I pause—another text from Colton.
Colton
Found more photos from Mira. I sent it to Riley some months ago. Livy alone at 2am while she’s at club. Can we add to file?
My stomach tightens. Every new piece of evidence against Mira strengthens our case. But these private messages need to stop. I can’t start anything. I can’t just text with him like we’re two normal people wanting to casually exchange. So, I type a quick response:
Jenna
Please send to my office email. Will review tonight.
When we finally pull up to my building, I throw cash at the driver and hurry inside. The elevator seems slower than usual, each floor a grudging concession to gravity. I check my watch. 2:52. Still on schedule. But it’s not the upcoming meeting that has my hands trembling right now. It’s Colton. I feel guilty for not texting him back. And it’s ridiculous. Because I feel guilty for wanting to text him back too.
I rush to my front door and I’m already mentally cataloging the exact location of my notebook—left side of desk, under the family court transcripts, next to the coffee mug I probably forgot to rinse out like always. I’m so focused on this mental map that I nearly miss the unfamiliar shoes by my apartment door. Women’s shoes. Silver heels with an ankle strap, kicked off haphazardly. Not mine.
I go still.Not mine?
Something cold slithers down my spine.
I approach quietly, key in hand, and do something I’ve never done before… I peek through the peephole before entering myown apartment. Which is stupid, because I don’t see anything with the fisheye focus.
Heart pounding, I just go in.
Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s shoes Isla got me and Matthew threw them out, because he was annoyed. I go in and he is there, his back to me. But he’s not alone. And the silver shoes aren’t a gift from Isla. A woman with long brown hair stands facing him, her arms looped around his neck. They’re embracing, her body pressed against his, their foreheads touching as they speak in low voices I can’t make out.
My heart hammers against my ribs, each beat sending a rush of blood to my ears until the sound drowns out everything else. I can’t move. Can’t breathe. They’re naked and kissing.
It’s the kiss of someone who knows exactly what they’re doing. The kind of kiss you give another woman on the very couch where your girlfriend usually curls up alone. That’s when I drop my bag—my fingers suddenly too shaky to carry it.
Matthew jerks away from the woman, his face draining of color as he sees me. “Jenna?—”
I don’t wait to hear whatever explanation he’s about to offer. Don’t look at the girl who’s now stammering something about being a friend from work. Sure. As if. I don’t slam doors or scream or throw things. Instead, I pick up my bag, walk past them both without a word—straight to the bedroom—where I lock the door behind me and press my back against it. My legs give out, and I slide to the floor, breaths coming in short, painful gasps. This seems to turn into my new routine these days.
Seven years.
I press a hand to my mouth, trying to silence the sob that builds in my throat. This isn’t happening. Not today. Not when I have an important meeting in—I glance at my watch with blurry vision—eighty minutes.
“Jenna,” Matthew’s voice comes through the door, soft but urgent. “It’s not what it looks like.”
A laugh bubbles up, hysterical and raw.
Not what it looks like? Is there any phrase more damning, more pathetically cliché? Is he a gynecologist now, examining her pussy?
“Jenna, please. Open the door. Let me explain.”
