All it had taken was years of being passed from team to team without recognition, a pay rise conversation that had gone nowhere, and one beautiful homemade chocolate cake.
Funny how that worked.
Conrí Gallagher. I read the name twice, then clicked through to his profile on the company intranet out of what I told myself was professional curiosity.
The photo that loaded was exactly what I expected.
All rich men looked the same in their headshots. Conservative suit, standing at a slight angle for the photographer, arms crossed, chin lifted just enough to suggest authority without trying too hard. The smile never quite reached open or warm — it was that other kind. The boardroom kind. The one that said I know exactly how much I’m worth and so do you.
I don’t like him.
The voice came out of nowhere. Again.
I paused.
Why?I thought back, genuinely curious.
Silence.
I sighed.
You’re probably right, brain. We don’t like him.
I zoomed in anyway. Just to be thorough. Just because knowing your enemy was basic professional strategy and had nothing whatsoever to do with the dark eyelashes or the green eyes beneath them. Such a specific shade of—
Don’t.
The voice snapped this time. Sharp and immediate, like a hand closing around my wrist.
You’re so uptight, I thought.
No response. Just a wall of pointed silence that somehow managed to communicate disapproval more effectively than words would have.
I frowned at my screen.
Why would my own brain be uptight about eye colour? That was new. That was a new development in whatever was happening to me neurologically since Croatia.
I thought about everyone in the office. The cubicle negotiations. The sheer chaos.
It was probably both, I decided. My brain and whatever was wrong with it.
I minimised his picture.
There was no point in irritating myself before a meeting I hadn’t asked for.
I opened the email again and read his request properly this time.
Conference room. Tomorrow morning. Bring available team members.
I lifted my phone and dialled Francis’s number. Everyone else on the team was probably still sick.
“Hi, Nika,” she said cheerfully. How she managed to be happy all the time was beyond me.
“Hello, Francis. You’ll never guess what.”
“What?” Cautious immediately. Smart woman.
“Conrí Gallagher wants us to update him on the project,” I said, pausing for effect before I continued. “Tomorrow. In person.”
