ZACH
"What the fuck was that?" Mike hisses as he stalks into the elevator beside me. Anger surges through him to redden his fat cheeks and the top of his balding head.
I punch the elevator button to go back to our floor. My jaw clenches, but I say nothing.
Mike doesn't let up. "That was a fucking embarrassment. We deliver, Zach. We never ask the client for more time. You, of all people, should know that by now."
There's a certain level of respect owed to the firm's managing partner. Worley isn't a democracy. You don't ask questions. You don't talk back. You do what you're told and get shit done or you'll be thrown out on your ass.
But instead of taking the safe route and avoiding Mike's death glare, I look down at him, meeting his gaze head-on. Maybe it's because I haven't slept in two days, or maybe it's because my nerves are wound so tight about Eden leaving, but I won't stay silent. Not this time.
"Mike, I told you last week my team needed more time. We're behind on other settlements, and they have to take priority. We could get on top of it if we hired a couple more paralegals. You need to understand—"
"No," Mike seethes. "You need to understand that this firm is built around profit margins. You're not getting any more paralegals."
"My whole team is burnt out—"
"Everyone knows what they sign up for working here. You want the Worley name on your business card, you fucking earn it."
"I've earned it." The words are bitter. I've more than earned my place. I put this job before everything—even my own family. "I'm the highest fee earner for a reason."
Mike sneers a smile at me. "Zach, your spot at the big boy's table isn't guaranteed. Pull shit like you just did in there again and I'll make sure the other partners know just how disposable you are." His lip curls. "We don't need a repeat of three years ago, do we?"
When the elevator stops, Mike storms out the doors without another word.
Yeah, goodbye to you too, dickhead.
I shake my head and turn down the corridor to my office. I ignore the waves from colleagues like I'm in a hurry.
When I turn the corner, I pretend I don't see the blonde ponytail and the pink-lipped smile beaming in my direction. Michaela. I don't want to see her today. Or ever. I just want to get to my desk and shut out the whole world.
Too late. Michaela's seen me. She snatches an oversized red folder from one of the paralegals and charges down the corridor after me.
"Hey." Michaela struggles to keep up beside me because I'm not slowing down. "We should catch up about the settlement for the commercial building on York Street." She cranes her neck so her lips are closer to my ear. "And you should explain why you didn't respond to my photo."
"I don't want any of your photos."
"But you used to love my photos." Michaela's smile is sweet, but there's a sharp edge to her voice. "Didn't you, Zachy?"
My eyes narrow. "No Zachy. You can either call me Zach or Mr. Rawles."
Michaela trills out a breathy laugh. "I'll call you Mr. Rawles if you promise to bend me over your desk—"
I stop dead in the corridor. Two steps, and I'm standing over her and blocking her path. She's not scared. Her blues eyes flash with excitement. She always loved the games.
"Think about where you are. Act like a professional." The chill in my voice can't leave any doubt about where we stand. "We're over. You ended whatever the fuck we were a year ago, remember?"
Michaela casts a sly look around. It's deserted. Everyone's hidden in their office, working their asses off. She smiles sweetly at me as her fingers dance up my tie. "And what if I want to revisit our... arrangement?"
I bat her fingers off my tie and step back. "I'm not interested. Nothing's changed since you pulled that shit last night."
"What can I say? I'm assertive. I go after what I want. And if I remember correctly, that's something you like about me. But do you want to know what I think?" She tilts her head with a smile of defiance. "I think you're still pouting because I replaced you last year."
I ignore her. She's trying to rile me up, but reacting infers I give a shit. I don't. Michaela pursued me. She wanted casual, and then one day, that didn't suit her anymore. End of story. "No more photos. No more texts unless it's about work. Stay away from me unless it's about a client, Michaela."
She only laughs. "Yes, Mr. Rawles."
I cannot get away from her fast enough.
I open the door to my office, pull back the black leather chair from my desk, and collapse down. No more time to waste. My fingers fly over the keyboard, logging in to check for messages. Three hours out of the office equals a long list of missed calls, but Eden's name's not on it.
I must have called the salon a hundred times since I got into work. It's the only option I have short of blowing off everything and risking more of Mike's wrath to turn up at her salon in person.
I'm close to risking everything.
Last weekend was one of the worst of my life. I called and sent Eden messages for hours before I realized she must have blocked me. Not just on her phone. Social media. Everything. She left me suffocating in a communication black hole.
And it's not like I could track her down anywhere else. I've caught up with Eden's friends a few times. Andie practically lives at the apartment some weeks, and I vaguely remember stopping by a condo on the North Shore for Yvette's dinner party once. But it's not like I have her friend's details saved in my contacts.
With no other options, it's just been me and way too much alcohol to keep me company until the salon opened.
Eden can't avoid me there.
And as soon as she calls me back, I can explain the misunderstanding. Nothing happened with Michaela. Eden will realize her mistake and come home. Everything will be fine. Just like how it was.
With a frustrated groan, I reach for my desk phone. Before I can press the redial button for Eden's salon, there's a sharp knock on the glass door.
My executive assistant's head pops inside. Her gray hair is pinned with a neat pearl clip, and her arms overflow with a stack of folders. "Hey, boss man," Tracey says. "I've got all that crap for you to sign."
"Are these the only phone messages?" I point at my computer screen.
"Yeah, that's all of 'em. Waitin' on somethin'?"
"Yeah. Has Eden called back?"
"Eden from where?" Tracey dumps the folders on my desk. "Is she part of that hotel chain merger? They've been callin', by the way."
I frown. "Eden. My girlfriend." The word girlfriend feels wrong when it spills out. Not because right now I'm clinging to the fact Eden still is my girlfriend, but because she's so much more than that.
"You have a girlfriend?" Tracey raises her eyebrows. "Huh."
Huh? Like Tracey didn't know. Like she was processing the information for the first time. This office has a mantra: Leave your personal life at the door. I'm a master at keeping my worlds separate and I never share much about my private life, but I'm sure I told Tracey about Eden... didn't I?
"Nah, haven't heard from her," Tracey says. "But I'll pop her straight through if she calls in, yeah?"
"Yeah. Thanks, Trace."
My eyes flick between the computer screen's reminder of how much work I need to catch up on and the phone. Eden won't know I'm back yet, and Mike's words sit heavily on my shoulders. With a defeated sigh, I push my glasses back up my nose and get to work. I'm typing a quick email to a client when Tracey appears at my door.
"Ah, boss..." Her tone is cautious. "There's ah... there's a delivery for you."
My head jerks up. "Who's it from?"
"Well.... It's from Eden."
Relief surges through me, and I can't help the dopey grin pulling at my cheeks.
"Hold that smile," Tracey warns with a point of her finger at me. "I'll bring it in."
A tweak of hesitation niggles at me, but I shove it away to focus on what I hope is happening. Eden got the flowers, she's realized I care about her, that there's been a huge mistake, and she's reciprocating with some thoughtful gesture like she always does.
Maybe those flowers weren't such a terrible idea. I had serious doubts. When Eden and I first started dating, I used to surprise her with a tiny hand posy of daisies. Small, cheap, wrapped in brown paper, and nothing special. But the smile she beamed carrying them around made my heart soar. I planned to leave a bunch by the door to the salon, but a tiny posy of daisies wrapped in brown paper doesn't exactly scream, 'You're the love of my life; please come home.'
My mind got stuck on needing something better.
Romantic gestures aren't my strength, so I enlisted the help of the best person I know. My mum. She's into those sappy Christmas movies where people from small towns fall in love, make cookies, and wear matching Christmas sweaters. Mum knows romance stuff. Well, so I thought.
Her response to my text asking for advice on the most romantic flowers was less than helpful.
Flowers stolen from your neighbor's yard just because you were thinking about her.
Useless.
My mates and I have a private group on one of those social media apps. Mostly, we talk about sports betting or share random memes, but I floated the question there, too. Everyone agreed on roses—the bigger, the better. One of the guys posted a link for a bunch of flowers that has never failed to get him out of the shit. I thought they looked a bit tacky, a bit much, but at two A.M on Monday morning, I was exhausted, drunk, and desperate. So, I clicked the purchase button.
The grimace plastered on Tracey's face when she appears again tells me everything I need to know. That two A.M. purchase is going to haunt me for the rest of my life.
My mouth drops open.
Tracey carries a huge glass vase stuffed full of the charred remains of three dozen roses. The blackened tips of the petals are fragile, and some crumble and fall from the jostle of Tracey's walk to my desk. Only a hint of red bleeds through.
My tongue turns to sandpaper. "Wha—what happened?" I choke out.
"At a guess, I'm thinking she set 'em on fire." Tracey slides the vase onto my desk. "You sure she's your girlfriend?"
Tears threaten my eyes, but I fight them off by clenching my fist and focusing on the swirly wooden grain of my desk.
"There's ah... There's a card too, boss." Tracey's plump fingers hold out a white envelope.
I hesitate before I pluck the envelope from her. Dread pools in my stomach. I turn it over and flick off the tab, taking a shaky breath before pulling out the card.
When my eyes scan the front, I'm greeted with an illustration of a ginger cat licking its butt and the words 'Giving zero fucks'. Another shaky breath is needed to prepare me to open the card. Eden's messy scrawl is inside with a simple message.
I miss your streaming subscriptions.
My glare at that card could incinerate it blacker than those roses. I toss the card on the desk. I'm not angry at Eden—that card is actually genius. The rage is all directed at me. I screwed this up. Monumentally.
I'm not risking another miss-step. The phone is already in my hand as I look back at Tracey hovering next to me. "Give me a minute, okay, Trace?"
She nods. "Good luck." As she shuts the door, I hear her mutter, "You're gonna need it."
I punch the redial button on the phone, and a few rings bleep through before Yvette's familiar voice greets me.
"Oh, hi, sweetie. We thought we might be hearing from you."
"Put Eden on right now."
"She's a little busy, sweetie."
I have a feeling Eden will be busy for the next millennium. "I'm going to call back every minute until she's not busy," I warn Yvette. "I am deadly serious. I need to talk to her. No more fobbing me off."
Silence. The awkward echo of nothingness drags on, and I glance down at the phone to make sure the call is still connected. There's a rustle, some whispers, and finally—finally—I hear the voice I've ached to hear for the last three days.
"Did you get my delivery?" Eden asks.
Except, it doesn't sound like Eden. Eden's voice is high and sweet, and it makes me feel like melted butter on toast. This voice is ice, so cold and sharp it plunges through my lungs. I can't breathe. It takes me a second to find my words again.
"Eden, it's so good to hear—"
"Stop calling here."
"I need to talk to you. Please. Can we meet somewhere?" I don't try to hide the desperation in my voice. "I'm sorry I've called so many times. I don't want to get you in trouble with your boss or anything."
"My boss," she repeats.
"Ye-yeah."
"You don't want me to get in trouble with my boss."
"Yeah, Eden. I'm not trying to cause trouble. I just—we need to talk."
Eden laughs. The dark, bitter crackle isn't one I've heard before, but dread pours over me like hot tar. "Yeah, we better not piss off my boss. She's a real bitch."
And before I can say anything else, Eden ends the call.
Ragged breaths burn my chest, and I scrub my face with my hands. My tired eyes are on the ceiling, searching for answers I know I won't find. Even though I don't understand why right now, I know that call just made everything so much worse.