by Staci Hart
For a full year, I scrimped and saved, shelling away birthday money from my parents, housesitting, dog walking—any side hustle I could get my hands on. And then I drove my little black Honda Civic to Rodeo Drive, walked into Armani, and bought a white pantsuit that cost almost four months of rent.
That suit, I was convinced, would be my ticket, the fulcrum of my success. I believed so wholly that if I had that suit, I could do anything, achieve everything. I could walk into Archer Events with my head high and back straight, feel their eyes on me as I passed. They would believe I was competent, capable. Someone to be respected.
And I’d manifested my destiny the day I walked into Caroline Archer’s office in my Armani suit and landed my dream job.
Wonder still struck me in unexpected moments, like today, as I walked through the glass doors of Archer’s offices, which resided on the forty-fifth floor of a towering building in Midtown. Shades of pink and creams colored every wall, set off by touches of gold and the occasional pop of navy. The offices were feminine and classic, somehow both soothing and crisp, welcoming and elegant, rich and luxurious.
The front desk was an opaline tiled affair with Caroline’s logo—a silhouette of the Greek goddess Artemis, crescent bow drawn taut, her eyes on the sky—shining and gold on its front. Two receptionists sat behind in matching navy suits, headsets on and smiles in place.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Parker,” Juliet said, standing. “Ms. Lane requested you come straight to her office.”
I stifled a sigh, locked it painfully in my lungs against its will. With a thin smile, I thanked her.
Her dark eyes were full of apology.
Everyone seemed to know of the ritual mistreatment Addison Lane bestowed on me—everyone except for Caroline, who I could see in her office at the back of the building through the wall of glass bracketed by velvet curtains of palest pink. Beyond her stretched the city in layers, visible only in slats and rows of windows, towering in slivers granted by the maze of streets. I turned for the glass houses lining the galley of interns and assistants, the offices of the coordinators, including my own small space adjacent to Addison’s. A dozen senior coordinators worked at Archer, and I had been yoked to the worst of them all. Addison Lane had a reputation for being ambitious and self-serving, her motto something akin to, Whatever it takes.
My blood pressure rose with every beat of my heart as I made my way toward her office, seeing her long before I cared to. She sat behind her desk, elbow on her armrest, hand closed gently, elegantly in the air next to her face. Her hair was black as pitch, pulled into a ponytail, sleek and inky. She was a jackal of ancient Egypt, her skin fair, the rest of her dark—dark dress, dark hair, dark eyes, dark heart. Blood-red lips, wide and humorless, were the feature to note after the bottomless depths of her eyes, then the line of her jaw, the soft point of her chin. She was sharp angles and contempt, fueled by arrogance and superiority.
In short, she was the devil, Anubis reborn in a wedding planner, and my goddamn boss.
For now.
I didn’t bother pretending to smile when I walked into my space and stowed my things. Addison watched me coolly from the other side of the glass partition, nothing moving but her eyes as she tracked me.
“I’m sending Lila to approve it,” she said, her eyes on me but her face tilted toward the phone on her desk, “and if it’s not right, I expect you to make it right.”
“Of course, Ms. Lane,” the man on the other end said with a nervous edge to his voice.
Without a word of parting, her hand fell to disconnect him.
“What am I approving?” I asked shortly.
“Menu changes for the Hilton engagement party. You have enough events at the Skylight building to work it into your schedule, don’t you?”
It was a challenge, not a request.
“Of course,” I said, not afforded an alternative as I made a mental note to add her task to my calendar. “You wanted to see me?”
“Update me on the Felix event.” Her eyes flicked to the chair in front of her desk, the only invitation I’d get to sit.
So I did. “I got the call this morning that Skylight had a cancellation, so I booked it for the Felix reception.”
At that, her smile curled at the edges. “I’ll call and let her know.”
“Already done,” I said with an answering smile and the delightful satisfaction I always felt when I was able to claim my own successes. “Dress is settled and with the tailor. Flowers and colors have been chosen, and Longbourne is already working on everything we’ll need. Cake tasting is on the books, and we have a tour of St. Patrick’s next week, thanks to the Felixes’ donation.”
It was obscene, the money they’d thrown at the church to secure a date. The tour and meeting with the priest was a formality, which was fortunate. Who knew what the Femmes would do to embarrass themselves—and by proxy me—when we were there.
“And Natasha’s birthday party?”
A sharp tear split my chest at the sound of her name, cold and unexpected. I swallowed. “We’re on track. Just putting the final touches on the family banquet. The club for her real party is rented out, and the waivers and liability paperwork are in hand.”
Addison’s office door opened, and Caroline Archer stepped in, smiling. She was a vision—shining blonde hair, silken tailored shirt and pencil skirt, graceful smile and kind eyes.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Caroline started, offering me a smile before turning to Addison.
Addisatan, the shapeshifter, morphed into an unrecognizable thing. Her eyes brightened, smile broad and lined with perfect, vividly white teeth. “I was just giving Lila some guidelines for the Felix events,” she said, her tone breezy and light.
Faker.
“One of our big ones,” Caroline said with a glance in my direction. “It’s going well?”
“I’ve got it under control. Don’t worry,” Addison said, laughing lightly.
“I’d never expect anything less, Addy.”
Addison didn’t even flinch at the use of her hated nickname. “Are we still on for dinner?”
“God, I hope so. I’m ready for wine. I was just coming to confirm. I had Lisa make us reservations for seven. We can share a cab.”
“Can’t wait!” She really did speak in exclamation points when Caroline was around.
It was one of the most unnerving, unnatural things I’d ever witnessed—Addison Lane being nice.
And yet, she sold it flawlessly, though I knew better. Caroline was at the top of the pile of bodies Addison had climbed to get where she was, and I was the poor sucker giving her a boost.
Someday, you’ll be her boss.
I smiled placidly as they chatted as if I wasn’t there. Sometimes, I wondered how I tolerated it all—the disregard, the disrespect of being undermined and used—and could chalk it up to two things. The first: I knew the devil by name and thus knew her motives. I saw her coming a mile away, and as such, I didn’t get fired up about the injustice of it all. Addison was a tool for me to use just as she used me. The second: I’d learned early on that the only thing you could do was a good job. I couldn’t control Addison any easier than I could control the orbit of the moon. But I could give her a length of rope and wait. She’d hang herself with it eventually, and when Caroline figured out Addison was largely full of shit, I’d come out of it fresh as a daisy.
Of course, it’d been years, and she had yet to falter. As an exercise supplied by my therapist, I kept Nag Notes in my phone where I noted every infraction, big or small. If I was upset, hurt, humiliated, it went in the notes. I archived them weekly and never read through them, never even been tempted. But I couldn’t bring myself to delete them like my therapist had said. I could let it go—mostly. But I wouldn’t forget.
Caroline said goodbye, barely glancing in my direction, and I wished she knew just how much I was doing. Honestly, I should have won a major award just for keeping my mouth shut. The high road sucked, but I’d worked too hard for a
nything less. My integrity was too important to risk on behalf of Addison Lane. And anyway, I had a feeling that was exactly what she wanted—to push me until I broke.
I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction.
“Anything else?” I asked with the patience of a saint, hands folded neatly in my lap.
“I want you to really consider this florist you’re pushing. We won’t tolerate another incident like the Berkshire wedding.”
The royal We, as if she were speaking for Caroline and all of Archer.
“Don’t worry,” I assured her. “They’re the best florist in Manhattan, and our brides love the charm of using a shop that grows its own flowers.”
“Bower Bouquets is the best florist in Manhattan. No one had even heard of Longbourne until a few months ago.”
My lips flattened. “Bower is a big-box corporation without the charm of Longbourne. Just today, Madison Wendemere requested a tour of Longbourne’s greenhouses, and if you don’t think she’ll tell her friends, you’ve never exchanged words with her.”
Addison regarded me for a moment. “Just be sure, Lila. It’s your ass.” She turned her attention to her laptop, opening it before beginning to type, effectively dismissing me.
I stood and left without a goodbye, sliding into my seat and opening my own laptop to file away her threat and work through my notifications. Emails first, then my calendar. I went through my following day, making a mental checklist of everything I’d need to get done to match the expanded calendar, adding the Hilton menu to my next visit to Skylight.
Busy, busy, busy I kept myself, surprised when I realized the sky was on fire with dusk.
Swearing to myself, I closed my laptop and packed up my things. It was far enough beyond our normal hours that I owed Addison no explanation, and she didn’t ask, just watched me with those jackal eyes as I left the office.
And almost ran straight into Caroline.
She laughed, an easy sound, and grabbed my arms to stop us both from falling.
“Oh my God,” I breathed, heart pounding, though I smiled in response to her laughter. “I am so sorry.”
“It’s all right. I was actually coming to find you. I just received a call from Iris Berkshire.”
I stepped back, stiffening for the blow.
But she kept smiling. “Don’t look so worried. She called to apologize for Johanna’s behavior last week and mentioned that she’d received a partial refund for the flowers. When she called Longbourne, they said you’d told them of the mistake, so they took care of it. Well done, Lila.”
Relief and pride brought a flush of heat to my cheeks. “Thank you, Caroline.”
“No, it’s me who should be thanking you. We knew Johanna was going to be difficult the second she walked in, and she lived up to her reputation. You handled it beautifully. Keep up the good work,” she said before cupping my elbow and breezing toward her office.
I floated to the elevator, though I felt Addison’s eyes on my back. She’d seen the whole exchange, and like a petty bitch, I hoped it ate her alive not to know what had been said. When I turned in the elevator to face the doors, our gazes snagged for the briefest of moments before getting cut by the closing metal. It was a win—a small one but a win nonetheless. And I needed a win.
Because my next task would be utter bullshit. I only hoped Brock wouldn’t be home when I completed it.
The very last thing I wanted was to go to his apartment. I’d much rather head straight to Perry’s and grab a slice of pizza on my way to my sister’s. I’d lose myself in her life, in her and Dean’s easy conversation, in their company. It was so much easier to be alone if I wasn’t actually alone. But before I was awarded pizza and distractions, I needed to pack a bag. I wanted my own shampoo and my own makeup. I needed clothes and shoes and my book, which was sitting on his coffee table. Funny, how I’d already divorced myself from that place, from my relationship. But finding him in flagrante as I had was the snapping of a cord, immediate and unsalvageable.
Nerves rose with every block the cab rolled through. I should have left earlier to guarantee he wouldn’t be home, and I hoped he had a late night at work. Or maybe he and Natasha were out. Maybe she was there.
God, I hoped she wasn’t there. Though I might have nearly murdered them in the conservatory with a candlestick, I hadn’t said a word. Today, I wouldn’t keep my mouth shut. And the last thing I needed was a complaint from a Felix Femme to Caroline.
The doorman let me in with the tip of his hat and a look that said he knew something. I didn’t have the courage to ask if Brock was home or if she was there, didn’t want him to pity me. I’d find out soon enough. The elevator beeped slower than I ever remembered, filling the metal box with its countdown. And when the doors finally opened, down that hall I went. Emotion swept over me, fresh as it had been when I’d last been in this place. My busyness was a facade, thin and temporary over the truth.
I was not okay. And this was not okay.
My keys rattled in my hand, slick as I unlocked the door and opened it, my eyes clicking to the wall where he’d fucked her last night, catching on the nick in the sheetrock from my outburst. The empty space was thick with ghosts. The apartment was quiet.
I sighed my relief and closed the door.
“Lila?”
His voice, tired and worn, from the dark living room. A shock, cold and sharp, down my spine.
“Of course it’s me,” I said, my acerbic tone shellac over my pain. “Who else would it be? I didn’t figure you’d given Natasha Felix a key, but you’re just full of surprises these days, aren’t you?”
The shadows shifted as he stood and turned on the light. I didn’t wait to hear him out. Instead, I marched toward the bedroom to do what I’d come to do. There was no backing down, nor was there any running away.
“Let me explain.”
“Explain what?” I asked dryly, flipping on the light before opening the closet.
He stopped inside the door, sliding his hands into his pockets, leaning on the doorframe. I didn’t chance a look at his expression. My periphery was enough.
I thunked the suitcase on the bed and turned for my dresser.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” he said quietly.
A bitter, severe laugh shot out of me. “That’s what you’re going with?” I loaded an armful of panties, bras, and chemises and dumped them unceremoniously in the gaping suitcase.
Ignoring the jab, he continued, “We met at the engagement party—”
“I know when you met, asshole. I introduced you.” To the closet I whipped, trying to calculate outfits and shoes with the tiny percentage of my brain that wasn’t consumed with Brock the Cock and his excuses. I gnawed my lip so hard, I could feel the throb of blood at the point of contact.
“She’s just … she’s different, Lila. I’ve never met anyone like her before. Natasha is unpredictable when everything in my life seems planned out until I die.”
It was then that I finally turned to him, a painfully slow twist. Our gazes met. He didn’t look sorry, but he wasn’t happy either. There was no regret, but there was no defense.
“Like me,” I finished his thought.
“You and I are comfortable, easy. On paper, it makes sense. But that’s been my whole life. My parents had my application to Columbia filled out when I was in diapers, and I went along with it. I’ve done everything expected of me. I made them happy, but I won’t become them. Sleeping in separate rooms, never speaking beyond what’s required of them. Cold and loveless. I need more. I need passion.”
Fury. It was fury, unbridled and wild, lashed through me sharp enough to draw blood. “No,” I said on a shaky breath.
His fine brows drew together. “No?”
“You don’t get to break up with me. You don’t get to blame me, to make this my fault.” I stepped toward him as I spoke, my voice deadly calm and my body tight as a bowstring. “You weren’t happy? Fine. But don’t pretend like fucking a twenty-year-old child in the apa
rtment we shared was the way to handle it. Self-destruct, if that makes you feel in control of your life. But you don’t get to break up with me. Because I’m leaving you.”
His face was still as he watched me approach, unafraid and unfazed. Pity flashed behind his eyes, and I resisted the impulse to grab the closest inanimate object and brain him with it.
“I don’t give a shit why you did it or what revelations you had when you had my goddamn client nailed to the wall of our foyer. Just leave me alone so I can pack my things in peace and go.”
A sigh, thick and deep, set his chest in a rise, then a fall. “I should have expected this,” he said, pushing himself upright. “But deep down, I thought you might actually show some emotion. Be vulnerable. Be honest. I always was a sucker.”
And he turned and walked away.
“That makes two of us,” I said quietly to his back, my tears caught in my chest, in my throat, in the tip of my nose and the corners of my eyes.
I turned back to my closet in a haze of thought, a fog of emotion, blindly gathering suits and my garment bag, then shoes and silken pajamas. Into the bathroom I went, grateful it was joined to the room so I wouldn’t have to venture out until I was ready. The light was too bright, overly harsh, and I avoided my reflection, afraid of what I’d see. And when the counter and medicine cabinet were half empty in ghostly equal, I walked out of the bathroom, then our room like a stranger.
He thought me invulnerable. Unfeeling. Dishonest with my emotions.
For all the years we’d spent together, it seemed he really didn’t know me after all.
Brock glanced up from an armchair when I entered, scotch in his hand and brow smooth.
“I’m keeping the key until I’ve gotten the rest of my things. I’ll be here Saturday from noon to three. Please, don’t be here.”