POV Norah
“What makes you think I would let you intern in my company after you ran off yesterday?”
Mr. Crawford’s voice was cool enough to frost glass.
He stood in the doorway of his office like he owned the skyline behind him—which, technically, he probably did. One eyebrow was raised; the other was busy judging my life choices.
I swallowed. “I— Sorry, sir, I got a call. My mother’s in the hospital.”
The eyebrow lowered a millimeter. “Is she alright?”
The question slipped out fast, unplanned, like it beat his self-control to the finish line.
I shrugged because if I didn’t, I’d cry. “Stable for now.”
Something softened at the edges of his mouth. It vanished almost as quickly. “Next time there’s an emergency, communicate, Miss Mason. I don’t tolerate chaos.”
“I wasn’t trying to be chaotic…” I said, hugging my folder. “I was trying to be a daughter.”
His gaze held. “You can be both. Tell my assistant where you’re going before you vanish. Go take your desk. Nine minutes late is still late.”
“Yes, Mr. Crawford.”
He turned away, then back again, like he’d remembered to be human. “Update me at day’s end. About your mother.”
The words landed in my chest like a warm stone. I nodded, throat tight. “I will.”
By noon, my nerves were stretched thin enough to hum.
I bolted for lunch with my tote slung cross-body, weaving through Midtown toward the clinic. I was halfway across 47th when a hand shot out, ripped my phone from my fingers, and took off.
“HEY!” My voice bounced off glass and steel. “THAT’S MY PHONE!”
The thief sprinted past a hot dog cart. I sprinted after him, nearly colliding with a tourist family and a man walking a golden retriever in a raincoat it did not need.
Taxi horns chorused. The light changed. He dashed into traffic. So did I.
“SOMEONE! PLEASE! STOP HIM!” I yelled, lungs burning. “He took my—!”
A blur of black fabric moved from the corner of my eye.
A guy in a denim jacket stepped off the curb like gravity had a crush on him and cut the thief off clean. One shoulder hook, a pivot, and the thief was on the sidewalk, winded and swearing.
Denim Jacket plucked the phone from his hand like he was retrieving a napkin.
I staggered up, breathless. “Oh my God… My phone.”
He handed it over with a grin that was all sunshine and trouble. “Unlocked, unscratched, and very offended by cardio. You okay?”
He was devastating in a different way than Xander—less ice, more heat lamp. Brown eyes that actually smiled. Dimples that did not have the right to exist at noon on a weekday.
“I’m—” I wheezed. “—fine. Thank you. I almost died for this thing.”
“Bad investment,” he said, still grinning. “Phones are replaceable. You’re not.”
Sir. Relax. “You sound like a poster in a school counselor’s office.”
“Guilty.” He offered a hand. “Chris.”
“Norah.” I shook it, immediately aware of how warm his palm was and how my pulse leaped like it had found a trampoline.
“Let me buy you coffee,” he said, already steering me toward a corner café with the kind of casual confidence that suggested people usually said ‘yes’. “Post-trauma protocol. Also, you ran into traffic. That deserves caffeine and possibly a medal.”
“I actually can’t,” I said, half-apologizing, half-still-trying-to-breathe. “I have an appointment. Like… right now.”
“Okay, then tea. Espresso to go. Warm croissant to convince you the world is not terrible.”
My phone buzzed in my hand. Clinic Reminder: 12:30 PM – Paragon Midtown. My stomach flipped.
“I— really can’t.” I backed away a step, clutching the phone he’d saved. “But thank you, Chris. For the tackle. And the life advice.”
He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets, grin easing into something gentler. “Another time, then. I’m rooting for you, Norah!”
That should not have made my chest sting, but it did. “Thanks.”
I ran.
* * *
Back at Crawford & Associates, the elevator was stuffed with associates comparing billables like baseball cards. I skipped it for the stairs, eager for air and the illusion of control.
Bad choice.
Half a flight up, Madison and Jennifer—law school acquaintances in the way hurricanes are “weather”—were draped across the landing like it was a red carpet.
“Well, if it isn’t Saint Norah,” Madison purred, crossing one long leg over the other. “Late to the party again?”
“I was on my lunch,” I said, stepping to pass.
She mirrored me neatly, blocking. “On your back spreading legs too? Or is that just a rumor?”
“Mad, be nice.” Jennifer laughed, bright and mean. “Maybe she’s busy tutoring. She’s so helpful at school. Always raising her hand. Always looking for… attention.”
My jaw set. “Move.”
“Is Alex still texting you?” Madison leaned in, perfume heavy. “Because if you’re hooking up with my boyfriend…”
“I’m not,” I said, flat.
Alex had once asked me for class notes after skipping Contract Law to attend a yacht party. I had said ‘no’ because I’m not a doormat.
This, apparently, had inspired a conspiracy theory.
“Don’t fucking lie.” She pushed my shoulder—sharp, an unspoken dare. “Girls like you always think you’re better than the rest of us. Until you’re not.”
Heat crawled up my neck. “Get. Out. Of. My. Way.”
Jennifer’s gaze dropped, hawk-quick. “What’s that?”
I followed her eyes too late. The brochure had slid from my tote and fanned open on the stair: Paragon Family Agency – Elite Surrogacy for Exceptional Clients.
Madison’s smile went carnivore. She snatched it up, flicked through like she’d found a diary.
“Wow, Norah,” she let out, delighted. “Didn’t know you were selling premium cuts.”
The air went thin. “Give that back.”
She held it high, taunting. “Virgin. High IQ. Perfect health. No prior pregnancies.” She arched her brow. “Check, check, and check? Are you planning to auction the rest of yourself on LinkedIn too?”
Jennifer tittered. “Maybe she already started. How else do you think she got onto Crawford’s team? He never picks nobodies.”
Something inside me snapped and steadied at the same time. “You know nothing about me!”
Madison’s gaze glittered. “I know a whore when I see one.”
The word hit like a slap. For a second, the stairwell tilted. The brochure shook in her hand as if even the glossy paper recoiled.
I took a breath that scraped. “Say that again,” I said, voice low. “And I will make sure HR hears exactly how you welcome fellow interns.”
“Oh, honey,” Madison crooned, stepping closer, pushing lightly at my shoulder again. “HR loves me. And they love Alex. They do not love desperate girls who spread for rent money.”
My palm tingled with the urge to plant it across her perfect face. I held still.
Jennifer’s smile faltered. She glanced past her shoulder, eyes widening. “Mad…”
“What, Jen?” Madison didn’t turn. “I’m busy educating—”
“Madison,” she hissed.
“Is this a scheduled team-building exercise or just your regular bullying hour?”
A voice floated up the stairwell, bored and bright. We all turned.
A woman stood two steps above us, a to-go soup cup in one hand and a badge that read ‘Fiona Freeman – Head of Accounting’ clipped to her belt.
Her gaze slid from Madison to the brochure to my face, taking everything in with accountant-speed.
“Hi,” she said to me, like we were already friends she’d just found at a bad party. “You okay?”
I nodded because my voice was not currently taking calls.
Fiona looked back at Madison and smiled in a way that showed zero teeth and all warning.
“Hand her brochure back, please. And clear the landing. Unless you want me to email HR a little summary with names, timestamps, and, you know, colorful vocabulary. I’m very good with spreadsheets and receipts.”
Silence stacked up. Madison’s knuckles whitened around the brochure, then loosened. She dropped it to the step like it had burned her.
Jennifer shifted first, stepping aside with a muttered, “Whatever.”
Madison held my stare for one long, poisonous second. “Careful on the stairs, Norah,” she murmured. “Wouldn’t want you to fall.”
“Move,” Fiona said, still smiling. They moved.
Fiona bent, scooped up the brochure, and offered it to me without looking at the cover.
“Walk with me,” she said. “And if anyone so much as breathes weird near you again, I will personally turn this building into an audit.”
My fingers closed around the glossy paper. I swallowed. “Thank you…”
“Anytime.” She nudged the door open with her hip and spoke just loud enough to carry back into the stairwell. “Also— Madison? Head of HR loves me too.”