The email came with no subject line and only three curt words: “By noon. Drake.” Classic Ethan. It was like he’d made it his personal mission to test my limits, watching from his glass office as I scrambled to meet his impossible deadlines. The buzzing hum of the office was a constant backdrop as I raced to finish yet another last-minute task, my fingers flying over the keyboard.
By the time the clock struck five, my body was screaming for a break. I leaned back in my chair, rubbing my temples. Before I could relax, his voice rang out behind me. “Winters.”
Suppressing a groan, I turned to face him. Ethan stood by my desk, his tie slightly loosened but his sharp gray eyes as focused as ever. “You’re coming to the client dinner tonight,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument. “Wear something decent.”
I blinked at him, caught off guard. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me,” he replied, sifting through a pile of files on my desk. “Decent. As in, anything that doesn’t scream ‘clearance rack.’”
My glare could have melted steel, but Ethan didn’t even flinch. He handed me a folder. “Seven o’clock. Don’t be late.”
At the restaurant, I was grateful I’d borrowed Zara’s sleek black dress. The venue was overwhelming, a glittering expanse of crystal chandeliers, polished marble floors, and waitstaff who moved like shadows. I clutched my notes tightly, trying to ignore the weight of every gaze that landed on me. Ethan, of course, looked completely at ease, his charm on full display as he greeted the clients with firm handshakes and a smile that could cut glass. Our eyes met - and for a second I could swear I saw him light up. Guess I really nailed the “anti-clearance rack assignment”, huh?
The dinner started politely enough, but it didn’t take long for the tone to shift. One client, a middle-aged man with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, zeroed in on Ethan’s proposal. “Your plan hinges on projections that seem… optimistic at best,” he said, his skepticism evident.
Ethan didn’t miss a beat. “Optimistic? No. Realistic, yes. We’ve run the numbers three times, and the margins speak for themselves. You can doubt the process, Mr. Garnett, but you won’t find a better one on the market.”
I watched the client’s expression tighten, but before he could argue further, I jumped in. “Actually,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady, “we’ve included a contingency plan for those projections. If the market fluctuates, we have an alternate strategy that ensures stability while maintaining growth. It’s all outlined on page seven.”
The room fell silent as the client opened the folder, his eyes scanning the page I’d referenced. After a moment, he leaned back in his chair, nodding begrudgingly. “Impressive.”
By the end of the night, I was exhausted but proud. As we left, Ethan glanced at me, his expression unreadable. “Not bad, Winters,” he said, a faint edge of approval in his voice. “For someone who hated group projects, you’re surprisingly useful.”
I rolled my eyes but couldn’t stop the flicker of pride in my chest. “Glad to know I’m exceeding your very low expectations.”
***
The next day… I was at my desk, reviewing a client file, when I felt it—that crawling sensation that told me someone was watching. Before I even looked up, I knew who it was.
“Well, well,” Clara’s voice cooed, sugary and sharp all at once. “A little birdie told me you accompanied Ethan to the client dinner last night.”
I glanced up slowly, deliberately, meeting her gaze with all the disinterest I could muster. She was leaning against the edge of my desk, her immaculate suit as tailored as her words. Her hair, slicked back into a flawless ponytail, gleamed under the overhead lights. Everything about her screamed control, perfection, and condescension.
“How very… unexpected,” Clara continued, the fake surprise in her voice grating against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard.
I set the file down, keeping my tone flat. “Is there a point to this, Clara? Or are you just here for your daily dose of stirring the pot?”
Her smile widened, but there wasn’t a trace of warmth in it. She straightened, taking a step closer that made my skin prickle. I resisted the urge to lean back, keeping my posture steady as her perfume—something cloying and far too expensive—invaded my space.
“Do you even know why Ethan is so desperate to keep this company afloat?” she asked, her voice dipping into a conspiratorial whisper. It wasn’t quiet enough to be subtle—anyone nearby could hear if they tried hard enough.
My stomach tightened, but I refused to let it show. “What are you talking about?” I asked, my frown deepening.
Clara’s smirk grew sharper, like a knife edge. She leaned in, her tone mockingly pitying. “Oh, sweet Maeve,” she said, dragging out the words like they tasted delicious on her tongue. “You really think you’re here because of your dazzling competence? Because Ethan sees potential in you?”
My fingers tightened around the edge of the file, my knuckles whitening. “Get to the point, Clara.”
She tilted her head, her voice turning soft and venomous all at once. “Ask him about the missing millions,” she whispered, her words laced with satisfaction. “Go on. See what he says.”
I froze, her words landing like a blow to the chest. “What are you talking about?” I demanded, the steady tone of my voice betraying the twisting in my gut.
Clara didn’t answer. Instead, she stepped back, her smirk still firmly in place as she watched me for a beat, waiting for her words to sink in.
“Consider it a friendly warning,” she said lightly, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she turned on her heel. Her voice floated back over her shoulder walked down the hallway. “Better to know what kind of ship you’ve hitched yourself to before it sinks.”