Winter.
Columbia Business School.
I was a sophomore, rushing to my Financial Accounting lecture—my first class of the semester, and I was late. The kind of late that makes your stomach twist, the kind that gets you side-eyed by professors who expect perfection.
Hannah, my roommate at the time (who later proved her loyalty was as flimsy as a dollar-store umbrella), had hogged the bathroom that morning. By the time I got out the door, snow was falling in thick, lazy flakes, dusting the campus like powdered sugar. I sprinted, my boots slipping on icy pavement, my breath coming in sharp white puffs.
And then—impact.
I collided with someone at the intersection of two hallways, my books scattering across the floor. A deep voice cursed, then immediately softened.
"Shit—sorry, I didn't see you—"
I looked up.
Ryan Callahan.
Even then, he was unfairly beautiful—tousled dark hair, green eyes bright against the winter gloom, a smirk already playing at his lips as he crouched to help me gather my things.
"You're in a hurry," he'd said, amused.
"And you're in my way," I shot back, flustered.
He laughed, loud and unapologetic, and handed me my notebook.
"Guess I'll see you around, then."
The second time was in class. He sat two rows ahead, and when he caught me staring, he winked.
Our beginning was cute.
That's what I used to call it—cute. The way he'd leave coffee outside my dorm door before early exams. The way he memorized my favorite Thai place and ordered it for me when I was stressed. The way he kissed me in the library stacks when we were supposed to be studying.
I thought we were building a future.
I was wrong.
A sharp hiss yanks me back to the present. Coffee overflows from the cup, splattering onto the counter. I jerk the machine off, my hands unsteady.
Get it together, Jen.
I toss the ruined coffee, grab a fresh cup, and pour Damien's exclusive black blend—the one some partner gifted him, the one he demanded I prepare exactly at 9:15 AM. No sugar. No milk. Just like him.
His office door is ajar. I knock once and step inside, setting the cup on his immaculate desk.
Damien doesn't look up. He's hunched over his laptop, his brow furrowed, fingers flying across the keyboard. Normally, I'd ask what's wrong—play the part of the perfect, attentive secretary.
But my mind is a warzone.
Ryan's text. Lily's safety. The past I've spent years burying.
I didn't sleep last night. Couldn't. Even after blocking his number, his words echoed in the dark:
I missed you.
A lie. A joke. Ryan doesn't miss people—he uses them. Discards them.
Like he did with me.
Like he would with Lily, if he ever found out about her.
Damien finally glances up, his icy gaze slicing through me.
"You're pale."
I stiffen.
"Just tired."
He studies me for a beat too long, then nods toward the door. "Sit. Before you pass out."
I should refuse. But my legs feel like lead. I sink into the chair across from him, my fingers knotting in my lap.
The chair creaks as I sink into it, my forced smile stretching thin. Damien lifts the cup of coffee—his coffee, the one I meticulously prepared—and takes a slow, deliberate sip. His expression remains impassive, giving nothing away.
"How is it?" I ask, my voice too bright, too hollow.
"No different than the others," he says flatly, already turning back to his laptop.
The dismissal stings, but I'm almost relieved. At least he isn't probing further. At least he doesn't see the cracks in my composure.
Awkwardness coils in my chest. I rise, smoothing my skirt.
"I'll be at my desk if you need me—"
"Did you secure the exclusive guest list?" Damien interrupts without looking up, his fingers never pausing their rhythmic dance across the keyboard.
I swallow, my throat suddenly dry.
"That list is kept under strict confidentiality—even I don't have clearance for it."
His fingers still. Slowly, he lifts his gaze, those glacial eyes pinning me in place.
"Then you should have contacted Roberto."
Roberto.
The name slithers through me. Damien's fixer—the man who operates in legal gray areas with a smirk, who can pull strings (or sever them) without leaving fingerprints. I'd met him once, two years ago, when Damien needed delicate information on a rival firm. Roberto had delivered it with a wink, saying, "All above board, sweetheart."
I nod stiffly.
"I'll handle it."
I turn to leave, my hand gripping the door handle—
"Oh, and Cole?"
I freeze.
Damien's voice is lethally casual.
"Keep your bag packed. For Greece."
The words land like a blade between my ribs. Deliberate. Calculated. A reminder that he hasn't forgotten—that he won't let me forget.
My fingers tighten around the handle until my knuckles bleach white. But I don't turn. Don't let him see the way my jaw clenches, the way my pulse hammers in my throat.
Instead, I force another smile—one I know he can't see—and step out without a word.
The door clicks shut behind me.
Only then do I exhale, my breath ragged.
Seven days.
Seven days until the gala.
Seven days until Damien expects an answer I've already given—one he refuses to accept.
I exhale sharply, dropping into my chair with more force than necessary. My fingers fly across the keyboard, pulling up job listings before I can second-guess myself. If I'm quitting—when I'm quitting—I need a backup plan.
Lily can't be left behind for two weeks. Mom has her own health to worry about, and my friends have their own lives. And daycare? No. She's five. She needs me. Two or three days, maybe. But fourteen?
Not happening.
A notification pings on my screen—an email from Beauchamp Holdings, the French investors who've been dragging their feet over the Lyon acquisition deal. Damien hasn't so much as blinked at the delay. He knows they'll fold. Cocky? Maybe. But his confidence is never baseless. If Damien says something will happen, it does.
And damn it, I respect that about him.
(Not that I'd ever admit it to his face.)
I fire off a reply, then buzz Damien through the intercom.
"Beauchamp agreed to the six p.m. call."
A pause. Then, his voice, clipped and indifferent: "Fine."
The line goes dead.
I slump back, rubbing my temples. I'd hoped to leave early—no evening meetings meant a rare chance to pick Lily up from daycare myself. But of course work had other plans.
I pull out my phone and quickly text Jamila, my fingers flying across the screen: "Hi Jamila, just confirming Mia will be picking up Lily this evening. Thank you so much!"
The reply comes almost instantly: "No problem at all! Lily's been talking nonstop about the macaroni art project they started today. She's saving the 'bestest one' for you."
My heart swells even as guilt twists in my gut. My little ball of sunshine. I can practically see her now—covered in glue and glitter, that determined wrinkle between her brows as she carefully arranges pasta pieces into what will undoubtedly be declared a "masterpiece."
I should be there to pick her up. To hear her excited chatter about her day the moment she bursts through the daycare doors. To carry her backpack while she skips ahead, stopping every few feet to point out "important things" like particularly interesting cracks in the sidewalk or a "super special" red leaf.
But between Damien's impossible demands and this never-ending workload, I'm constantly failing at the work-life balance tightrope act.
At least Mia doesn't mind helping. If not for Elliott out of country, I wouldn't have bothered Mia with it since she is also busy with her second job.
Speaking of Elliott… I scroll to our last chat, a selfie of him grinning on a Bahamas beach, cocktail in hand.
"Miss you, neighbor! Don't burn the apartment down without me."
A reluctant laugh escapes me. God, I miss his terrible puns and impromptu karaoke sessions that would inevitably wake Lily (who would then demand to join in). He's been my rock since I moved into the building five years ago—a scruffy, sarcastic guardian angel who appeared the day my moving truck did, wielding a power drill and a six-pack of beer.
I can still remember him holding a colicky newborn Lily at 3 AM so I could shower for the first time in days. "Every queen needs her castle," he'd said, bouncing my screaming daughter with surprising expertise. "Even if that castle currently smells like spoiled milk and despair."
But his month-long family visit couldn't have come at a worse time. With him gone, my already precarious support system has crumbled.
And I'm running out of options.
I minimize the job listings—later—and pull up the gala files instead.