Game over!

Jannah

I should have known the day would be hell the moment my alarm refused to go off and I had to sprint out of my apartment with a half-buttoned shirt and my hair packed into the real definition of a messy bun.

"Damn you, universe," I curse under my breath, though a part of me is convinced my dead batteries are more likely at fault.

By 8:03 AM, I've barely recovered from my disorganized state when the already out-of-control Slack messages greet me. Bugs. Crashes. Last-minute client feedback. You name it. And then- because the universe isn't done messing with me -an all-hands meeting with Aaron that's scheduled for tomorrow pops into my mail just as I'm about to stuff my second bagel into my mouth.

A young visionary, the email says. I snort, chewing angrily. Of course, they're all always visionary.

I continue to read the text: Innovative, driven, results-oriented.

Corporate code for: He doesn't care how tired you are. Just deliver.

I let out a groan and lean back against my chair, too pissed to do anything but glare at my screen before I make a mental note to speed up my work and buy new batteries on my way home.

I barely have time to catch a fucking breath between meetings and backend debugging before Mrs. Sanchez, the HR barges into my office without knocking. Now, on a good day, I wouldn't mind, but today I'm forced to arch a brow at her.

If my expression isn't welcoming, she does a great job of not giving a fuck. Instead, she takes a few steps toward me and flashes me a stern look I've grown to ignore.

"You know you're still behind on the Q2 interface report, right?" Her lips are pulled into a narrow line, arms crossed above each other before she raises both brows at me.

Fair enough.

Of course. Of course. Why wouldn't I be?

"I was just doing that before you came in," I lie through my teeth with a clean conscience. My eyebrows are now lowered, and I have on one of my Barbie fake-ass smiles plastered on my face.

She gives me one last look before she points two fingers at her eyes, then at me.

"I'll be back," she says pointedly. The instant the back of her figure disappears behind my door, I let out a deep breath and roll my eyes. I'm officially cooked, alright.

I stay hunched over my desk like a gremlin for hours, fingers dancing across the keyboard as I tackle one line of code after another, the glow of my dual monitors painting my face in pale blue.

My neck aches, my eyes sting. My coffee's gone cold. The bagel I never got to finish is now just a sad, dried-out half-circle of carbs on a napkin beside me.

It's only when I pull up my blind that I notice it's way past early evening. The skyline glows faintly against the blackening sky, and as though my brain has just been alerted, the strain of the day's activity begins to take an actual toll as my eyelids droop, the lulling call of fatigue causing me to yawn.

But since I've vowed not to cross over into the next day with yesterday's work, I remain glued to my seat-reluctantly, of course.

I press a hand against my temple and lean forward, biting my lower lip as I let out a low wince, the dull throb of a headache announcing its arrival. Damn it. I need sleep. Food. Maybe a reset on life. But I also need to finish this before I'm handed over a new workload tomorrow.

It's not until the clock on my screen flashes 9:46 PM that I finally lean back, stretching my arms overhead with a yawn. The silence is so complete now that I can hear the hum of the vending machine at the end of the hall.

I pack up my things slowly, with snail speed my body has always been alien to, and with each move I make, I'm more aware of the way my spine hurts, how heavy my head feels on my neck... I'd literally kill for a hot bath.

I sling my bag over my shoulder, fingers rubbing at the knots in my neck, and shuffle toward the elevators, heels clicking softly in the stillness while my keys jingle in their own rhythm.

When I hear the sound of quick footsteps approaching me, I straighten my back and pause for a minute, eager to see who else had to work their ass off.

The footsteps halt for a minute.

Just as I round the corner toward the elevator bank, the doors begin to slide open and I step in. I'm about to punch a button when a pair of brown Oxfords block the elevator from shutting. I lift my eyes slowly, and my eyes fall on... Clinton.

He pauses mid-step, just as startled as I am, before he slides through the narrow opening. His suit jacket is off, placed on his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the soft light casting shadows across the sharp angles of his face.

For a second, my heart slams against my ribs so hard, like it's performing a wild tango, and I forget how to breathe.

The last time I saw him was at the dinner party. When I looked down for a second and he vanished, like smoke. Like a ghost.

Not this time.

Without thinking, I step forward, fast. My feet move before my brain does, my fingers tightening around the strap of my bag. The elevator doors begin to close again behind him.

"Clinton," I call, my voice low.

He turns, tips his chin slightly, brows raised like he wasn't expecting to hear his name. His lips twitch like he's about to speak, and his eyes regard me with a silent assessment that only heightens my annoyance.

So he's going to pretend he doesn't know me?

I don't wait for pleasantries. I don't ask where he's been. I don't try to keep it professional. I don't give a fuck if this is his brother's company. Fuck that shit.

I stop right in front of him, look him dead in the eye, and spit the words out like venom-

"You fucking bastard."