Chapter 8: Unwanted Savior

The office was almost deserted when the clock on the wall blinked past nine. The buzz of fluorescent lights hummed above Julia Bailey’s desk as she typed furiously, eyes burning from the glow of her monitor. Half-finished coffee sat beside her, cold and bitter—just like her mood.

Her supervisor, Ms. Doyle, had dumped a pile of work on her before leaving. “You’re new, Bailey. Show me you’re worth my time,” she’d said with a smirk.

Now Julia sat alone with three deadlines and zero patience.

She jumped when the sound of shuffling echoed from the corridor.

“Still alive?”

Julia groaned at the voice. “Of course. Just waiting for death to finally take me, Brandon.”

Brandon Hughes appeared at the door, his cheap gray uniform wrinkled, hair sticking out in five different directions. “You make that sound poetic. Need a hand?”

Julia didn’t even look up. “Last time you offered a hand, the copier died a tragic death.”

He walked in anyway, uninvited. “Hey, I’ve improved! I even made coffee this morning and didn’t set off the smoke alarm.”

“That’s your standard of progress?” She sighed. “Impressive.”

He ignored her sarcasm and leaned over her desk. “What are you working on?”

“Market pitch revisions. They’re due first thing tomorrow. So please, for the love of all that’s holy, don’t touch anything.”

Brandon grinned. “Got it.”

Thirty seconds later, he was fiddling with the printer.

“Brandon—!”

The machine gave a strangled noise and spat out three crumpled sheets before flashing a bright red error light.

Julia’s chair screeched back as she stood, glaring. “Unbelievable!”

Brandon raised both hands. “Okay, that was not my fault. This thing hates me.”

“No, it’s responding to your energy,” she snapped, snatching the papers. “Chaotic. Useless.”

He winced but tried to laugh it off. “Wow, remind me never to ask you for a pep talk.”

“Maybe try learning before volunteering.”

He hesitated, watching her sort papers with practiced precision. “You don’t trust anyone, do you?”

Julia froze mid-motion. “Trust gets people crushed.”

There was something in her tone that made him go quiet.

After a moment, he murmured, “I used to think I could do anything… until I lost everything. Now I can’t even make coffee right.”

Julia glanced up. The usual grin was gone. For once, Brandon looked… small. Human.

She looked away quickly. “You don’t get sympathy points for failure.”

“Didn’t ask for any.” His voice was soft but steady. “I just want to figure out who I am without the Hughes name.”

That name made her flinch—Hughes. Her father’s company had gone bankrupt because of them. Because of his family.

She forced her expression neutral. “Then start by fixing your messes instead of creating new ones.”

Before he could answer, the office door burst open.

“Bailey!” Ms. Doyle’s sharp voice sliced through the silence. “Why is this place a disaster? Papers scattered, printer jammed—unacceptable!”

Julia straightened. “Ma’am, I can explain—”

But Brandon stepped forward. “It was me. I caused it.”

Julia turned to him, startled. “Brandon—”

Ms. Doyle’s eyes narrowed. “You again. You’re on thin ice, Hughes. One more mistake, and you’re out.”

She stormed off, muttering about incompetence and reports.

The moment the door shut, Julia spun on him. “Why would you do that? You could be fired!”

He shrugged, smiling faintly. “You were about to take the blame. Figured I’d return the favor.”

“That’s not how this works!”

“Maybe not,” he said, his voice dropping. “But I’m tired of letting other people take the fall for me.”

Something in his eyes caught her off guard—earnest, defiant, and broken all at once.

Julia crossed her arms. “You’re an idiot.”

“Yeah.” He smiled, just a little. “But at least I’m your idiot for now.”

Her heart skipped, and she hated it.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” she muttered, gathering papers. “If you go down, I’m not following.”

He chuckled softly, but there was a weight behind it. “You already are, Julia. You just don’t see it yet.”

Before she could reply, he turned to leave, his silhouette framed in the doorway’s dim light.

When he was gone, Julia slumped into her chair. The silence felt heavier than before.

She looked at the printer, at the ruined papers, and sighed.

You’re just like every Hughes, she told herself. Trouble.

But the thought didn’t stick as easily as it used to.

Out in the hallway, she caught a glimpse of Brandon through the glass wall—shoulders slumped, head bowed, walking alone. He looked nothing like the spoiled heir she’d imagined. Just a man trying—failing—but trying anyway.

Her chest tightened.

Then her phone buzzed.

From: James Whitmore

Subject: Immediate Concern

Message: Effective tomorrow, Brandon Hughes’s employment status will be reviewed.

We need to talk—privately.

Julia’s breath hitched.

James knew.

And if James knew, Brandon’s fragile attempt at freedom was about to collapse—taking them both down with it.