Chapter 17

The moment I stepped into the lobby, the fluorescent lights felt like spotlights, and every glance felt like it saw straight through to my tequila-scrambled soul.

I kept my head down, walking fast but not too fast, silently praying Ryan had overslept or taken a personal day or gotten amnesia, or better yet, transferred to another country.

My heels clicked too loudly against the marble floor, each step echoing like guilt chasing me down the hallway as if everyone could hear the words I slurred last night.

By the time I got to my desk, my fingers were trembling slightly, and I typed my login wrong three times, cursing under my breath with every humiliating flash of error.

All morning, I avoided the hallway near his department, skipped the elevator to dodge eye contact, and ducked behind the ficus when I heard his voice near the break room.

My thoughts raced like a carousel on fire What if he tells people? What if he regrets helping me? What if he thinks I like him, which I kind of NO.

“Stay invisible,” I whispered to myself, balancing my coffee like it was a shield, heart pounding louder every time a shadow moved too quickly across the carpet.

I made it to lunch without seeing him, which felt like a small miracle, until I turned a corner and there he was, walking toward me, smiling like sunshine.

I froze like a deer in stilettos, completely unable to pivot, hide, or teleport into another timeline where tequila didn’t exist and neither did burped nicknames.

For a second, I considered ducking into a supply closet or faking a phone call, but before I could move, he was already standing in front of me.

“Hey, Sarah,” he said with that calm, easy tone like we hadn’t seen each other since college and I hadn’t practically drooled tequila down his collar.

I opened my mouth to apologize, but nothing came out except a weird hiccup of panic and the sound of my dignity fleeing the building.

“I….um… Hi,” I stammered, gripping my coffee like it held the key to another dimension where I wasn’t the most awkward person alive.

Ryan didn’t even blink. “Feeling better today? You looked like someone hit you with a hurricane and a karaoke mic last night.”

I winced. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to I don’t usually God, I called you Ry-Ry, didn’t I?”

He chuckled, leaning one shoulder against the wall, that damn dimple flashing like forgiveness wrapped in charm and friendliness. “You did. Honestly? It was kind of adorable.”

“Adorable,” I muttered, mostly to my coffee. “That’s a new low. Great. I’ve gone from anonymous assistant to adorable drunk girl with zero filter and possible liver damage.”

He tilted his head, still smiling. “Well, at least now I know you’re human. Vulnerable. That’s better than perfect and unreadable.”

I stared at him, mouth parting, caught off guard by how genuinely nice he sounded, how unbothered he was by the chaos I’d surely created.

“Thank you,” I whispered, voice barely above a breath, not trusting myself to say anything else without accidentally crying or confessing an embarrassing crush.

Before he could reply, a third voice cut through the air like a knife dipped in contempt, sharp and unmistakably cold. “Do either of you not have work to do?”

Matteo Russo stood behind Ryan, arms folded, jaw tight, eyes like frost carving through glass and he wasn’t smiling. Not even close.

Ryan straightened immediately. “Of course, Mr. Russo. Just on my way back now. I was”

Matteo didn’t wait for the explanation. “Then go. We don’t pay you to loiter and flirt during company hours. I expect better judgment from you.”

Ryan gave me a brief apologetic glance before nodding stiffly and walking away, his posture more rigid than it had been seconds ago.

I turned to follow him, hoping to escape Matteo’s glare, but his voice stopped me cold. “Not so fast, Miss Hart.”

I turned slowly, heart sinking to somewhere around the building’s basement, my mouth suddenly dry despite the coffee I hadn’t even tasted yet.

“Yes, Mr. Russo?” I said, trying for professional, but it came out breathy and too soft, like I was already anticipating another verbal blow.

He stepped closer, voice low but cutting. “Your performance has slipped. You’ve been late. You’ve been distracted. And now you’re wasting time with hallway conversations instead of doing your job.”

I swallowed hard, unable to meet his eyes, heat crawling up my neck like a slow, humiliating fire that I couldn’t put out.

“I wasn’t”

“Do I need to reassign your responsibilities?” he snapped. “Or will you remember you work for me and not as a social butterfly in my office?”

The words hit harder than they should have, maybe because they felt like punishment for something I didn’t do or maybe something I did too well.

I squared my shoulders, digging deep for the little professionalism I still had buried under layers of regret and confusion. “Understood, sir. I’ll get back to work.”

He didn’t respond. Just turned and walked away, leaving me standing in the hallway like a scolded schoolgirl with a bruised heart and a barely-held coffee cup.

I walked back to my desk with my head down, every pair of eyes I passed felt like a spotlight on the burning embarrassment I couldn’t hide.

Back at my desk, I sat still for a full minute, staring at my screen, trying to remember what task I’d been working on before everything shattered.

Ryan had tried to be kind. Matteo had chosen to be cruel. And somewhere between them, I was stuck in a version of myself I didn’t recognize.

I told myself I didn’t care what Matteo thought anymore, that his words were just noise but it still lingered like smoke after a fire.

I took a slow breath, opened the schedule file, and forced myself to type, even if my fingers trembled slightly over each key with the weight of humiliation.

From now until the gala, I would stay silent, efficient, invisible and when the lights dimmed after that final dance, I’d walk away without looking back.

Because no matter how much Matteo wanted to make me feel small, I wasn’t. And he’d realize it far too late to stop me.

—

By the time the office clock struck five, I’d rehearsed my apology to Ryan in my head at least twenty different ways. None of them felt good enough.

I waited by the glass elevators near the exit, chewing the inside of my cheek and clutching my phone like it could anchor me to courage.

When I spotted him walking toward the doors with his laptop bag slung over one shoulder and that easy, calm stride, my heart did a full-body flinch.

“Ryan,” I called gently.

He turned, smiling instantly and familiarly. “Hey, Sarah. You okay?”

I stepped closer, lowering my voice. “I just… wanted to apologize. For earlier. For Matteo.”

Ryan raised an eyebrow. “You don’t owe me an apology for his tantrum.”

I winced. “Still. He shouldn’t have spoken to you like that. And you were just being nice to me.”

He shrugged. “He’s your boss. I get it. But thanks for saying that.”

We stood there for a second in that after-work hush where everything slows and the day melts into the evening.

I glanced away, then back. “Can I make it up to you?”

His brows lifted. “How?”

“Dinner. My treat. No tequila involved this time, I promise.”

Ryan laughed, and something in my chest finally relaxed.

“Sounds like the best offer I’ve had all week.”

**

We chose a cozy little Italian place a few blocks away from the office nothing fancy, but warm and dimly lit with rustic decor and string lights curling across the ceiling.

We got a table near the window. No pressure. No expectations. Just two people, off the clock, breathing a little easier than we had all day.

The server brought garlic bread, and Ryan made a joke about me devouring carbs like a superhero with hunger as their origin story.

I nearly choked on my laugh.

We ordered wine, but nothing heavy. Pasta. Something with basil and lots of melted cheese. Something comfortingly normal.

“Last night,” I said, swirling my glass, “I was a mess, huh?”

Ryan grinned. “You were charming. In a chaotic, ‘please don’t fall off this barstool’ kind of way.”

I groaned. “I owe you for life.”

He leaned forward. “I liked seeing that side of you, honestly. You’re usually so composed. It was… refreshing.”

We talked about everything but work. Movies. Childhood stories. My failed attempt at learning French. His fear of squirrels. I laughed so hard I cried when he imitated one chasing him through Central Park.

He pulled out his phone at one point. “We need a picture. To commemorate the first time you didn’t burp on me.”

I covered my face. “You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

“Never,” he said, already holding out the camera.

We posed goofy, grinning, real.

And for the first time in days, I didn’t feel like a mess.

I felt like myself again.

And maybe something a little more.

We ended up ordering dessert because Ryan insisted that no meal was complete without something dipped in chocolate.

“I’m a firm believer in ending things sweet,” he said, slicing into the tiramisu with reverence.

I smiled into my wine glass. “That might be the most poetic thing you’ve ever said.”

He smirked. “What can I say? I’m a man of depth… and sugar cravings.”

We shared the dessert, laughing between bites, the candlelight casting soft shadows on his cheekbones and highlighting the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled.

I was still nervous, deep down. Still embarrassed. Still hyper-aware of how raw I’d been lately.

But for the first time in what felt like forever, I wasn’t defined by that feeling. Not around him.

He didn’t see me as Matteo’s assistant. Or last night’s drunk girl. Or a broken heart fumbling her way through survival.

He just saw me.

“Thanks for coming,” I said, quieter now.

Ryan leaned back, studying me for a beat. “Thanks for inviting me. It’s been a long time since I laughed this much over pasta.”

We walked out into the cool night air together, his jacket draped around my shoulders.

I didn’t know what tomorrow would bring.

But tonight, I let myself breathe.

And hope.