chapter 10

THEA

They say pressure makes diamonds.

I say it exposes fractures.

It's been exactly 15 days since I walked out of that café, holding the shards of my pride like they were fine china.

Since then, I've buried myself in work.

Buried so deep that sometimes I forgot to breathe.

Ezra Harrington, my grumpy wicked pants asshole of a boss makes sure of that.

He doesn’t just expect excellence, he demands perfection before you even know what it looks like.

And he wanted it yesterday.

I’ve pulled more all-nighters in the past four weeks than I have since founding HMA.

And yet, I show up.

Just like today.

Eyeliner sharp, heels sharper, chin high.

Because I earned this title.

Every shred of it.

But apparently, not everyone agrees.

I step into the elevator, not bothering to slide off my sunglasses in case I have another mental breakdown.

The door slides close, leaving me with some other workers. I say nothing as I walk to a corner and lean against the wall.

“You know she’s only MD because of him, right?”

And there it is.

The goddamned whispers.

In the hallways. In the cafeteria. Even the goddamn elevator.

“Didn’t he fly in from Asia? Word is they go way back.”

“She must be sleeping with him. No way anyone survives his schedule otherwise.”

I hear them.

Of course I do.

They don’t even try to be discreet anymore.

And maybe if I were a different woman—softer, quieter, unsure, still with Sebastian—I’d confront them, cry in a bathroom stall, or take a few days off.

But I’m not that woman.

Not anymore. Or at least, that's what I chose to believe.

Still, the worst part isn’t their words.

It’s that Ezra hasn’t shut them down.

Not even once.

He hears them, too.

And every time he hands me another “impossible” task, I wonder—

Is he feeding the rumors?

Or is he testing if I’m still worthy of the seat I sit in?

Because if this is some twisted way to see if I’ll break…

He’s not ready.

The elevator dings on the tenth floor and the whisperers step out, another group steps in.

It goes on continuously until I reach the 43rd floor.

Then, I step out, adjusting the blazer I barely had time to press.

My grip tightens on my bag as I walk toward my door.

“Thea Carlisle.” I read.

I remember the moment I sent the mail, telling HR to update my name.

It wasn't dramatic. No long explanations. But it happened right after I got into my new apartment, with my loud sobs echoing in the empty space, right after another emotional breakdown.

Calloway came with expectations. With weight. Carlisle is who I was before him. It's who I'd to become again. Brick by brick. Not because I wanted to erase the past. But because I wanted a name that didn't make me feel like I failed, a name that broke me.

I reach for the handle and place my thumb on the knob, the door clicks open. And with a deep breath, I turn the knob and step inside.

Then I freeze.

Because there he is.

In my space. Again.

Ezra sits on the seat opposite my seat, sleeves rolled up, coffee in hand, legs crossed, facing me, a heavy brown envelope on the seat beside him.

I'm already tired of asking him how he got in. The answer is always the same.

“I'm the boss here.”

Of course I know.

He's here to make my life hell again.

“You are late.”

“It's 8:58.” I say without missing a beat as I walk past him toward my seat. “Work hours don't start until 9.”

“I said 8:30.”

I drop my bag on the table with a thud, glaring at him, my hand on my desk.

“You are not HR.”

He takes a sip of his coffee like my attitude amuses him. Then, he takes the file on the seat beside him and drops it on the desk.

“I need the Asia quarterly data cleaned up, sorted, and compared to the EU branch. Before lunch.”

I drop to my seat, already feeling tired.

That's six months of numbers. Charts. Spreadsheets. PowerPoints. My brain already hurts.

I groan. “You want all that in four hours?”

“Three and half.” He corrects. “And make it visual. I want to see it. Not read it.”

“Isn't this supposed to be the work of your P.A?”

“So?”

I say nothing.

This is how it's been for the past one month. Pushing. Testing. Pressuring.

Weekends don't even feel like weekends anymore since I have to clear my table every week.

I blow out a harsh breath as I slide my laptop closer. “Fine.”

Ezra doesn't say thank you. He just stands.

I keep my eyes on the booting screen.

“You didn't correct them.” I murmur, surprising even myself.

He pauses. “Correct who?”

“The ones whispering.” I meet his gaze. “You heard them. You always do.”

A flicker of something I couldn't grasp passes through his expression. His lips part, and before he can speak, I say,

“Even if it doesn't affect your reputation, it's affecting mine. You should've said something.”

“I don't waste my breath on people beneath me.”

“Classic Mr Harrington. All ego. No accountability.”

He leans closer. Not much. My desk between us. Just enough to tighten the air between us. Just enough to make my pulse stutter.

“And yet, you still show up every day. For me.”

I tilt my chin. “I show up for the job. Not the man pretending to own it.”

He leans down, amusement flickering in his cold blue eyes. “Careful, Ms… Carlisle.That sounds almost personal.”

My nails dig into the edge of my desk as I refuse to back down.

“So is your silence.”

Another heartbeat. Another second.

And then he smirks, just a twitch of lips, arrogant and infuriating. I see his eyes flicker to my lips and back to my eyes. “You’ll get the data done by lunch.”

It’s not a question. It never is.

“Don’t flatter yourself,” I say. “I’d rather eat glass.”

“Then chew fast.”

“If I choke. I'm blaming your spreadsheets.”