Chapter 1

"Wow, Micah, your girlfriend's voice is incredible. She's absolutely crazy about you."

The operations manager sitting next to Micah Brennan was the first to break the dead silence in the private dining room.

Micah's hand jerked so hard that he nearly dropped his phone onto the table. He fumbled for the red button on the screen, but his fingertip was shaking too badly.

It took him two tries to end the call.

"She was just… My girlfriend likes to mess around with pet names."

Micah kept his head down, his voice thin and hollow. He wouldn't look anywhere near me.

"Oh, come on! There's nothing to be shy about. We're all adults here." Jenny Harris from HR said it with a laugh, but her eyes kept darting between Micah and me.

I picked up the glass of water beside me and took a small sip. It had gone completely cold, sliding down my throat and settling into my stomach with a familiar dull ache.

"Yeah. That's nice." I set the glass down and glanced at Micah's white-knuckled grip on the table. "Ms. Sinclair's always so serious at the office. Who knew she had such a soft side behind closed doors?"

The room went dead silent again. Everyone recognized the voice. It was Audrey Sinclair's.

We'd all worked together for years. That cool, detached tone Audrey used in weekly meetings had been burned into everyone's memory by now. No one could mistake it.

No one dared say it, either.

"Evan, you heard wrong. That wasn't Audrey." Micah looked up suddenly, his eyes darting as he forced himself to stay composed.

"My girlfriend just sounds a little like her, that's all."

He was scrambling, and his fists were balled up under the table.

"Hmm. Maybe I did hear wrong." I pulled a napkin from the dispenser and wiped the corner of my mouth, taking my time.

"After all, Ms. Sinclair's out of town on business. She should be on a flight back from Aldenberg right about now."

I looked Micah in the eye. My voice came out so steady that even I was surprised.

"Yeah, exactly! Audrey's in Aldenberg. Nobody would know that better than you, Evan."

A few colleagues rushed to smooth things over, steering the conversation somewhere else with painful awkwardness.

For the rest of dinner, everyone tried their hardest to keep the mood alive. Micah excused himself to use the restroom and never came back.

When it was time to settle the bill, I took out my phone. A notification sat on the lock screen, showing a text from Audrey.

"Just landed. Get some sleep."

I stared at the message until the words blurred together. All I could hear was that syrupy "babe" from the speakerphone, still playing on a loop.

I didn't reply and locked the screen instead.

Outside the restaurant, the early spring night air hit me with a raw gust of cold.

"Evan, need a ride? I'm heading your way."

The operations manager, Ben Novak, rolled his window down. He looked at me with something between pity and curiosity in his eyes.

"No thanks. I want to walk."

I pulled my coat collar tighter and turned in the opposite direction.

The streetlights stretched my shadow long across the pavement. The pain in my stomach was getting worse, like a dozen rusty saws dragging back and forth through my insides.

I stopped and leaned against a sycamore by the curb, dug through my bag for the painkillers, and dry-swallowed two tablets. They caught halfway down my throat, leaving a bitter film.

Seven years ago, Audrey drank herself into a stomach hemorrhage trying to land investors. I carried her to the hospital in the middle of the night and sat in that hallway until morning. She held my hand the entire time, and her eyes were rimmed red.

"Evan, once the company's on its feet, I'm yours. All of me."

The company wasn't just on its feet now. It was preparing for an IPO. But now, she couldn't even tell me the truth.

My phone buzzed. It was a bank alert. Audrey's supplementary card had just been charged 48,000 dollars.

The merchant was a high-end watch boutique downtown, one where it was nearly impossible to get an appointment.

I stared at the number. The pain in my stomach seemed to go numb.

I didn't feel angry or sorry for myself—just bone-deep exhaustion, and the quiet certainty that the last piece had finally fallen into place.