THE OFFER

Three weeks.

That's how long it had been since the humiliating event outside Warner Industries. Since Aaron Warner had looked at me with those cold eyes and spoken to me as if I was nothing more than dirt on his thousand–dollar boots. Since the coffee seared through the pristine lines of his suit and through whatever strand of hope I'd been foolish enough to hold in my chest.

Three weeks, and still nothing.

Not from Warner Industries. Not from any of the other firms whose clean glass doors I'd walked through with tidily stapled résumés clutched in my hand. Silence.

I despised it. Despised the way every unreturned email, every rejection, reminded me of him. Of Aaron.

I shattered my heart every time his face surfaced in my head, uninvited. The strong cheekbones hardened now into something unforgiving, the jawline carved from stone, the seriousness that had replaced the goofy smile I remembered from highschool. Six years ago, he was a boy still shedding his skin, laughing too loudly at Connor's one-liners, handing back beers like life was one giant Saturday night.

Now? Now he was the tough, hard man with skyscrapers in Manhattan, up to his eyeballs in money and evil.

And I hadn't noticed. I hadn't even made the connection in time—Warner Industries. Aaron Warner.

Why did I not know? Why did I not notice that the ghost who had torched me six years previously was the same man whose name was etched in metal over the skyscraper I had walked into?

But what I hadn't realized was that he'd be here in New York. That he'd been here all this time. That this was where he had hidden out all these years after he'd disappeared without a word.

Why did he leave? Why did he disappear?

The questions were blades. They sliced me every night when I climbed into bed and stared at the lines on the ceiling, every morning when I collected coins for old bagels, each time I booted up my laptop to check for job answers that never materialized.

I looked at bills stacked on my countertop, the kind of paper wounds that bled in volumes instead of blood.

Water.

Electricity.

Internet.

And the worst of all—rent, with the newly highlighted rise of red as a threatening joke.

I got hosed. Truly, desperately hosed.

If I didn't get a good job soon, I wouldn't be broke—I'd be homeless.

And then the phone rang.

The ringing ripped through the stillness of my tiny apartment like a gunshot. I stared at the screen.

Connor.

Naturally. My older brother, always the white knight waiting with a safety net I swore I'd never need. He was probably calling to say the same thing he'd said every other time: Come back to Texas. Take the job as my boss. Forget New York. Forget chasing this dream that doesn't have you. 

I swallowed hard, letting the phone ring against the countertop.

Could I really turn it down now?

I had no choice. I knew that. The city was draining the money right out of me, and Connor's offer would fix everything with one thing: yes.

But it also meant giving up. It meant sticking my tail between my legs and slinking home like the failure I was terrified of becoming.

The phone fell silent, leaving a heavy stillness behind.

I let out a breath, slapping my hands on the counter. My chest was hollow, as if Connor already had won, as if New York already had kicked me out.

Then—ping.

The ping of a message arriving.

I snatched up the phone, expecting another text from Connor, no doubt some version of Pick up your damn phone, or, worst nightmare, another overdue bill requesting money I didn't have.

It wasn't.

It was an email.

And not from everyone.

From Warner Industries.

My heart raced. My eyes barely held back from smearing the letters together as I slammed it open.

And there it was.

    

[Employment Offer Letter – Warner Industries]

Dear Ethan Banks,

We are pleased to inform you that upon reviewing and interviewing your application, you were selected to become a Junior Project Analyst with Warner Industries.

Your location will be in the Warner Industries Headquarters, Manhattan, New York, where you will be part of a cooperative project team.

We were impressed with your refusal to give up in the face of limited industry experience, and your confidence and we believe your potential is aligned with Warner Industries vision.

Your official start date will be Monday, September 12th. Further onboarding details, including orientation and your departmental supervisor, will be communicated upon your arrival.

We look forward to seeing you at Warner Industries.

Sincerely,

Human Resources Department

Warner Industries

I dropped the phone.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring at the counter as if the words would leap up and slap me in the face.

Then I set it down again, reading it. Again. And again.

My hands were shaking. My chest hurt like it was cracking open.

I had a job.

Not just any job—the job. The kind of job individuals fought tooth and nail for, the kind of offer that could turn my whole world around. Warner Industries. Me, in the headquarters, on the team, with the paycheck that would at last enable me to breathe.

A snort escaped me, harsh and hysterical. I was so excited I could hardly stand. My heart pounded like a drum corps.

And yet…

Aaron.

His name pulsed in my brain like a siren alarm.

Because Warner Industries wasn't just a business. It wasn't just an opportunity.

It was him.

The same man who had once grazed my hand against the library table when Connor wasn't looking. The same man who had kissed me in the shadowy corner of a graduation party, whiskey on his lips and secrets on his breath. The same man who had disappeared without even a whisper, leaving me with nothing but silence in return for closure.

And now, he was my boss. 

I shook my head hard, pushing the thought aside.

It was a massive corporation. Thousands of employees. Dozens of departments. I’d be working in some corner office cubicle, lost in the shuffle. He wouldn’t even notice me.

And if he did? If by some twisted chance our paths crossed?

I’d ignore him.

I'd ignore the asshole with colder eyes and the harsh words. I'd ignore the memory of the boy whose heart I

beat like it belonged to him.

I'd ignore my own stupid heart, even though it whined otherwise.

Because I didn't have a choice.