The Office

"Absolutely not," Lina said.

"The contract is already signed." Her boss, Dana, pushed the folder across the desk without looking up. "It's a six-week consulting project. You're the best I have for restructuring work. It's not a conversation."

"Dana. Who is the client?"

Dana looked up then. And the expression on her face was the very specific expression of someone who is aware they are delivering bad news.

"Caldwell Holdings."

Lina's hand was on the folder.

She did not pick it up.

"No," she said.

"Lina—"

"Caldwell Holdings is Freddie Caldwell's company."

"I'm aware."

"The man I left at the altar nine weeks ago."

"Also aware."

"You want me to walk into that building."

"I want you to do your job," Dana said. "He requested our firm specifically. He requested you specifically."

That landed differently.

"He requested me."

"By name."

Lina picked up the folder. Opened it. His company letterhead. His signature at the bottom of the contract page. Clean, sharp, the way he did everything.

She thought about the text from three months ago. The anonymous number. You'll regret this.

She thought about Marcos's warning last week.

She thought about the baby she had not yet told anyone but Priya about.

"He's doing this on purpose," she said.

"Probably," Dana said cheerfully. "You start Monday."

She was twelve minutes late on purpose.

Petty. She knew it was petty. She did it anyway.

The Caldwell Holdings lobby was all glass and dark marble and quiet power. The kind of building that made you feel like you should speak in a lower register. The receptionist smiled at her with corporate serenity and handed her a visitor badge.

"Mr. Caldwell's assistant will take you up."

"I know where his office is," Lina said.

The receptionist's smile didn't waver. "Of course."

The elevator was mirrored. Lina looked at her reflection on the way up. Blazer. Hair up. Professional armor, all of it. She looked fine. She looked like a woman who had her life together.

She did not feel like that woman.

The doors opened on the thirty-fourth floor.

And Freddie was standing right there.

Not at his desk. Not in a conference room.

Right there.

Like he had been waiting for the elevator.

He looked at her. She looked at him. The whole world contracted into the four feet between them.

He was wearing a charcoal suit. No tie. Top button undone. He looked like he had slept five hours and still managed to make it look like a choice.

He looked furious.

He looked incredible.

She hated both of those things equally.

"You're late," he said.

"Traffic."

"It's twelve minutes."

"The city is unpredictable."

He stepped back. Let her off the elevator. Didn't move far enough that she could walk past without their arms brushing.

She brushed past anyway.

"Conference room is this way," he said.

"I know where the conference room is."

"Of course you do." His voice was perfectly neutral. Perfectly even. "Follow me anyway."

The meeting was professional. Precise. Brutal.

There were four other people in the room. His CFO. Two analysts. A lawyer Lina didn't recognize. Everyone had their folders open.

Freddie sat at the head of the table and did not look at her once.

He addressed everything to the room. To the air two feet to her left. To the window. Never to her directly.

It should have made it easier.

It didn't.

She kept her eyes on her notes and spoke when spoken to and pushed through the first hour on sheer professionalism.

Then he said, "The restructuring timeline. Walk us through your initial assessment, Ms. Vasquez."

Ms. Vasquez.

Three years. Dinner parties and holidays and arguments in kitchen and slow Sunday mornings. And it was Ms. Vasquez now.

She looked up.

He was finally looking at her. Direct. Steady. Not a flicker.

"Of course," she said. "The restructuring timeline."

She stood up.

She did her job.

She was very good at it.

And at the end, when the other people filtered out, she gathered her things quickly. She was not going to be the last one in this room with him.

She almost made it.

"Lina."

His voice, low. Not Ms. Vasquez. Her name. Just her name.

She stopped at the door. Didn't turn around.

"Why did you take this project?" she said.

"Because I need the work done."

"You have an entire internal team."

"I wanted the best."

She turned then. She shouldn't have. "Freddie. What are you doing?"

He was standing at the window. Arms crossed. Looking out at the city.

"I'm running my company," he said. "Same as always."

"That's not what I'm asking."

He turned to face her. His jaw was tight. His eyes were doing that burning thing again.

"Tell me something," he said. "And be honest with me. For once."

She waited.

"Did you leave me for him?"

The air went out of the room.

"For who?" she asked. Even though she already knew.

"Marcos."

There it was.

He knew. Or suspected. And now he had asked her directly, in a conference room thirty-four floors up, with nowhere for either of them to go.

She looked at him for a long time.

She thought about the two lines on the test. The baby she was carrying. The baby she believed was his best friend's.

"No," she said. "I didn't leave you for Marcos."

It was the truth.

It was also completely insufficient.

He nodded once. Turned back to the window.

"See you Thursday," he said. "Nine o'clock. Don't be late."

She left.

In the elevator, the mirrored doors showed her face again.

She looked like someone who was barely holding something together.

Because she was.

And as the elevator descended, her phone buzzed.

A calendar notification. A doctor's appointment. Twelve weeks.

She was starting to show.

It was only a matter of time before he noticed.