C7

​CHAPTER 7

​I freeze right where I stand. Assisting the editorial director is one thing, but manual labor is something entirely different.

​“To the archives?” My voice sounds firmer than I expect. “I thought my contract specified executive assistant duties on the main floor, Ms. Murphy.”

​Amy leans back in her leather chair, interlacing her long fingers. A minimal, almost imperceptible smirk emerges at the corner of her lips.

​“Your contract specifies that you report directly to me, Camila. If I decide that your priority today is the dead archives, then that is your job. Or does organizing old paper offend your sensibilities?”

​Her condescending tone makes my blood boil; a spark of dignified anger replaces any lingering trace of timidez.

​“I’ll do it,” I reply coldly, holding her gaze until she drops her eyes back down to her screen.

​“Good. Dismissed.”

​I dig my nails into my palms and walk out of her office.

​The underground warehouse is a massive, cold, and dimly lit space where the smell of dust and old paper floats in the air. I take off my suit jacket, place it on a metal shelf, and begin moving the heavy cardboard boxes. The physical exertion feels good; the weight of the boxes pulls me back to reality and helps clear my head of absurd tension.

​I’ve been sorting through volumes for a couple of hours when the echo of elegant footsteps shatters the basement's silence. I spin around, wiping a bead of sweat from my forehead with the back of my hand.

​Amy Murphy is standing at the entrance of the aisle. In her flawless blouse, her designer shoes look entirely out of place in the middle of this industrial storage room. She walks toward me slowly, taking in the mess of boxes around me. Then she stops right in front of the shelving unit where I am working. She is wearing her black leather gloves.

​She runs a gloved finger along the edge of one of the boxes I just labeled, inspecting the work. A strange, heavy silence falls, with only the sound of our breathing filling the space. She furrows her brow slightly, as if something about the situation bothers her or pushes her out of her comfort zone.

​“You’re efficient when you want to be,” she says, taking a step toward me. The space around me seems to shrink all at once.

​“I do my job,” I reply, taking half a step back until my spine hits the cold metal of the shelving unit.

​“There is something about the way you look at me, Camila…” she whispers, shattering the last barrier of distance. Her blue eyes seem to study my every reaction. “A constant resistance. You are used to following the rules, to being the girl who pleases everyone, the one who does what is right. Yet, here you are.”

​My rational mind screams that this isn’t normal, that I should turn around and walk away, but my legs refuse to move.

​“You don’t know anything about me,” I manage to say, though the firmness of my words dissolves into a thread of a voice.

​“I know enough,” she counters.

​She extends her gloved hand and, with a deliberately slow movement, brushes away a loose strand of hair falling across my face. The contact of the cold leather against my skin sends a violent shiver down my spine. Her finger entangles itself in the strand, tugging just enough to force me to lift my chin.

​Her gaze drops from my eyes to my lips. In that fraction of a second, the warehouse vanishes; there is no Apex Ink, no contracts, no past. There is only the pressure of her proximity, the magnetic aroma of sandalwood, and a wave of heat rushing up my chest, dismantling any shred of logic. My body, completely ignoring all my defenses, imperceptibly leans toward her. I brace for the impact, holding my breath with my heart hammering against my ribs.

​Amy leans in a millimeter closer. I can feel the warmth of her breath brushing against my mouth—an imminent promise that makes me close my eyes.

​But the contact never comes.

​I hear the crisp rustle of the leather as she releases my hair. When I open my eyes, Amy has already taken a step back. Her face has returned to a mask of absolute professional indifference, though a faint glimmer of smugness betrays her total control over the situation.

​“Finish up here and come up to the office,” she tells me, her voice reclaiming the icy tone from this morning. “And fix your hair. It looks untidy.”

​She turns around, and her footsteps recede with a firm, steady rhythm down the concrete aisle, leaving me alone in the shadows. I lean against the shelf, forcing my lungs to fill with cold air while my hands, still trembling, search for the hairpin to pull my hair back.