One Night, Wrong Man のすべてのチャプター: チャプター 81 - チャプター 90

*POV Derby* A pale blue light flickered across the wall as the glass elevator glided up toward the thirty-fourth floor. I adjusted the lapel of my grey linen blazer, staring at my reflection in the polished doors. No trace of the frantic heartbeat that had kept me awake until dawn after reading that cryptic text message in my car. I was on time. Eight-fifteen sharp. When the elevator doors slid open, the high-rise office was already buzzing with the morning routine. Vacuum cleaners whirred in the distance, steam hissed from the breakroom espresso machine, and the usual stack of financial briefings sat waiting on my desk. I didn't head to the executive kitchen. I didn't linger by the glass partitions. I sat down, booted up my terminal, and pulled up the regional compliance audits for Q3. I wasn't staying here for Jordan Vasquez. I wasn't waiting for him to figure out his life, nor was I holding out hope for a secret apology behind closed doors. I had spent four years grinding t

*POV Derby*The high-gloss lacquer of the executive boardroom table reflected the blue glare of the overhead projector like a sheet of ice."The variance projections for the secondary transit corridors are entirely too optimistic, Miss Derby," Mr. Vance, the senior investor representative from the Hayden syndicate, tapped his gold fountain pen against his leather binder with a rhythmic, patronizing click. "If we hit a forty-eight-hour customs delay in New Jersey, your entire operational margin evaporates. It’s an amateur risk calculation."I didn't blink. I kept my spine straight against the back of my chair, my hands folded neatly over my closed tablet. "The contingency buffers in section three account for port strikes and seasonal customs backlog, Mr. Vance. The margin remains intact up to seventy-two hours.""On paper," Vance dismissed with a thin, tight smile that barely reached his eyes. "In reality, young lady, corporate launches don't give second chances to middle-tier analysts

*POV Derby "—and he stood by the garage ramp for ten minutes just waiting for her," a sharp whisper caught my ear as I rounded the corner near the breakroom. My foot suspended for a microsecond over the gray carpet before I forced myself to keep walking. I slid my water tumbler under the dispenser lever, keeping my spine completely straight. "No way," another voice answered, the rustle of a pastry wrapper deadening the shock. "Jordan Vasquez doesn't wait for anyone. He doesn't even wait for the board." "Look at the timestamp on the bottom frame, bestie. Three days ago, right after the regional strategy meeting. That’s definitely a female analyst stepping out of his car." Cold water trickled into my flask, the low hum of the machine doing little to drown out the sudden tightness in my throat. I didn't turn my head. I didn't freeze like someone caught red-handed. I just capped my tumbler with a firm, deliberate click and walked past the kitchen island, offering the two junior paral

*POV Derby* Noah’s blue pen tapped three distinct times against the wooden surface of my desk before he finally laid it down. He didn't hand over the audit files I’d asked for ten minutes ago; instead, his pale gray eyes stayed fixed on my face with an unyielding, unsettling weight. "You're doing it again," Noah said softly. I kept my fingers moving across the keyboard, entering row after row of regional compliance metrics without skipping a beat. "Doing what? The quarter-four projections are due by six, Noah. If you have the secondary ledger, just drop it in the tray." "You looked at his office door four times in the last ten minutes," he replied, ignoring my request completely. He didn't sound angry or bitter. That was what made it cut so deep—his tone was purely grounded, carrying the quiet, painful precision of an observer who cared enough to tell the truth. "You knew the exact minute his conference call with Munich ended. You didn't even check your watch." My hand froze over

*POV Derby* My thumb hovered over the high-speed copier start button for three seconds before I pressed down. The mechanical hum filled the small utility room, spitting out collated pages of the revised investor deck, but my eyes stayed fixed on the rhythmic green light. I had spent seven hours telling myself last night was just a slip. A momentary lapse in judgment brought on by late hours, exhaustion, and rain pounding against a windshield. It meant nothing. The near-touch didn't mean anything. The unfinished sentence didn't mean anything. Except my skin still remembered the heat of his fingers hovering an inch from my jaw. My chest still felt the hollow, sickening drop from the exact second Tamara Hayden’s name lit up his dashboard display. He hadn't called me after I stepped out into the rain. He hadn't texted to ask if I made it upstairs safely. And that silence was an answer in itself. Gathering the freshly printed stacks against my ribs, I squared my shoulders and w