Pretend to Be Mine
Not here, not at Harrington Enterprises, where excellence was the air everyone breathed—or suffocated without.
My phone buzzed against the desk, vibrating insistently until I reached for it. Maya.
“Don’t tell me you’re still at that office,” she said, laughter spilling through the line. “Elena, it’s Friday night.”
“I’ll leave soon,” I promised, leaning back in my chair and pressing the bridge of my nose. “I just want this model finished before Monday.”
“You’re not a machine,” she teased. “Normal people go out, eat ice cream, maybe even kiss someone. You? You date Excel.”
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