Chapter 2 No.2

2

Hali stared at Finley, her grip on her purse tightening until her knuckles turned white. The morning sun glared off the polished black paint of the Maybach, stinging her tired eyes.

"I can take the subway," she said, though her voice lacked conviction.

Finley didn't stop smiling. "The doorman is watching, Ms. Andrews. And I believe the paparazzi are often camped out at the corner café this time of morning hoping for a glimpse of Mr. Gardner. It would be best to get in."

Hali glanced back at the building entrance. The doorman was indeed watching, his eyebrows raised slightly at the sight of the junior assistant in Chanel standing next to the CEO's car.

She grit her teeth and opened the back door, sliding onto the leather seat. The interior smelled faintly of the same sandalwood scent that clung to her skin. It was suffocating.

Finley pulled away from the curb effortlessly, merging into the chaotic Manhattan traffic. The partition between the front and back was down. Hali stared out the window, watching the blur of yellow taxis and pedestrians.

"Where to?" Finley asked, his eyes meeting hers in the rearview mirror.

"Brooklyn," she said, giving him her address. It felt wrong to say the street name in this car. It was like mixing oil and water.

Finley nodded. "Brooklyn. A long drive."

The silence that followed was heavy. Hali picked at a loose thread on the seat-wait, there were no loose threads in a Maybach. She clasped her hands in her lap to stop fidgeting.

"Mr. Gardner rarely loses control," Finley said suddenly. His tone was casual, conversational, as if he were commenting on the weather. "You must be... unexpected."

Heat flared in Hali's cheeks, burning hot and fast. She felt the blood rush to her face. "I don't know what you're talking about. It was the champagne. It was a mistake."

Finley hummed, a noncommittal sound. "Mistakes usually don't involve archival Chanel."

Hali looked down at the suit. The fabric was soft against her skin, a constant reminder of the man who had given it to her. She remembered the way Ezra had looked at her last night in the elevator. There had been a hunger in his eyes that terrified her. And she had pulled his tie. She remembered that now. She had pulled him down to her.

She closed her eyes, wishing the ground would swallow her whole.

Her phone buzzed in her hand. She jumped, her heart skipping a beat. It was a text from Irving.

Hey babe. Sorry I missed your calls. Passed out early last night. Crazy week. Morning coffee?

Hali stared at the screen. Passed out early.

She looked at the timestamp of her last call to him: 11:45 PM. Irving was a night owl. He never slept before 2 AM.

A knot of unease tightened in her stomach. He was lying. But why?

Then, a darker, colder thought washed over the suspicion. The date. She did the mental math quickly, counting the days on her internal calendar.

She felt the blood drain from her face.

"Stop the car," she said. Her voice was sharp, urgent.

Finley frowned, glancing in the mirror. "Ms. Andrews? We are in the middle of-"

"Please, stop. There's a CVS right there. I need... I need something."

Finley's eyes narrowed slightly, assessing her pale face. He understood. He didn't say a word, just signaled and pulled the massive car over to the curb in front of the pharmacy.

Hali didn't wait for him to open the door. She scrambled out, nearly tripping in the borrowed heels.

The fluorescent lights of the pharmacy were harsh. She walked straight to the family planning aisle, her heart pounding in her ears. She felt like everyone was looking at her. The woman in the hair care aisle. The teenager buying soda. They all knew.

She grabbed the small box of Plan B. One pill. Fifty dollars. A small price to pay to erase a life-altering mistake.

She took it to the counter. The cashier, a middle-aged woman with tired eyes, scanned the box. She looked at Hali's expensive suit, then at her messy hair, then at the box. She didn't say anything, but her expression screamed judgment.

Hali paid cash. She didn't want a paper trail. She shoved the box into her bag and walked out, keeping her head down.

When she got back into the car, Finley didn't ask what she had bought. He simply merged back into traffic. But the air in the car had changed. It felt heavier.

He suspects, Hali thought. And if he suspects, he will tell Ezra.

She sat in silence for the rest of the ride, clutching her bag to her chest like a shield. When the car finally pulled up to her worn-down apartment building in Brooklyn, the contrast was stark. The peeling paint of the entryway looked pathetic next to the gleaming black metal of the car.

"Thank you," Hali muttered, pushing the door open.

"Ms. Andrews," Finley said.

She paused, looking back.

"Ezra is a man who takes care of his assets," Finley said. His voice was devoid of mockery now. It was a warning. Or maybe a promise.

Hali slammed the door shut and ran up the steps to her building.

She fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking so badly she dropped them twice. Finally, she got the door open and stumbled into her apartment. She locked the deadbolt, threw the chain, and leaned back against the wood, sliding down until she hit the floor.

It was quiet. Safe.

She pulled the box out of her bag. Her hands trembled as she tore the foil packaging. The small white pill looked innocuous.

She went to the kitchen, filled a glass with tap water, and swallowed the pill. It scraped against her dry throat.

Almost immediately, a wave of nausea rolled over her. It was psychosomatic, she knew, but she still gagged, clutching the edge of the sink.

She needed to get this scent off her. She needed to get Ezra off her skin.

She went to the bathroom and stripped off the Chanel suit. She looked at herself in the mirror. The bruises on her neck were darkening. A love bite right over her pulse point.

She turned the shower on as hot as she could stand it. She scrubbed her skin until it was raw and red, trying to erase the ghost of his touch.

When she finally stepped out, wrapped in her old, fraying bathrobe, she felt hollowed out. She bundled the Chanel suit and the lingerie into a plastic bag and shoved it into the back of her closet, behind her winter coats. She never wanted to see it again.

Her phone buzzed again. It was Lia, her best friend and a junior designer at the firm.

Did you see Irving last night? I swear I saw him at The Box around 1 AM.

Hali stared at the message. The Box. A nightclub.

Irving had texted her saying he was asleep.

The knot in her stomach twisted tighter. He lied.

Why would he lie about being at a club? Unless he wasn't alone.

In the front seat of the Maybach, blocks away, Finley typed a message on his encrypted phone.

She visited the pharmacy. She looks ill. Urgent.

Across the city, in the penthouse suite, Ezra Gardner looked at the message. The phone in his hand creaked under the pressure of his grip.

He stared at the words, his jaw tightening until a muscle feathered in his cheek. He closed his eyes, exhaling a slow, controlled breath. Then, with a sudden, violent motion, he snapped the fountain pen he was holding in half. Ink bled onto his fingers, black as oil.

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