Chapter 2 No.2

Gracia made it back to her cubicle, but her hands were shaking so badly she knocked over her coffee mug.

The dark liquid splashed across her desk, soaking the corner of a quarterly report.

"Damn it," she hissed, grabbing a handful of rough brown paper towels from the dispenser. She dabbed frantically at the mess. The smell of cheap, burnt coffee filled the small space, making her nauseous.

"Low blood sugar?" Tess asked, leaning over the partition with a packet of wet wipes.

"Something like that," Gracia lied. She took the wipes, her fingers brushing Tess's warm hand. "Thanks."

She scrubbed at the desk, trying to scrub away the image of Bridger's cold eyes. It was impossible.

Her computer screen blinked. A notification popped up in the corner.

From: Office of the CEO.

Subject: Restructuring Update.

Gracia stared at the sender's name. Bridger Jennings. The letters seemed to burn into the pixels.

Her mind snapped back. Five years ago.

The leaves were falling on the banks of the Charles River. The air was crisp, smelling of woodsmoke and old books. Bridger had his arm around her, pulling her into his coat.

"They can cut me off," he had said, his voice fierce. "I don't care about the trust fund, Gracia. I care about you. We'll figure it out."

She had believed him. She had been young and stupid and so in love it felt like drowning.

Then came the rain. The final argument. The cruel words he'd thrown at her like stones, words that had echoed in her mind for years. "Maybe you're not worth the fight, Gracia. Maybe you're just a scholarship kid after all." The memory was a fresh wound, sharp and bleeding.

Gracia slammed her laptop shut. The sound echoed in the quiet office.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes until she saw stars. That boy was dead. The man upstairs was a stranger who viewed people as line items on a spreadsheet.

"Maxwell!"

The sharp voice of her manager, Brenda, snapped her to attention. Brenda dropped a stack of files on Gracia's wet desk.

"Data entry. The merger files. I need them digitized by tomorrow morning."

Gracia looked at the stack. It was hours of work. Mind-numbing, repetitive work.

"Brenda, I have to pick up my daughter at six," Gracia said, her voice tight.

"And we all have sacrifices to make to keep our jobs in this climate," Brenda said, not even looking at her. "Do it, or I'll find someone who will."

Gracia swallowed the protest. She thought of the medical bills. She pulled the stack closer.

Thirty-two floors above, the air was filtered and scented with sandalwood.

Bridger Jennings stood at the window, looking down at the ants crawling along the sidewalk. He held a crystal tumbler of water, his grip tight enough to threaten the glass.

"The list for Marketing," he said, not turning around.

Sloane, his executive assistant, tapped on her tablet. "It's ready, sir. We've identified the bottom ten percent based on performance metrics."

"Is Gracia Maxwell on it?"

Sloane paused. She swiped a finger across the screen. "Yes. She's listed for termination. Her attendance is spotty, and she refuses overtime due to childcare constraints."

Bridger took a sip of water. It was cold, but it didn't cool the fire in his chest.

Childcare constraints.

So the rumor was true. She had a kid. She had a family. The thought of her with someone else, building a life, was a spike of ice in his gut. The betrayal, which had cooled to a dull ache over the years, now felt fresh and raw.

He turned around, walking to his massive mahogany desk. He stared at the blank, polished surface, his mind a storm of resentment. He remembered the silence. The blocked calls. The way she had vanished without a word, only for him to hear she had married some nobody two months later.

He slammed his palm flat on the desk, the sound a dull thud in the silent office.

"Take her off the list," Bridger said.

Sloane blinked, her professional mask slipping for a second. "Sir?"

"You heard me. Keep her."

"But her metrics..."

"I don't care about her metrics," Bridger said, his voice dropping to a dangerous octave. "I have a use for her."

He wanted her here. He wanted her close enough to see the mistake she had made. He wanted to see the regret in her eyes when she realized what she had walked away from.

"And Sloane," Bridger added as his assistant turned to leave. "Make sure she knows she survived. I want her grateful."

Down in the cubicle, Gracia's phone buzzed.

Birdie: Mommy, Grandma says the blue pills are almost gone.

Gracia checked her bank account app. The balance was three digits. Low three digits.

She looked at the stack of files Brenda had left. Overtime meant time-and-a-half. It meant dinner money. It meant pills.

She opened her laptop again. The light from the screen was the only thing illuminating her face as the rest of the office went dark.