Chapter 3 3

The next morning, the office felt different. The air was thinner, charged with the static of survival. The people who hadn't been fired walked with their heads down, guilty and relieved.

Bridger sat in his office, the door closed. On his desk lay a single manila folder.

Personnel File: Gracia Maxwell.

He opened it. His eyes skipped over her education-he knew she was brilliant-and landed on the personal details section.

Marital Status: Married.

The word was typed in standard Arial font, but it looked like a jagged scar.

Married.

Bridger felt a sour taste in his mouth. He scanned down to the emergency contact.

Emergency Contact: Martha Maxwell (Mother).

He frowned. Why not the husband?

He looked at her salary history. It was pathetic. She was making barely above entry-level wages, despite having been here for three years.

"Is this what you wanted, Gracia?" he whispered to the empty room. "You left me for this?"

He had imagined she left him for someone with more freedom, someone who wasn't burdened by a legacy. He had imagined a bohemian life, painting in Paris.

Instead, she was grinding data in a cubicle, married to a ghost who wasn't even listed as her emergency contact.

Bridger hit the intercom button. "Get me HR."

Five minutes later, the HR Director was on the line, sounding terrified.

"Maxwell's background check," Bridger said, cutting through the pleasantries. "Anything unusual?"

"No, Mr. Jennings. Clean record. She did ask for a salary advance six months ago. Hardship request. Denied per policy."

Bridger hung up.

Hardship.

She was struggling. The husband was useless.

He stood up and buttoned his jacket. He needed to see it. He needed to see the reality of her life up close, to kill the lingering fantasy of the girl in the library.

He walked out of his office, ignoring Sloane's attempt to hand him a schedule. He took the elevator down to the 12th floor.

The marketing floor was quiet. Bridger walked through the rows of cubicles. Heads snapped up. Eyes widened. He ignored them all.

He found the breakroom.

Gracia was there. She was standing by the hot water dispenser, dunking a tea bag into a mug that had a chip in the rim.

She looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes that makeup couldn't hide. Her blazer was a size too big, the cuffs frayed.

She was listening to two other women gossip.

"Did you see him?" one woman whispered. "God, he's gorgeous. I'd let him fire me if he did it in person."

Gracia stared at her tea. "I didn't get a good look," she murmured.

Bridger stepped into the doorway.

"Maybe you need glasses," he said.

The room froze. The two gossiping women turned pale and practically melted into the cabinets.

Gracia's back went rigid. She turned around slowly, clutching her mug with both hands.

"Mr. Jennings," she said. Her voice was steady, but he saw the pulse jumping in her throat.

Bridger walked past her to the coffee machine. It was a high-end espresso maker that was reserved for management, but no one was going to stop him. He selected a dark roast. The machine whirred, grinding beans.

The smell of fresh coffee filled the space, overpowering the scent of Gracia's cheap tea.

He leaned against the counter, crossing his ankles. He looked her up and down, letting his gaze linger on her scuffed shoes.

"The coffee on this floor is terrible," he said.

"It's free," Gracia replied, her chin lifting slightly.

"You get what you pay for," Bridger said. He took his cup. He took a step closer to her, invading her personal space. He could smell her-vanilla and rain. It was the same scent. It made him want to scream.

He leaned down, his voice dropping so only she could hear.

"Your standards have really lowered, Gracia. In every aspect."

He saw the flinch. It was small, a tightening of her eyes, but it was there.

"My standards are fine," she whispered back.

"Are they?" He glanced at her ring finger. She wasn't wearing a ring. "Where's the happy husband? Can't afford a ring on a clerk's salary?"

Gracia went pale. "That's none of your business."

"Everything in this building is my business."

He straightened up, taking a sip of his coffee. He looked at the other women, who were staring in shock.

"Get back to work," he commanded.

They scrambled out.

Bridger looked at Gracia one last time. "You too, Mrs. Maxwell."

He emphasized the 'Mrs.' like an insult.

He walked out, leaving her standing there with her watery tea. He felt a twisted sense of satisfaction, followed immediately by a wave of self-loathing.

He had wanted to hurt her. He had succeeded. So why did he feel like he was the one bleeding?