Chapter 1 Sierra in the Press 7:08 AM on a miserable Tuesday

Life's about to give me the awful wake up call. I always thought the person in question would have the definitive moment at which they knew they were living a nightmare. It could be something catastrophic, a car wreck perhaps, or a cheating confession, or maybe just a pink slip sliding across the desk.

For me the call came right at 7:08 AM on a miserable, drizzly Tuesday as the old, chewed up phone speaker blasted Zachary's sharp, accusatory voice.

"Oh face it! You think you are so fucking smart, don't you Sierra? You are playing the victim, pretending to be innocent, when all you are doing is whoring yourself to get a promotion."

I flinched and dragged my fingers through my messy hair, still sitting on the edge of the bed. The coldness of hardwood white oak floor met my bare feet, and I made no move to change that. I didn't breathe.

"You think I don't know what you and Damon Cross are doing?" Zachary hissed. "You think you're better than me now? Sleeping your way to the top?"

The words hung like a noose around my neck.

I blinked down at the phone, part of me wishing it would just disintegrate in my hand; no such luck. Zachary kept ranting, his voice rising until it cracked from fury.

"You're a slut, Sierra. A gold-digging, lying slut."

I pressed the End Call button with a trembling thumb. My hand hovered above the screen for a moment, quaking. A wave of nausea roared through me, violent and unforgiving.

This wasn't new; Zachary had been throwing grenades of accusations since we broke up six months ago. But today's words had a timbre and sharpness, they were meaner than before. They were created to cut me open and watch all of the insecurities I had bleed out.

And God help me, they were working.

My vision blurred as I shoved the phone into the nightstand drawer and slammed it shut. I squeezed my eyes closed, breathing deep through my nose like my therapist had taught me, but the panic surged hot and wild under my skin

He knows about Damon

Well, he thinks he does.

Technically, there was nothing going on between me and Damon Cross. Nothing real, anyway. I wasn't sleeping my way to a promotion, regardless of what Zachary wanted to believe.

But still, the thought gnawed at me.

Would everyone else believe it, too? Would the whispers start in the office? The odd glances? The pitying smiles?

My chest tightened. I fumbled to my feet, feeling heavy, clumsy, off-balance. I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the other side of the room and grimaced.

Puffy eyes. Pale skin. Hair like a bird's nest.

I didn't look like the kind of woman who would take on a corporate shark like Damon Cross. I didn't even look like the kind of woman who could withstand another dose of Zachary's poison.

I looked like someone who was already losing.

The kettle let out a deafening shriek from the kitchen but I ignored it. I pressed my arms around myself, shivering even though the apartment was not cold. A cracked ceiling, above me, faded into gray static.

Zack was probably right.

I was probably weak.

I was stupid to think I could rebuild my life after what he did to me.

I bit down on my lower lip, hard, until I tasted blood.

No.

Not today.

I'd survived worse mornings than this. I'd survived Zach's mind games while living with him, while his words were in tandem with slamming doors, shattered glass, and icy silences that felt like they would last forever.

I had survived leaving him and three months on a friend's couch, eating instant noodles and not crying as the tears of everything I went through shuddered down my spine.

I would survive this too.

I would survive this.

Squaring my shoulders, I pulled open my closet and grabbed whatever my hands found first--a white blouse and a blue pencil skirt. The clothing felt stiff and formal against my skin, but it was the armor I needed.

I needed to act as if I was made of something stronger than shattered glass.

Twenty minutes later, I was at the bus stop with a thermos of burnt coffee clenched between my hands as the drizzle turned my hair into limp strings. The city buzzed and groaned around me, horns blared and tires hissed over wet asphalt, conversations hummed around me like insects.

With my head down, I burrowed my shoulders against the world.

I kept telling myself it didn't matter.

I kept telling myself I didn't care what people thought.

But as I boarded the bus and caught a glimpse of two women whispering to each other, their eyes darting towards me, my stomach twisted, notwithstanding.

Paranoia, I told myself.

It's just paranoia.

Except Zachary had a way of making the imposition of bad things seem inevitable. If he is willing to insinuate I slept my way to the top, what else would he insinuate?

I was already annoyed by this though, imagine something worse gnawing at me all the way downtown.

By the time I finally stepped into the lobby of Cross Enterprises, my heart was pounding in my chest as if it might explode like a shaken soda can. I barely paid attention to the polished marble flooring or the massive gleaming gold emblem emblazoned across the wall behind the front desk.

I hardly paid attention to the receptionist's smile.

I was just focused on getting to the elevators intact.

Once in the elevator, I sagged down against the mirrored wall and pressed the button for the thirty-fourth floor. My reflection stared back at me-tight mouth, pinched cheeks, and wild eyes.

The doors flowed closed with a soft hiss.

I closed my eyes and uttered the three words that had recently become my modus operandi.

"You are enough."

And then the elevator dinged.

I stepped out into the bright, buzzing chaos of the executive floor. Assistants rushed in and out with reams of paper, coffee cups, and other items. Phones were ringing. Laughter was bubbling from somewhere that I could not see.

And standing at the far end of the hall, like a dark prince surveying his kingdom, was Damon Cross.

Today he was wearing a navy suit, and it looked sharp enough to slice air. He had ran his fingers through his dark hair just enough so it looked tousled but not messy. His pale blue eyes scanned the room lazily until they landed on me.

For a moment he froze.

I froze too.

His gaze raked over me, but not with the deep calculation that I had grown used to. There was something else. Something dangerous.

Worry that he might have someone else by the net.

I suddenly dropped my eyes quickly and bee lined my way to my desk, ignoring the heat that burned up the back of neck.

I couldn't be noticed by Damon Cross today.

I could not afford to be noticed by anyone.

I slid into my chair, and pretended to memorize my emails. My fingers were still a little shaky on the keyboard.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Damon move.

Crossing the hallway.

Walking directly toward me.

Panic exploded in my heart, like fireworks bursting in my chest. I hunched over my screen, typing nothing more than gibberish, wondering if he would just walk on by.

Except he didn't.

He stopped directly beside my desk.

"Miss Reed," he said, low enough for only me to hear. "Can I have a word?"

I forced myself to look up and meet him in the eye.

There was nothing judging me in his eyes. No suspicion. Just... an even-keeled curiosity. Perhaps concern.

But my stomach fell.

Because in Damon Cross' world, a 'word' could mean anything. It could be a quiet, behind-closed-door reprimand. It could be a demotion. It could even be letting me know that Zachary's accusations had reached his ears.

I nodded stiffly and stood.

Without waiting for me, he turned on his heel and started striding to his office, his long legs covering the distance in seconds.

I followed, my palms sweaty and heart racing.

With me finishing his sentences and leaning on the chair of the desk like I was in front of a judge about to be sentenced, he moved and closed the door.

I would take seat and he would not. Eyes glued to me, mouth dry, chest warm, lips sealed, sharp objects logging the pathway to my lungs, ready to burst. But, for now, I remained still.

This is because the second I allowed my lips peekaboo to the outside world, I would lose every ounce of control in my body. So, I quaked all I wanted as long as it was inside me. All it required was words being flooding out of my mouth saying "I got an interesting email this morning."

With the tips of the fingers, I can only pray I would peel off the wood forming the seat's arms, knowing full well they will begin transform into stumps.

He would add to his statement saying fond topics would be, reveal what bounty hunter would torment him in a marsh.

Hoping words do not leave my mouth, I croaked, having also hoped my throat didn't feel like it was on fire, could lead to radical amputation.

This was not the mental image my mind wished to witness, and based upon my surprise I wish not endure.

The only sensible action from my standpoint would be too sate my unending discomfort by deleting whatever was poised in front of me and spiraling into an infinity of risk event horizon through the ever-stretching blunt void.

Dashing student. Preproperties. A chat I hadn't had the fortune to join. Al heard the part about my hands and my suiting up. "Now that explains a lot," he said, still half-interested. During training, he blurted out new nicknames for the subject within the syllabus we were learning with unprecedented precision. End of lesson number two. Al together with the rest of the class just couldn't help but looking at me through the small window as I desperately waved my arms about in an attempt to convince him of my innocence to the actual situation too, and was instantly locked inside. Despite getting contacted by an ongoing organization demanding to speak, I found joy on defeat on winning this first battle. Despite how sharply interning went, and even hated the idea of trying to hitchhike back to my place, I remained lost in the complexity of emotions. Multiple ever so frustrating.

"But they ate every unmarked envelope with suspected baggage.", he continued with only a hint of a grin.

The uncomfortable feeling of complete dumbfoundness gripped every fiber of my being the moment I saw I was still considered to any modern-day algo even while scrolling oblivious to whatever reasoning. Mainstream fabrics fell flat painting themselves into a corner after every eager participant interviewed us over the phone always angrily biting head straight off at the ocean's might.

I wobbled to his door, still slumped on a chair, I could feel his piercing gaze hypnotizing the back of me as a flashlight follows a moth. Upon entering the room.

What a lame Monday waiting to be tackled, however before doing so, let me plant my forehead on the desk.

This is only an exhale Tuesday in disguise. Might as well all Monday's month contains a lie in it. What could be my fate for this new job again, how do I continue with this, would it be like every other business????????