“Every project matters to Prescott Hotels,” I argued, except doubt trickled in.
This all started to feel like fate—as if so many events clicked into place to land me this job.
Mary-Kate’s Tinder one-night stand led to a baby.
That baby led to her maternity leave.
The maternity leave led to Chantilly’s promotion as the interim head of the design team.
Nash’s need to dominate North Carolina led to a branch opening in Haling Cove.
Chantilly’s inexperience led to the team being assigned to Haling Cove because Ida Marie had been right—Nash did treat the North Carolina Prescott Hotels as throwaways.
A gazillion events led to me needing a job.
Something Reed did for Delilah led to Delilah owing Reed a favor.
That favor led to Prescott Hotels hiring me.
Someone retiring on Chantilly’s team led to me being assigned to Haling Cove.
Being assigned to Haling Cove led me to that elevator and my work with Nash.
How many moving pieces was that?
Eleven.
More, actually, if you broke down my dive into poverty. What more could Fate throw at me? Hell, what was it trying to tell me?
Ida Marie stretched her arms above her head instead of answering and nodded to Hannah and Cayden as they entered with Chantilly. The three of them eyed the fridge before Cayden walked up and studied the contents.
“Neat.” He pulled out some cold cuts and a can of soda. “It’s the good stuff. Perhaps the king has a heart after all.”
Ten years ago, maybe. It’s long gone now—buried so deep, he has forgotten it ever existed.
“You just ate!” Hannah joined Cayden and grabbed an apple juice. “Whoa. These are, like, ten dollars a pop at the juice bar. Nash bought this? For us?”
Chantilly and Ida Marie followed suit, riffling through the fridge. Meanwhile, I sat with my hands tucked under my thighs, knowing if I allowed myself to indulge, Nash would probably walk in ten seconds later to witness the moment of weakness given my luck.
I avoided the heavy stares from my coworkers when my stomach conjured a growl that resembled two dogs fighting over a bone. “What? We don’t have time for food.”
By the time Nash stepped into the room, everyone had settled in and begun their afternoon sketches. He eyed the Coke can in Cayden’s hand, the yogurt in Chantilly’s, the string cheese in Ida Marie’s, and the organic juice pouch in Hannah’s.
Then he clocked my empty palms, ran his hand through his hair twice—which implied he thought I was an idiot—and stalked to the refrigerator. Swinging the door open with the grace of a drunk sumo wrestler, he skimmed each row as if to double-check they had been stocked and eyed my empty hands once more.
His fingers hovered over the fridge, almost curled around the handle. My face flushed at the memory of them inside me, then hardened at the reminder he’d left. Civility should have been a foreign concept, but it felt weird to hate him over the way he spoke to me in the soup kitchen.
Not because he didn’t deserve it—he so did—but because I had touted forgiveness and moving on as a lesson to Ben. If I didn’t lead by example, I would be a liar. I could do that to Reed, Virginia, and Nash, but I couldn’t lie to Ben.
The stare-down with Nash lasted nearly a minute. The questions simmering inside Ida Marie and Chantilly lashed at me, but I didn’t dare look away. I would deal with the consequences later.
“Have you eaten?” Nash spoke as if no one else was in the room. His eyes dipped to my stomach like they would give him some answers.
“No.”
I didn’t elaborate.
Didn’t waver.
Didn’t tell him that it had been fourteen hours since food last touched my lips.
Didn’t tell him I used his app to talk to Ben.
Didn’t tell him I couldn’t stand the idea of his dad’s death on my dad’s hands.
Didn’t tell him it gave him no right to be cruel to me.
Instead, we communicated with our eyes.
Mine said, “I’m not built to lose.”
His said, “I’m only built to win.”
Another minute.
Two.
Chantilly approached Nash on the third.
He ignored her, speared one last glare at me, and left.
I released a breath with him gone.
Victory felt as hollow as an aluminum baseball bat.
Cold.
Hard.
Never permanent.
If I had to watch Chantilly wiggle her ass for me one more time, I deserved a monument in the fucking Smithsonian.
She parachuted a tablecloth in front of her, letting it float to the office carpet. It laid flat on the floor, but she took her time bending on her hands and knees. Ass in the air, she smoothed out the wrinkles.
Our new office lunch ritual, ladies and gentleman.
If this is hell, I’ll change my ways. Fucking promise.
“Will you help me, Nash?” She peeked back at me, her body arched doggy style.
My eyes remained glued to my phone.
Candy Crush again.
Full volume.
Victorious dings filled the air.
“Unless capitalism has changed in the past twenty minutes, the whole point of paying people money is so I don’t have to waste my time with pointless shit.” My thumb ran miles across the screen. The light cast a shadow from my lashes to the phone. Candy wrappers crushing echoed in the room. “Did I miss a memo?”
Cayden eyed Chantilly’s ass as she ran a palm along the polyester fabric. He had two working eyes and a healthy libido, and Chantilly bore the body of a Sports Illustrated model. Yet, I didn’t glance.
Not once.
Definitely not in the past ten days, as each attempt grew more desperate than the last.
You’d think she’d take the fucking hint.
Office picnics for lunch had never existed before I started my feeding attempts, and Chantilly caught on.
If Emery—fucking Emery and her stubborn ass—would cave, everyone in this office could go back to ignoring each other, please and thank you.
Chantilly spread five sets of silverware across the cloth—one for everyone but Emery. “It’s just lunch, Nash.”
“It’s Mr. Prescott to you, and because you have such difficulty understanding boundaries, allow me to teach you a lesson in them.” I pocketed my phone, stepped on top of the cloth, and rattled the silverware, shattering a crystal plate with my three-thousand-dollar dress shoes.
I continued, “This is what happens when people overstep my boundaries.” My heel dug into the crushed plate and twisted. “They become as useless to me as a broken plate. People are expendable, including you. Clean this mess and clear the office. In the future, Chartreuse, do not overstep if you’d like to keep your job.”
Problem was, Chantilly cared about her job as much as she cared about melting ice caps in the Arctic. As in, not at all. I’d become her goal the second I’d stepped foot in this office and introduced myself to the team.
Perhaps earlier, considering her behavior at the corporate party she'd crashed. If it weren't for her uncle, I'd fire her. Easily.
Cayden left with Ida Marie and Hannah, his phone pulled up to his Uber app. Cheeks the same shade as her hair, Chantilly folded the edges of the tablecloth to the center, bundled up the mess in the middle, and shoved it under Cayden’s desk.