The rest of the week passed in a haze of sharp suits, colder stares, and a mounting pressure that lived in my chest like an overdue bill. William Black didn't bark orders—he didn't need to. His expectations were clear without being spoken, and failing them felt like stepping off a ledge.
Still, I kept up.
Barely.
By Thursday, my body was in the office, but my mind was half back at the hospital and half wandering into worst-case scenarios. Mom had been discharged and sent home with a laundry list of prescriptions and a warning. I hadn't talked to her since our little confrontation. Honestly? I needed the space.
Midday, I slipped out for a quick break. My fingers ached from typing and retyping memos that William barely glanced at, and I just needed five minutes where I wasn't holding my breath.
I ducked into the little café across the street, the one with cracked tile and the best blueberry scones on this side of Midtown. As I scanned the pastry case, I heard a familiar voice behind me.
"You look like someone poured espresso over a panic attack."
I turned to find Tasha, dressed in casual-chic layers and holding two steaming drinks.
"Oh my god," I breathed, actually smiling for the first time that day. "What are you doing here?"
"Stalking you, obviously," she said, handing me a cup. "Okay, not really. My chem lab got canceled. Thought I'd surprise you."
We found a small table by the window.
"I didn't think you were gonna survive this job after day one," she teased, resting her chin on her hand. "You look exhausted. Like, in a high-functioning, boss-woman, breaking-down-slowly kind of way."
I groaned. "It's… intense. I haven't even seen half the company yet. Everyone's quiet, like we're all pretending not to hear each other breathe. And William—Mr. Black—is…"
"A walking threat to sanity and sleep cycles?"
I gave her a look.
"Oh come on," she grinned. "You can't tell me the man's not hot. I googled him, El. I nearly choked on my coffee. Like if capitalism had a face, and that face modeled for GQ in its spare time."
I laughed—actually laughed, for the first time in days. "He's... fine."
"Fine?" She raised a brow. "Girl. He's built like a sin and dresses like temptation. That man could ruin lives with a look."
I covered my face with one hand, cheeks heating. "Tasha."
"What? Just because you're his assistant doesn't mean your eyes don't work."
We both burst into quiet giggles, and for a moment, I forgot the chaos of my life. It felt like high school again—back when everything was simpler, when the worst thing we had to worry about was if our favorite lipstick shade got discontinued.
"I missed you," I said softly.
She bumped her shoulder into mine. "I'm not going anywhere."
We sat a moment longer, the quiet hum of the city cushioning the space between us. Then I checked the time and bolted back toward the office after giving Tasha a quick peck on the cheek, clutching my coffee like a lifeline.
Back at my desk, I'd just finished reformatting a contract draft when the elevator dinged.
Everyone looked up.
She walked in like the air belonged to her.
Tall, composed, and camera-ready in an outfit most people would need a stylist to assemble. Vanessa Simens. The famous supermodel. And if the tabloids were to be believed, a frequent visitor to William's orbit.
She didn't greet anyone.
Didn't even glance my way.
Instead, she clicked straight to William's office, heels tapping a slow rhythm on the marble floor. She didn't knock. Just walked in.
I blinked. Then looked at the calendar on my screen.
There was no meeting scheduled.
Fifteen minutes passed. Then twenty.
I was trying not to look. Really, I was. But when the door finally opened again, it was hard not to notice the way Vanessa adjusted her blouse slightly, her expression smug and unreadable.
I reached for my water bottle at the same moment she passed behind me—too quickly.
My elbow clipped it.
Water sloshed across the edge of the desk and splattered onto the floor—right where her heels clicked past.
And hit.
"Oh my god—"
I stood up fast, grabbing tissues, mortified. "I'm so sorry—I didn't see you—"
Vanessa gasped theatrically like I'd doused her in acid. She froze mid-stride, eyes locked on the drops of water darkening her pristine designer shoes.
"Do you know what these are?" she asked, voice cold and sharp. "These are custom Louboutins, sweetheart. Hand-dyed. Limited edition."
"I—I didn't mean to—"
"Clearly," she snapped, turning to face me fully for the first time. Her eyes dragged over me like a judgment. "You should really watch where your limbs go. It's giving... liability."
I flushed, opening my mouth to apologize again, but William's office door opened behind her.
He looked between us with zero emotion, as if this was just another Thursday inconvenience.
"She ruined my shoes," Vanessa said before I could speak, her voice dipped in drama. "Do you not train your assistants to look where they're going?"
William barely spared me a glance. "Eleanor, get someone to call maintenance," he said, already walking back inside.
No concern. No comment. Not even eye contact.
Just a command.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Vanessa gave me one last smirk—glossy, victorious, a warning—and walked away, her heels now clicking with more menace than grace.
I stood there, tissues still clutched in my hand, burning with humiliation.
I returned to my desk and sat down like I was trying to disappear into it. Behind me, the murmur of coworkers resumed, quieter than before but thick with speculation.
I was just gathering my things to leave when my work phone blinked with a new voicemail.
I frowned, hit play.
"Miss James," said a low, male voice. "This is Detective Jones from the 22nd precinct. This is about Rebecca James. Please return our call as soon as possible."
My breath caught.
The lightness I'd felt earlier shattered.
I grabbed my bag and headed for the elevator, that now-familiar buzz of panic starting to rise again.