Page 10 of Words We Didn't Say

It’s a wait-up night.

The shuffle of my feet picked up speed down the empty corridors as the elevators appeared. When I reached for the down arrow, a polished pink fingernail hit the button first.

“This is an early finish for you,” Michaela said, dropping her bag on the floor with zero care as she shrugged on her coat. “You’re slacking off, Rawles.”

Her smirk confused me. Were we on speaking terms again?

Michaela fooled most people, talking about her need for authenticity and finding joy in the small things, but she was all show. Gloss, no grit. The bag was the perfect example. She’d huffed when I hadn’t noticed it on the boardroom table. Designer, apparently. A paralegal had squealed and jingled the gold charms, but when Michaela had searched across the table for my approval, my disinterested nod had earned me a glare and a reminder of exactly where I’d come from.

“We can hardly expect the son of a grease monkey to understand the craftsmanship in a piece like this,” Michaela had laughed.

A low blow, and she knew it. My father was a good man. He was proud of being a mechanic, and yeah, maybe scholarships had paid my way through university, but I was senior to Michaela now in every way. I’d be one of her bosses soon. At the minimum, I was her equal, but not in her eyes—or many others who walked the same corridors.

I ignored her teasing with a tight smile. “Maybe keep my early departure to yourself.” I’d prefer not to be the subject of her pillow talk with Chris.

“You didn’t hear the news?”

I grunted. When would I hear any gossip? I never left my office and even more rarely took breaks. Lunch? What the hell was that? Two times a week, I dragged my backside to the gym under the misguided advice of a therapist from years ago who’d suggested boxing classes for my mental health. Every other day, I scoffed whatever sandwich my executive assistant dumped on my desk on her way back from Pilates.

“Chris proposed,” Michaela said.

“To…you?”

“To the timid doctor with the glasses.”

“Lola? I thought they broke up.”

Michaela’s lips curved, but she wasn’t smiling. “So did I.”

The elevator chimed. Silver doors stretched open, and I gestured for her to head in first. “So, what does that mean for you?”

“I doubt I’ll get an invite to the wedding, but Chris promised to pencil me in every second Tuesday if I’m interested.”

“Mac…”Shit. “I…”

What else could I possibly say? Don’t? Value yourself? Leave me out of it?

I slumped against the wall of the elevator. That was the last thing I needed to know about Chris, and I sure as hell didn’t want Michaela dragging me into any drama. He wouldn’t.

Personal lives stay personal—his motto, ruthlessly enforced.

Nothing—nobody—was bigger than the firm. Elijah Johnson learned that the hard way. Who was he? Nobody. He’d becomepersona non grataand hauled out by security the day after he’d prioritised his daughter’s ballet concert over a client meeting. I wasn’t about to stick my nose where it didn’t belong and become the next Elijah Johnson.

The pointy toe of Michaela’s stiletto tapped against my shoe. “Where are you headed?”

I shrugged. “Home.”

“I’ve heard good things about a new bar on the harbour. Want to grab a drink?”

No. “Ah…”Absolutely not.

Michaela’s hand slid along the handrail. “There’s live music until midnight.” Her floral perfume was so strong I could almost taste it. She’d gotten too close. “A quiet crowd.”

Clearing my throat, I edged away until I bumped into the corner. “You know crowds don’t help the sales pitch with me.”

She smiled. “I do know a lot about you.” The gaze she dipped to my belt made me uncomfortable enough to clumsily button up my jacket. “You and me. We had a good thing once.”

“We had…a…thing.”

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