Page 30 of Married As Puck
“Bye, wifey!”
I hang up on her before she can say more, because no way am I entertaining her insane ideals before caffeine.
Getting ready for work is an ordeal in itself. Not because of clothes—though, yes, I stand too long in front of my closet debating if “competent office professional” beats “effortlessly hot.” No. It’s because Cameron’s presence lingers in the apartment. My fake husband’s jacket is on the chair, his shoes are by the door, and the faint smell of his cologne clinging to the air. He’s not even here, and somehow he’s everywhere.
I hate how aware of it I am.
By the time I get to the office, I’ve rehearsed every version of “I don’t care” in my head. Which lasts exactly five minutes.
Miranda Green spots me in the meeting room, her lips curved in that predatory little smirk. “Well, if it isn’t Mrs. Hockey.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks before I can stop it. She readthatheadline. Okay.
“Good morning, Miranda.” My tone is neutral, polite. Always polite.
She doesn’t stop. “You know, some of us don’t need fake headlines to get attention at work. But good for you. Ride that wave while it lasts.”
I force a smile, but inside, I imagine tipping my hot coffee straight into her lap.
“Thank you, I sure will.” I smile sweetly at her as I walk past.
The day drags on as the first meeting of the day comes with awkward stares that I try to ignore. I thought that I prepared well for thus, but it is quite obvious that that’s not the case. The meeting lasts for a total of twenty minutes and as soon as we’re dismissed, I’m already on my feet and ready to run.
Mrs. Randolph, however, pulls me aside with a sickly sweet smile on her face. “Brie, I’d like you to take lead on the charity gala project. It’ll be good exposure for you.”
My stomach flips. Exposure. Responsibility. A chance. “Of course, Mrs. Randolph. Thank you.”
The second she’s gone, Miranda slinks to my desk, leaning against it like she has a lot to tell me. “Don’t get ahead of yourself. They’re just giving you a scrap project, so you don’t feel useless. Everyone knows you’ll mess it up like always.”
My grip tightens on the pen in my hand. “Thank you, Miranda. I really appreciate it.”
She smirks, then deliberately knocks my stationery holder onto the floor with her elbow. Pens scatter everywhere. She doesn’t bother picking them up. “Oops. Clumsy me.” And then she struts away.
I bend down, gathering the mess with trembling fingers, every muscle in my body buzzing with anger. One day, Miranda. One day.
The rest of my work is half-focused. My brain keeps spiraling back to the ridiculousness of this situation—fake marriage headlines, Cameron’s brooding silences, the strange way my chest tightens when I think about him. It’s absurd. Entirely absurd.
And yet what if it could be real?
The thought makes me dizzy. My future feels like a locked box right now—terrifying, yes, but in that thrilling way, like standing at the edge of a rollercoaster. Anticipation, adrenaline, fear. The good kind.
I’m mid-daydream when my phone buzzes.
Cameron:We need to talk. Now.
I stare at the screen. My pulse quickens. Typical Cameron. He’s commanding, impatient, never asking.
So I type back, fingers flying before I can second-guess it.
Brie:Use the magic word.
And I hit send.
Just as I’m on my way for lunch, I get an email notifying me of another meeting and at this point, I’m ready to fall in exhaustion. I eat the sandwich I had hurriedly made at home and try to mentally prepare myself for another grueling hour of awkward stares and whispers.
The conference room smells faintly of coffee and stress—the kind of smell that clings to Monday mornings. I sit straighter in my chair, clutching my notepad, trying to look as poised as possible. Mrs. Randolph sits at the head of the table, her perfectly arched brows sharp as knives. A few other team members line the sides, but I can already feel Miranda’s eyes boring into me from across the table.
“Now,” Mrs. Randolph says briskly, flipping through her folder. “About the upcoming gala. Brie will take the lead.”
