Page 89 of Power Play
A DM.
Fromher.
Tabloid Girl.
I barely glance at it. Just a single waving hand emoji and a “Saw you on the club’s Insta story. Miss me?”
I lock my phone and shove it in my back pocket, but Sophie must catch the flicker of tension across my face.
“You okay?” she murmurs.
“Yeah,” I say too quickly.
She studies me for a second. Not accusing. Just curious.
But I plaster on a smile. “Thinking about how to con you out of your last hotel.”
“You wish,” she says, nudging me with her foot under the table.
And it works. The moment slips past. Forgotten. Buried under more cupcakes and Ollie’s accidental bankruptcy and Dylan getting into an argument with Mia over whether or not utilities are a scam.
But the DM is still sitting there like a time bomb in my pocket.
And I hate how part of me didn’t delete it straight away.
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
SOPHIE
Idon’t know what’s more exhausting, coordinating a six-person campaign with two clients who barely know how to use Google Docs, or resisting the urge to throttle said clients before noon.
“I’m going to start charging by the stupid,” I mutter, slamming my laptop shut and ignoring the horrified look on my colleague’s face.
It’s just past eleven, and I’ve already had three coffees, two arguments, and one existential crisis over a PowerPoint template. Pocket rocket doesn’t even begin to cover it. I’m more of a caffeine-fuelled missile aimed directly at inefficiency.
My phone pings on cue.
Murphy: Survived training. Dylan nearly fell trying to spin-stop. Looked like a confused giraffe. Missed you x
Me: Please tell me there’s video.
Murphy: Already uploading to the cloud.
I smirk and tuck the phone away, feeling that tiny little flip in my chest that always comes with his name. Even in the middle of a Monday morning warzone, he manages to sneak in under my skin and make himself at home.
Still, I’ve got a job to do, and right now that means prepping the weekly reports while pretending my manager’s story about her cat’s dental hygiene is riveting.
“Right, Sophie, thoughts on this paragraph here?” she asks, pointing to her screen.
I lean in, scan it, and lift an eyebrow. “You’ve got ‘exciting’ in here four times. Either thesaurus it or admit you peaked at paragraph two.”
She barks a laugh and nods. “You’re brutal.”
“I’m efficient. There’s a difference.”
By the time lunch rolls around, I’m feeling dangerously close to hangry, so I duck out to the bakery on the corner and buy myself a croissant the size of my face. It’s not elegant, but it’s flaky and warm and fills the Murphy-shaped void for now.
Murphy: Got any lunch plans or are you seducing baked goods again?
