Note to self:
1. Remember to take ibuprofen before bed after a night out drinking.
2. Never, ever drink with Mandy again.
3. Never drink on a work night.
4. Maybe just never drink again.

I was sitting at my work desk at Nexus Creative Group, clutching my pen like a lifeline as another wave of dizziness washed over me. The same fluorescent light that had been flickering yesterday was now working perfectly, which somehow made it even more annoying—like the universe was mocking my hangover. The constant buzz of office chatter felt like nails on a chalkboard, and I really just wanted to crawl into a dark hole and wake up on a different day without this splitting headache.

The stack of client proposals on my desk seemed to have multiplied overnight. Tire sales ads, grocery store flyers, a slightly more promising ad for a new brand of tennis shoes. The glamorous world of advertising.

I grabbed the water bottle from my desk and chugged it in one go, wiping what had dribbled down my chin just as my boss, Mr. Martin, walked up to my cubicle. His tall frame seemed to take up all the available space, casting a shadow over my small workstation. The smell of his cologne mixed with coffee breath made my already queasy stomach lurch.

"Ms. Mayar!" he bellowed, his voice like a thunderclap inside my already pounding skull.

I peeked up at him from behind my computer screen, trying not to look like the fool who had been out drinking until the early hours of the morning. "Yes sir, how can I help you?"

He squeezed his oversized body into the chair across from my desk, barely managing to fold himself into the small space. The chair creaked under his weight. "I have an excellent opportunity for you, my dear," he said, smiling in a way that made my skin crawl.

I waited for him to continue, trying to ignore the way his eyes grazed over me like I was a piece of meat and he was a starving animal. The whole interaction made my already upset stomach churn even more. I'd been dealing with Mr. Martin's inappropriate behavior for three years now, but this morning my tolerance was at an all-time low.

"We have the chance at a once-in-a-lifetime partnership with a new tech company that could skyrocket our marketing potential and bring in massive sales. We're talking about a fifty-million-dollar deal, and the CEO specifically requested one of our best and brightest junior agents to attend the meeting." The condescending grin he gave me clearly indicated he didn't actually believe that was me, but the order came down from the top. What was the saying? Shit always rolls downhill?

My head was pounding too hard to fully process what he was saying. A fifty-million-dollar deal? That was more money than our agency usually saw in an entire year. And they wanted a junior agent? That made no sense.

"What's the company?" I asked, trying to focus through the hangover fog.

"Some tech startup. Security software or something like that. The CEO is young—barely older than you, if you can believe that. Apparently he's got backing from major investors and wants to expand their marketing reach and he wants to meet at Habberways tonight at ten PM," Mr. Martin said, already standing up from the chair as if the deal was sealed and my attendance was a given.

He paused at the edge of my cubicle and looked me up and down with obvious disapproval, taking in my slightly wrinkled blouse and yesterday's makeup that I'd hastily tried to fix in the office bathroom. "Make sure you dress a little more..." He paused, his expression souring as his eyes traveled over me again. "Well, not like this." He gestured dismissively at my entire outfit. "We want to impress the clients, so maybe wear something a little more, I don't know... revealing." Just thinking about Habberways made my stomach lurch. The upscale bar restaurant  was definitely cleaner and more sophisticated than Three Cheers, but right now, the thought of any establishment that served alcohol made me want to crawl under my desk and hide. 

Alex popped her head up from the cubicle next to mine, her short brown hair brushed to the side. "Well, that was uncomfortable," she said, glancing in the direction Mr. Martin had gone before looking back at me. Her brown eyes glimmered with barely contained rage.

"You have no idea," I muttered, putting my head in my hands.

Alex had been my work buddy for the past year and a half, ever since she'd been hired as a web designer. She hated Mr. Martin with a passion—probably even more than I did—and the only thing keeping her at this job was helping pay for her girlfriend's college tuition. I dreaded the day those debts would be paid off and she'd inevitably run off to find another job, leaving me stranded here alone.

She ducked down behind her cubicle and rummaged around for a moment before emerging in front of me with two Tupperware containers. My mouth watered at the sight of what looked like perfectly seasoned chicken and rice with her famous roasted vegetables. She slid one container across my desk to me, then pulled a wet wipe from her pocket and thoroughly cleaned the seat Mr. Martin had just vacated before plopping down and opening her own lunch.

"Comfort food," she announced. "You look like you need it. Rough night?"

I laughed at her dramatic sanitizing routine, which made her flash me a knowing smile before we both dug into our food. "You could say that. Do you remember me telling you about my friend Mandy from college? The  one I mentioned got married  right after graduation?" I asked her. 

"The one with the rich husband and the perfect life?"

"That's the one. Well, turns out the perfect life wasn't so perfect. She just got divorced and apparently decided to celebrate by drinking herself into oblivion.” 

I took a bite of the chicken, which was somehow exactly what my hangover-addled stomach needed. "I spent half the night trying to keep her from making terrible decisions with strange men."

Alex winced. "Yikes. That's rough. Divorce can really mess people up."

"The weird thing is, she was so bitter about everything. I mean, I get being hurt, but she was talking about how we were both failures and how everyone else figured out how to be successful while we were..." I trailed off, realizing I was repeating Mandy's harsh words about my own life.

"While you were what?"

"While I was stuck in a dead-end job writing ads about discount toilet paper," I said, repeating Sandy’s words verbatim from yesterday.

Alex set down her fork and gave me a serious look. "Ashleigh, you know that's not true, right? You're not a failure. You're just... figuring things out. We all are."

I wanted to believe her, but sitting here in my beige cubicle with a hangover and a stack of uninspiring client work, it was hard to feel like I was doing anything other than treading water.

We settled into the comfortable quiet that came with each other's company, the kind of peaceful silence that only existed between true friends. While we ate, my mind spiraled, thinking about this mysterious tech company and why they would specifically request a junior agent to attend such an important meeting. I wasn't anywhere near ready to broker deals with massive corporations and was absolutely certain I was going to screw this up in ways that hadn't even been invented yet.

After Alex finished the last bite of her lunch, she placed the empty Tupperware in the seat next to her, leaning back in the chair, she crossed  one ankle over the opposite thigh. My fork was halfway to my mouth when I noticed the intense way she was studying me, and something about her expression made me pause mid-bite. A piece of rice fell off my fork and back into the container.

I put the chicken back in the container and leaned forward, propping my elbows on the desk, meeting her stare.  "What?"

She was quiet for a few moments, as if choosing her words carefully, before finally speaking. "There's something you're not telling me about this meeting tonight, isn't there?"

I felt confused by her question. "What do you mean? I told you everything Mr. Martin told me."

"You just seem... I don't know, more nervous than usual. Even for a big meeting."

"It's a fifty-million-dollar deal, Alex. Of course I'm nervous."

"Look, I don't like the way Mr. Martin treats you," Alex said, tugging at the chest of her button-up shirt to get more comfortable. "And I especially don't like the idea of him parading you around like some kind of trophy. You don't have to go to this thing if you don't want to."

I sat up from my desk quickly, peeking outside of my cubicle, glancing both directions down the office corridor before ducking back inside and shooting her a warning look. "Keep your voice down," I whispered urgently. "You never know who's listening around here."

I checked over the top of the cubicle wall to my other side, relieved to see that the workstation was still vacant, before settling back into my chair.

" Besides, I want to go," I insisted, trying to sound more confident than I felt. "This could really be a big break for my career here."

Alex nodded slowly. "I get it. Just... be careful, okay? Don't let Mr. Martin use you. You're worth more than being someone's arm candy at a business meeting."

"I will."

She gave me a sad, knowing smile before standing up and gathering her empty container. "You're going to do great tonight. Just remember that you're there because you're smart and capable, not because of how you look in a dress."

I felt my cheeks warm at the compliment. "Thanks, Alex."

"Anytime. Now go home early if you can and get some rest. You're going to need all your energy for tonight."

She slipped out of my cubicle and headed back to hers. I didn't hear from her for most of the afternoon, just the occasional sound of typing and phone calls filtering through the thin walls between us.

As I was packing up my things at the end of the day, Mr. Martin appeared at my cubicle again, looming over me like a dark cloud. The coffee smell was stronger now, mixed with what might have been whiskey, and his eyes had that slightly unfocused look that meant he'd been drinking during his lunch break.

"Don't forget about tonight," he said, his voice low and gravelly. "Ten PM sharp. And remember what I told you about how to dress. This is a big deal, Ms. Mayar. Don't fuck it up."

His eyes lingered on me in a way that made felt wrong , traveling from my face down to my chest and back up again. I had to resist the urge to wrap my arms around myself defensively. "I'll be there," I managed to say, my voice barely above a whisper.

He smiled that predatory smile again, the one that made me feel like I needed a shower. "Good girl. Wear something that shows off your... assets. First impressions matter, and we want to make sure this hotshot CEO has every reason to sign with us."

He turned and walked away, leaving me feeling like I needed to scrub my skin with bleach. I gathered my purse and headed toward the elevator, my hands shaking slightly from a combination of nerves and disgust.

As I passed Alex's cubicle, I noticed her gripping her phone to her ear, her knuckles white against the device. When she saw me, she held up one finger in a "wait a minute" gesture, then quickly finished her call.

"Kristy, I have to go. I'll call you tonight, okay? Love you too."

She hung up and immediately focused on me. "That was my girlfriend. Her tuition bill came in and it's..." She shook her head. "Anyway, that's not important right now. If I ever hear that sleaze ball talk to you like that again, I may very well lose my shit.” I glanced around to make sure no one heard her. 

“It’s going to be okay, Alex.” I said, trying to reassure both her and myself. 

"Ashleigh, you don't have to—"

"I know," I cut her off. "But I'm still going. For me, not for him."

She studied my face for a long moment, then nodded. "Okay. But promise me something?"

"What?"

"If things get weird or uncomfortable, you get the hell out of there. I don't care if it costs Mr. Martin his deal. Your safety is more important than any contract and don’t hesitate to call me if you need someone to pick you up.” 

"I promise."

She stood up and gave me a quick hug. "Be careful," she said softly, her expression full of genuine worry.

I nodded, giving her what I hoped was a reassuring smile, before ducking into the elevator.

An hour later, I was standing in front of my bedroom closet like it was an enemy I needed to defeat. Every dress I owned seemed either too conservative boring work clothes, as Mandy had so helpfully pointed out or too revealing exactly what Mr. Martin wanted, which made my stomach turn. I wanted something that would make me feel confident in my own skin and not something to be looked at or objectified by him. 

I finally settled on a black dress that Sandy had convinced me to buy last year for her office Christmas party—fitted but not tight, with a modest neckline and three-quarter sleeves. It was professional enough to feel appropriate but nice enough to hold its own at a place like Habberways. I paired it with my favorite high heel ankle boots, the ones that gave me just enough height to feel powerful, and simple jewelry that wouldn't distract from the conversation.

I sat down in front of my vanity mirror to fight with my unruly hair. Usually I just flat-ironed it into submission, but tonight I wanted to tame my stubborn waves into something softer and more sophisticated. Something that looked effortless but actually took me forty-five minutes to achieve.

Once I was satisfied with my hair, I applied makeup with more care than I'd used in months. Shimmering eyeshadow that caught the light, precise eyeliner that made my blue eyes pop, and lipstick in a shade that Sandy called "confidence in a tube." Looking at myself in the mirror, I had to admit that I looked pretty damn good. I looked like the kind of person who belonged at a fifty-million-dollar business meeting, even if I felt like an imposter.

I walked out of my room with my jacket flung over my arm and into the living room, where Sandy was already settled into her favorite recliner for the night. She was wearing her comfortable pajama bottoms and an oversized shirt with a bowl of popcorn on the side table next to her, clearly prepared for another night of terrible reality TV. When she looked up and saw me, her eyes went wide.

"Damn, girl!" she said, standing up to get a better look. "You look incredible. What's the occasion? Hot date?"

"Work meeting," I said, though even as the words left my mouth, they felt like a lie. Or at least not the whole truth.

Sandy raised an eyebrow. “You know how my boss is a complete gross pervert? He practically told me to show off my assets to get a better deal.” I said, feeling ashamed. 

Sandy's eyes widened in disbelief. “I have half the mind to go down there and beat the guy senseless” she said as she came up to me, she grabbed me by the shoulders. 

"Listen to me. You are smart, talented, and beautiful. You have nothing to be ashamed of. You hear me?"

I nodded, feeling some of my confidence return. This was why I loved Sandy—she had a way of cutting through all my anxiety and self-doubt to remind me of who I really was.

"Thanks, Sandy. I needed to hear that."

She gave me a quick hug, careful not to mess up my hair or makeup. "Knock 'em dead, girl!" she hollered, cupping her hands around her mouth for dramatic effect.

I blew her a kiss as I headed toward the front door, feeling way more confident from her enthusiasm.

"And keep your damn location on tonight!" she yelled just as the front door shut behind me, her voice carrying through the wood with all the authority of a worried mother.

Habberways was only a ten-minute drive from my house, so I found myself sitting in the parking lot exceptionally early with fifteen minutes to kill. My leg bounced up and down in nervous anticipation as I sat in the driver's seat of my white Mustang, trying to calm my racing heart.

The parking lot was full of expensive cars—BMWs, Mercedes, even one of those weird Tesla trucks. My ten-year-old Mustang felt more like a cheap pinto and suddenly felt very out of place, but I reminded myself that it was paid for and reliable, which was more than a lot of people could say about their vehicles.

I pulled my phone out, and realized that since I haven’t looked at it all day, I was still on Patrick's facebook profile and on an old picture of him at that. I tried to close out of the app, but my thumb slipped and instead of closing it I accidentally hit the like button. 

"Oh, shit," I muttered, frantically trying to unlike the photo before he could get a notification, but luck wasn't something I had in abundance. Before I could unlike the picture, a sharp knock on my car window made me scream and throw my phone behind me into the backseat like it was evidence of a crime. Mr. Martin was glaring at me through the glass, his expression suggesting he'd witnessed my entire freak out.

With shaky hands, I opened my car door. Even though the scowl on Mr. Martin's face was less than inviting, he offered me his hand to help me out of the car—a gesture that felt more condescending than gentlemanly. I took it anyway, feeling the rough calluses on his palm. I tried to ignore the implication of those calluses as he gripped my fingers tightly. This man hadn't worked a blue-collar job in his life. His palm was sticky with sweat, and I noticed he seemed nervous too. His usual swagger was missing, replaced by the kind of tension that came with high-stakes meetings.

Once I was standing, he stepped back and looked me over from head to toe with the clinical assessment of someone appraising livestock. His gaze lingered on my chest longer than necessary, and I fought the urge to cross my arms over myself.

After a moment, he nodded in grudging approval. "Much better," he said gruffly. "You clean up nice, Ms. Mayar."

I quickly yanked open the back door and grabbed my phone, shoving it deep into my handbag as the embarrassing Facebook scenario was temporarily forgotten in favor of more immediate concerns. Like the fact that I was about to fuck up a major deal that I had no business being a part of. 

Mr. Martin led me into Habberways, and I was immediately struck by how different it was from Three Cheers. Where last night's bar had been all sticky floors and dim lighting, this place was all dark wood, leather, and ambient lighting. A polished hostess waited behind a sleek podium, her smile practiced and professional.

I knew of Habberways by reputation but had never actually been inside—forty dollars for a shot of tequila was way beyond my budget. The clientele looked like they'd stepped out of a business magazine: men in expensive suits, women in designer dresses, everyone looking like they belonged in this world of power lunches and corporate deals.

As we approached the hostess stand, Mr. Martin placed his hand on my lower back, causing my entire body to stiffen. He leaned in close enough that I could feel his breath on the side of my neck and a smell that was definitely more whiskey, and murmured in my ear with quiet intensity.

"Here you will refer to me as Jason. You will be quiet and only speak when spoken to. You will smile, nod, and look interested in whatever this CEO has to say. You will not give advice, you will not volunteer any opinions about the business, and you will not blow this deal. And most importantly," he continued, his breath hot against my ear, "you will make the CEO feel comfortable and appreciated. Use your natural... assets... to make sure he wants to work with us. Leave whatever is going on in that tiny brain of yours out of it. Women have been using their charms to close business deals for centuries. Tonight, you're going to do the same if that's what it takes. Do you understand, Miss Mayar?" My heart hammered against my ribcage as I nodded, not trusting my voice to come out steady. The hand on my back felt heavy and possessive, like a claim of ownership that made my skin crawl.

“Answer me.” he growled in my ear.

“Ye-Yes. ” I stuttered. 

“Yes what?”

“Yes, Jason.” 

"Good," he grumbled, his hand finally leaving my back.

He walked over to the hostess while I stood frozen in place, but I couldn't hear what he was saying over the thundering of my  heartbeat. The realization hit me like a cold wave: I wasn't actually here to contribute anything meaningful to this meeting. I wasn't here because of my advertising skills or my creative ideas for my business acumen. I really  was just here as something to look at—a pretty face, a trophy to parade around, bait to hook a client.

The sinking feeling settled deep in my stomach, confirming what I'd been trying not to think about all day: I wasn't actually good at this job. I was just window dressing. And apparently, I was about to be a pawn in landing this deal. 

The hostess—tall, blonde, and effortlessly beautiful in that way that made me feel like a child playing dress-up—led us to a private seating area cordoned off with velvet ropes. The oval booth was upholstered in rich burgundy leather that obviously cost more than I could even try to comprehend.  Everything about this place screamed money and power, two things I'd never had much of.

Mr. Martin gestured for me to go first, his fake smile plastered on his face for the other upscale patrons to see. I slid into the booth, tugging my dress down to keep it from riding up, and tried to position myself as far toward the wall as possible. Once I was settled, I pulled my long hair over my shoulder like a curtain, hoping to create some kind of barrier between us.

"Jason" scooted in next to me, and my makeshift hair shield only seemed to encourage him to sit closer. His hand landed on my knee with the casual ownership of someone who thought he had every right to touch me. The contact made my flesh prickle , but his earlier words echoed in my head: smile, nod, and look interested.

My entire body went rigid, every muscle tensing like a coiled spring. I wanted to scream at him to get his slimy hands off me, to make a scene, to storm out of this overpriced monument to male ego. But I also knew that this job, as soul-crushing as it was, paid my bills. And if I made a scene now, I'd probably lose it.

"Relax," Mr. Martin murmured, his thumb rubbing small circles on my knee. "You're as stiff as a board. He will be here any minute, and I need you to be charming."

I tried to force my muscles to unclench, but it was impossible with his hand on my leg. I kept my eyes fixed on the entrance, partly looking for the possible new client, and partly because I couldn't bear to look at Mr. Martin's smug face.

And then I saw him. 

The hostess appeared again, this time escorting a man who made my heart stop dead in its tracks. My eyes traveled up his tall, lean frame, taking in the perfectly tailored charcoal suit that befitted him perfectly. He moved with confidence, like someone who owned every room he walked into.

When my gaze reached his face, a face I would recognize in every lifetime,  I felt like I was looking at a ghost. The same bone structure, the same strong jaw, but sharper now, more defined. A day's worth of beard scruff that somehow made him look even more devastatingly gorgeous than I remembered. His dirty blonde hair was styled in a way that was modern and sophisticated, swept up and away from his face.

But it was his eyes that nearly undid me. Those wicked green eyes that had haunted my dreams for years met mine across the bar, and for a moment, time seemed to stop. I saw recognition flicker across his features, followed by something that looked like surprise, then something else I couldn't quite identify.

And then there was that smirk—lips pulled up at one corner in the exact same expression that had driven me crazy on the playground eighteen years ago. The smile that said he knew something you didn't, that he was always three steps ahead of everyone else in the room. Some things never changed.

He was walking toward our table now, and with each step, my heart beat faster. My first love, my playground boyfriend, the boy who had promised me castles and dragons, was sliding into the booth across from me as the client to this meeting.

"Patrick," I breathed, his name escaping my lips like a prayer, before I could stop it, 

Mr. Martin's hand tightened on my knee in warning, his fingernails digging into my skin. His sharp glare could have cut glass.

Patrick’s green eyes fixed on mine, and when he spoke, his voice was like silk against my skin—deeper now but still carrying that hint of mischief that had always been uniquely his.

"Ashleigh," he said, my name rolling off his tongue like he'd never stopped saying it. "It's been a long time."