When I pulled into the driveway, I could see the soft glow of the living room lamp through the window. As I quietly unlocked the front door, I found Sandy curled up in her favorite recliner, fast asleep with the TV still on, playing some late-night talk show on low volume. Her phone was clutched loosely in her hand, and there was an empty bowl that had probably held ice cream sitting on the side table next to her.

She'd been waiting up for me.

The sight made my chest tight with affection and guilt. Sandy had her own job, her own life, her own problems to worry about, but here she was, sacrificing sleep just to make sure I got home safely and to hear about my evening.

"Sandy," I whispered, gently touching her shoulder. "Hey, wake up."

She stirred, blinking up at me with confused, sleepy eyes. "Ash? How did it go? Are you okay? Did that creep Martin—"

"I'm fine," I said softly, helping her sit up properly. "Everything went... well, it was complicated. But I'm okay, and I'll tell you everything in the morning. You need to get to your actual bed."

She looked like she wanted to protest, to demand details right then and there, but the exhaustion was clear on her face. "Promise me you'll tell me everything tomorrow? No glossing over the weird parts?"

"Promise," I said, giving her a quick hug. "Now go to bed before you get a crick in your neck from sleeping in that chair."

She shuffled toward her bedroom, pausing at the doorway to look back at me. "You look different," she said, her voice still thick with sleep.

"Different how?"

"I don't know. Less... defeated, I guess. More like yourself." She smiled sleepily. "I'm glad you're home safe, Ash."

After she disappeared into her room, I turned off the TV and the lamp, then made my way to my own bedroom. As soon as I closed the door behind me, the weight of the entire evening hit me like a tidal wave.

Did Patrick Henson really say what I thought he'd said? The Patrick Henson—successful CEO, childhood playground king, and apparently the man who'd been looking at my pictures online just like I'd been looking at his? Had he really been thinking of me all those years? 

I sank onto the edge of my bed, still in my dress and boots, my mind working in overdrive as I replayed every moment of the evening on an endless loop. The way he'd looked at me across that table like no time had passed at all. The protective way he'd pulled me against his side when Mr. Martin had grabbed my arm. The soft brush of his nose against my hair—so familiar, so achingly reminiscent of the boy I'd once loved. And then that devastating admission whispered so close to my ear it had made my knees weak: "I've been looking at your pictures too."

The meeting had been a complete disaster from a professional standpoint, and I honestly wasn't looking forward to facing the fallout at work tomorrow. Mr. Martin was probably plotting my demise as we spoke, and I'd have to deal with the consequences of tonight's power play. But underneath all that anxiety was something else entirely—a flutter of excitement and possibility that I hadn't felt in years.

What were the chances that Patrick would spiral back into my life at exactly this moment? When I was struggling to make ends meet, trapped under Mr. Martin's thumb, and feeling like a complete failure at twenty-five? Of course he'd show up now, when I was at my lowest point, looking like he'd stepped off the cover of a business magazine and commanding fifty-million-dollar deals like it was nothing.

I finally forced myself to get up and change into my favorite oversized t-shirt, going through the motions of my nighttime routine while my mind continued to race. As I sat on my bed brushing my hair, I stared down at my phone, heart hammering as I noticed the notification that must have come in while I was driving home: Patrick Henson liked a photo you shared. The timestamp on the photo showed it was from two years ago.

Two years. He'd gone back two full years through my photos, just like I'd done with his. The realization hit me like a truck—we'd both been digital archaeologists tonight, digging through each other's past like we were searching for treasure. Or answers. Or maybe just proof that the other person still existed in the world.

I set my phone face-down on the nightstand and laid down, burrowing deep under my covers, and pulling them up over my head. The thought of sleep—of escaping this surreal evening—sounded like pure bliss. But my mind had other plans, spinning with memories and possibilities and the terrifying question of what happened next.

How long had he been thinking about me? Had he ever wondered what would have happened if things had been different between us? Did he remember the promises we'd made under the big oak tree about growing up and getting married and having adventures together?

And more importantly—what did he want from me now?

I'm not sure at what point, but the thoughts carousels in my head until sleep finally claimed me. I drifted off thinking of Patrick's deep green eyes and that wicked smirk of his , my dreams haunted by a silky voice whispering my name and the ghost of his protective touch on my shoulders. The jarring sound of my alarm clock yanked me awake at 6:30 AM, and I found that even though I was groggy from too little sleep, I was also surprisingly energized—despite having no idea what kind of disaster of a day awaited me after Patrick had completely humiliated Mr. Martin.

I stumbled to the bathroom and caught sight of myself in the mirror. My hair was a mess from tossing and turning, and there were dark circles under my eyes that concealer was going to have a hard time hiding. But underneath the fatigue, there was something different in my reflection—a spark that hadn't been there in months. Maybe years.

I showered quickly, letting the hot water wake me up while my mind raced through possible scenarios for the day ahead. Would Mr. Martin fire me outright? Would Patrick really follow through on his ultimatum? Had last night actually happened, or was it all some elaborate stress dream?

The notification on my phone confirmed it was real: "Patrick Henson liked a photo you shared." It was a picture of me that Sandy took. We were at a local farmers market when she captured me laughing at something so carefree. Those were the days when everything didn’t feel so…Messy. I was astonished how far back he had gone just since last night he had likes on photos and videos from my college years.

I dressed for work carefully, settling on a teal button-up shirt and khaki pants—professional but not trying too hard. I slipped my feet into my most comfortable flats, knowing I'd need every ounce of confidence I could get for whatever confrontation awaited me.

Sandy was already waiting for me at the breakfast table, my favorite cereal sitting front and center like it was the star of the show. I might be twenty-five, but my first love would always be Fruity Pebbles—a fact that had never failed to amuse Patrick when we were kids. He used to tease me about my "sugar addiction" while sneaking handfuls from my bowl when he thought I wasn't looking.

"Okay," Sandy said without preamble, her coffee mug halfway to her lips, "spill. And don't even think about giving me some corporate BS about client confidentiality. I want the full story."

I sank into my chair and started pouring cereal, buying myself time to figure out where to begin. 

"So, Mr. Martin is an absolute prick."

"I could have told you that on your first day at that office," she replied, her voice exasperated like this particular detail was a wasted breath.

"He literally told me not to talk unless someone spoke to me first and to not give advice," I continued. She nodded, her eyes narrowing as I spoke, but she didn't voice whatever she was thinking, clearly waiting for me to finish my story before she said whatever was building up behind those expressive brown eyes. 

"So we're sitting there and he puts his hand on my knee. I was literally thinking about how much I wanted to scream when the CEO of Cypher Tech walks in, acting like he owns the place."

At this, Sandy finally spoke. "No way! I heard he was hot as hell!" she squealed.

"Not only is he hot as hell, he was my first and last boyfriend," I said, leaning forward and finally giving name to the thing that had been eating away at me since hearing about Patrick in the girls' bathroom at the bar two nights ago.

"His name is Patrick Henson, and I met him when I was seven years old on the playground at our elementary school. We connected right away, and then our relationship just kind of..." I cut off, thinking of the right way to put it.

"Blossomed," Sandy supplied, a knowing look in her eyes.

I nodded. "Yeah, blossomed. We dated on and off from the time we were old enough to know what that meant—even though I officially declared him my boyfriend on that first day on the playground when I shoved his head in the sand—until my uncle died my senior year of high school."

I sighed, as the memories rushed back, I rubbed my eyes with my hands. “When we broke up….. No, that's not right when I bailed on him, he was so angry, not that I blame him. He had been dual enrolled at the college. He didn’t need to be, he was so smart he had all his credits, he was only there for me. So when I called it quits he just pulled out of high school entirely. He didn’t even show up for graduation. I haven’t seen him since.” 

Then I launched into the whole story of what happened at Habberways. I told her absolutely everything— Accidentally liking Patrick’s picture before going into the upscale bar, the  awful buildup with Mr. Martin, the shock of seeing Patrick walk into the bar, the way he'd completely taken control of the situation, and the protective way he'd gotten me away from Martin's grabby hands. I hesitated when I got to the parking lot scene, but Sandy's expectant stare told me she wasn't going to let me skip any details.

"He said he'd been looking at my pictures too," I finished quietly, pushing soggy cereal around my bowl.

Sandy was quiet for a long moment, studying my face. "You know what the crazy part is?" she finally said.

"What?"

"You look happy. Terrified and confused, but happy. I haven't seen that look on your face since..." She paused, thinking. "Since ever, actually. At least not since I've known you."

She was right, and that realization was almost as unsettling as everything else. When was the last time I'd felt genuinely excited about something? When was the last time my heart had raced for a good reason instead of anxiety or stress?

"I'm scared, Sandy," I admitted. "What if he's just playing some kind of game? What if this is all business and I'm reading too much into it? Or worse, what if he remembers how things ended between us and this is some kind of revenge?"

Sandy reached across the table and squeezed my hand. "Then you'll deal with it. But Ash, from what you've told me, this doesn't sound like revenge. This sounds like a man who's been thinking about you for a long time and just got the chance to do something about it."

I wanted to believe her, but eight years of radio silence was hard to forget. "I should get going," I said, glancing at the clock. "I need to face the music with Martin."

"Just remember," Sandy called as I grabbed my keys, "you didn't do anything wrong last night. You were professional, you contributed valuable ideas that he asked for. and you protected yourself from a creep. Don't let that asshole make you feel guilty for being competent."

Her words stayed with me during the drive to work, but they couldn't completely calm the churning in my stomach as I pulled into the Nexus Creative Group parking lot.

The moment I walked into the office, I could feel the tension crackling in the air like electricity before a storm. Several coworkers glanced up as I passed, their expressions ranging from curious to sympathetic. Word traveled fast in our small office, and I had no doubt that everyone knew something had gone down at last night's meeting.

Alex shot me a warning look from her cubicle, her brown eyes wide with concern, but it was too late. I barely reached my desk before I was being escorted down the hall to Mr. Martin's office by the red-faced man himself. His grip on my elbow was firm enough to leave marks, and I could practically see the steam coming out of his ears.

As soon as we were within the confines of his office, he turned around and slammed the door shut behind me, the windows surrounding his office rattling in response. The sound made me flinch, and I fought the urge to take a step backward. He remained silent as he went to each window, closing the blinds one by one with deliberate precision, like he was preparing for an execution. My execution. 

The office felt smaller with the blinds closed, more claustrophobic. The walls were covered with awards and certificates that proclaimed his importance, and his desk was massive—designed to intimidate rather than invite collaboration. Everything about the space screamed power and control, from the expensive leather chairs to the crystal paperweights that probably cost more than my monthly salary.

When he reached the windows behind his desk, he sank down into his plush leather chair—way nicer than the flimsy office furniture they gave us in the cubicles—and steepled his fingers, his eyes shooting daggers at me. I sat down in the chair across from him, trying to appear calm despite the way my heart was hammering against my ribs.

I threw my hair over my shoulder and fought the urge to fidget, knowing that any sign of weakness would only make this worse. I'd never been good at confrontation—usually I'd burst into tears within the first few minutes—but something about last night had changed me. Patrick's confidence in me, his belief that I was capable of handling this project, had planted a seed of self-assurance that I was determined not to let Mr. Martin crush.

Finally, he inhaled a deep breath and placed his arms flat across his desk, grasping his hands so tightly his knuckles turned white. The silence stretched on until it became almost unbearable, and I realized he was doing it on purpose—using the quiet as a weapon to make me squirm.

"Ms. Mayar," he said finally, his voice eerily controlled. I knew it was the calm before the storm.

"I took it upon myself to bring you to that meeting yesterday so your ass didn't get kicked out of this job from lack of performance. There are several other eager and far more capable junior agents I could have taken with me." His voice was low and measured, which somehow made it more threatening than if he'd been shouting.

I inhaled sharply, taking the insult with a slight sting behind my eyes. The words hit exactly where he'd intended them to—right in my already fragile professional confidence.

"But since you apparently have some kind of history with Mr. Henson," he continued, his tone dripping with disdain, "I'm stuck letting you handle this deal instead of throwing you out on your ass like I want to. It pisses me off to no end and goes against my better judgment—letting some junior nobody who's personally involved with the client manage a fifty-million-dollar account."

The phrase "junior nobody" was like a slap in the face. This was exactly what Alex had warned me about—Mr. Martin was already building his case against me, establishing a narrative where I was incompetent and undeserving.

"Sir," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded, "the rule was not to speak until spoken to. Mr. Henson spoke to me directly. I didn't violate your terms."

His eyes flashed with anger at my response. Clearly he expected me to be meek and take his abuse, that was the old me. This is the new me, the new me who just landed this company a fifty million dollar deal.

"The rule was also to not give advice," he snapped, leaning forward, like a snake  preparing to strike. "I thought you were smart enough to steer the conversation in a different direction instead of putting your input where it doesn't belong."

"He asked me direct questions about marketing strategy," I replied, inserting new found courage I didn't know I possessed. "What was I supposed to do, sit there like a decoration? That would have looked even more unprofessional."

Before I could continue, he held up his hand, cutting off whatever retort I was building up to. His face had gone from red to a dangerous shade of purple, and I could see a vein pulsing in his temple.

"I'm done here. You can leave,", his voice dropping to a low growl that showed just how angry he truly was. "But let me be crystal clear about something, Ms. Mayar. You may have impressed Mr. Henson last night, but you still work for me. And when this project inevitably falls apart—because let's face it, you're in way over your pretty little head—I'll be here to remind everyone exactly why junior agents don't handle major accounts."

The threat was barely veiled, but the message was clear: he was waiting for me to fail so he could swoop in and take credit for saving the deal. Or more likely, he was planning to make sure I failed.

I stood up from the chair on shaky legs, my heart pounding with a anger and determination. "Understood, sir."

As I reached for the door handle, his voice stopped me cold.

"Oh, and Ms. Mayar? If you think your little boyfriend is going to protect you from the consequences of your incompetence, you're more naive than I thought. Men like Patrick Henson don't waste time on broken toys."

The words hit like a physical blow, and for a moment, I couldn't breathe. But instead of crumbling, I felt something fierce and protective rise up in my chest—not just for myself, but for the confidence my friends, and Patrick built up in me.  

I turned back to face Martin, my hand still on the door handle. "You're right about one thing, Jason. Mr. Henson doesn't waste time. Which is probably why he specifically requested to work with me instead of you."

I walked out before he could respond, closing the door behind me with a quiet click that somehow felt more satisfying than slamming it would have.

I was grateful to finally sink into my cubicle, the normal chatter and background office noise a welcome reprieve from the suffocating tension of Martin's office. The familiar hum of keyboards clicking and phones ringing felt like a protective cocoon, and I took several deep breaths to calm my racing heart.

My hands were still shaking slightly as I powered up my computer and waited for it to load, The  adrenaline from the confrontation was making it hard to focus. But underneath the stress was something else—a sense of pride that I'd stood up for myself instead of just letting him mental abuse me. Patrick would have been proud of me, I realized, and that thought made me smile despite my frazzled nerves .

As soon as my email client loaded, a notification pinged in my inbox, my heart skipped when I saw the sender's name:

---------------------------------------------------

From: Patrick Henson
To: Ashleigh Mayar
Subject: Meeting

Ms. Mayar,

As previously discussed, we will be moving forward with exploring the possibility of contracting with Nexus Creative Group. I would like to formally invite you to our office this evening at 6:00 PM to discuss the project parameters.

I imagine you know the way?

Hope to see you there.

-Patrick Henson
CEO, Cypher Tech

---------------------------------------------------

My heart hammered against my ribcage as I read the email, but underneath the excitement was a sharp stab of disappointment at how coldly professional it was. This was the same man who had whispered intimately in my ear just hours ago, who had brushed his nose against my hair like we were still teenagers. Now he was all business— the formal signatures and corporate language felt like a wall slide down between us.

I swallowed my uncertainty and typed a quick response:

---------------------------------------------------

From: Ashleigh Mayar
To: Patrick Henson
Subject: RE: Meeting

Mr. Henson,

6:00 PM works for me. And yes, I know the way.

See you then,

-Ashleigh Mayar
Junior Agent, Nexus Creative Group

---------------------------------------------------

I hesitated before hitting send, wondering if I should add something more personal, but decided to match his professional tone. Whatever game he  was playing, I could play it too.

The rest of the morning passed rather quickly with client calls and routine emails, I was surprised when Alex appeared around the corner holding today’s special a Caesar salad complete with croutons, I was grateful that it was something light. I didn’t think my stomach could handle anything heavier after such a tense morning

"Okay," she said, settling into the chair across from my desk unceremoniously, "you look like you've been through a war zone. How bad was it?"

I recounted the entire disaster from start to finish—detailing my complicated past with Patrick, the power play at Habberways, Mr. Martin's escalating inappropriate behavior, and ending with the confrontation this morning in his office. As I spoke, I watched Alex's grip on her plastic fork tighten with each detail, her knuckles turning white by the time I finished my story.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Alex's voice came out as a harsh whisper, but the intensity behind it made me flinch. She stabbed her salad with enough force to crack the plastic container. "Martin grabbed you? Put his hands on you and called you a bitch?"

"Alex," I said, glancing around nervously, "keep your voice down."

"No, I'm serious." She abandoned her lunch entirely, pressing forward with a burning fire in her brown eyes. "Ashleigh, that's assault. That's fucking assault, and then this morning he calls you a 'junior nobody'? This is sexual harassment and workplace abuse rolled into one disgusting package."

She stood up abruptly, her hands shaking as she paced the small space behind my cubicle. "I swear to God, I want to march into his office right now and tell him exactly what I think of his inappropriate power play and his power trips. That creep thinks he owns you just because he has a title."

I could see other coworkers starting to glance our way, drawn by Alex's barely contained rage. Her girlfriend Kristy worked at a law firm, and I knew Alex had learned enough about workplace harassment to recognize it when she saw it, but at this moment she was drawing attention to my cubicle. 

"You could report his ass for this," she continued, finally sinking back into her chair but still gripping her fork like a weapon. "This is bullshit, Ashleigh. He can't treat you like his personal property."

"You're right," I said, reaching across to touch her arm, trying to cool her temper before she made a rash decision that could get us both fired. "If he does anything like that again, I'll report him to HR."

She clenched her jaw, her knuckles still white around her fork. "There shouldn't be a next time, Ashleigh. You're giving that creep a free pass to do it again." Her voice dropped even lower, but the anger was still there, simmering just beneath the surface. "And what happens if you don't land this deal? You think he's just going to forget how you 'humiliated’' him in front of a client?"

I felt my stomach drop. She was right, and we both knew it. Mr. Martin wasn't the type to forgive and forget, especially when his ego was threatened.

"He'll find a way to make your life hell," Alex continued, finally setting down her fork. "Or worse, he'll find an excuse to fire you. You know how these corporate assholes work—they'll build a case against you, document every little mistake until they have enough to justify letting you go."

I didn’t want to tell her how right she was. That he had already promised the very same thing she was describing.  I'd been so caught up in the chaos of seeing Patrick again that I hadn't fully considered the professional minefield I was walking through. Once the job was over, Patrick wouldn’t be able to save me from my boss’s vindictiveness. 

Before I could answer, give her some other bullshit excuse to calm her down and get her off the topic that was drawing attention to my workspace,  she gathered her lunch container and stood up. "Just... think about what I said, okay? About Martin, about the harassment, about all of it. And be careful tonight. I don't trust any of this situation, but I do trust you to handle it."

I watched her head back to her cubicle, knowing she was right about Mr. Martin but still unsure about everything else. The afternoon stretched ahead of me like a prison sentence, every minute trudging on like a slow tedious march toward  6 PM and whatever was waiting for me in Patrick's office.

I  had tried keeping my focus on other projects, but my mind kept wandering to this evening ahead and what was in store for me. What would Patrick's office look like? Would he be the same warm, protective man from last night, or would he be all business? And underneath all those practical concerns was the question I didn't want to examine too closely: what did I want to happen?

By 5:00 PM, I was a bundle of anxious  nerves. I kept checking my reflection in my phone camera, trying to tame my hair and wishing I'd had time to go home and change. The teal shirt that had seemed professional this morning now felt wrinkled and inadequate for meeting with a CEO.

At 5:15, I gave up pretending to work and started gathering my things. I had just enough time to drive across town if traffic cooperated, but I knew I'd be cutting it close.

As I stood up to leave, Alex appeared at my cubicle. "You've got this," she said simply, giving me a quick hug. "Just remember—you belong there. Don't let anyone, including yourself, tell you otherwise."

Her words followed me to the elevator and out to my car, where I sat for a moment trying to calm my racing heart. In twenty-five minutes, I'd be sitting across from Patrick Henson again, trying to pretend I was in fact a competent professional instead of the lovesick girl who still kept the friendship bracelet he'd made me in third grade hidden in her jewelry box under her bed .

I took a deep breath, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking lot. Whatever happened tonight, there was no turning back now.

Patrick was waiting for me, and despite everything that had happened  today, I couldn't wait to see him again.