"Yeah," I say after a heavy beat, dragging a shaky hand down my face. "I'm—I'm okay. I just... I can't process all of this right now. I have to go in there and deal with the fire right in front of me first. I'll see you guys at the rehearsal, I promise."
I hang up, grab my bag, and get out of the car.
***
The receptionist doesn't want to let me up.
"Ma'am, do you have an appointment?" She says it the way someone saysma'amwhen they meanplease leave before I call security. Her name tag reads JESSICA. Huh, figures.
"I don't," I admit. "But please, I just need fifteen minutes with someone here who can help me deal with a deadline tied to an investment offer."
Jessica blinks at me like I've just asked to borrow her kidney. "Our advisors don’t take walk-ins."
"I'm not a walk-in. I'm a pop-up. There's a difference."
There is not, in fact, a difference. But hey, it's worth a shot.
She stares at me. I stare back, praying my blazer is doing enough heavy lifting to make the purple bags under my eyes read as corporate dedication instead of feral woman who drove three hours high on suppressants and a single gas station granola bar.
It probably doesn't. But hey, I'm here and I'm not leaving.
Something in my expression must communicate this, because Jessica picks up her phone, murmurs something, and then waves me toward the elevator bank with a look that saysthis is your funeral.
Fair enough.
On the forty-second floor, I'm led to a conference room that's roughly the size of my entire shop and told to wait.
So I wait, sitting in one of those ergonomic chairs and staring out the windows at a skyline.
For forty minutes.
It's a power play, obviously. I've watched enough courtroom dramas to know this. But eventually, the door opens.
An alpha strides in like the conference room was built specifically to frame his entrance. He's all slicked-back hair and tailored charcoal wool, radiating a cold, minty cologne that give my sinuses PTSD.
Posturing scent. Dominance display.
I ignore it.
"Ms. Carter." He checks his Rolex that catches the overhead light and throws a little star of reflection across the ceiling. "I'm Mr. Trent."
"Thank you for receiving me"," I say. "I know I'm not—"
"Let's cut to the chase, shall we?" he interrupts smoothly, barely glancing at me as he takes the head of the table. "I'm assuming you're here about your... what was it, flower shop? We communicated our revised terms quite clearly in the email, so I fail to see how I can be of any further assistance today."
A spike of shame flares in my chest, crawling up from my stomach. I push it down.
Come on, Beth. You built that business from the ground up. You have absolutely nothing to be ashamed of, no matter how small this guy is trying to make you feel.
"I know you did. And I'm here because I want the seventy-two-hour deadline pushed back." I hate how tight my voice sounds. I clear my throat. "Thirty days. That's all I'm asking."
Trent sighs.
It's a very expensive, very tired sigh.
"Ms. Carter." He says my name the way you'd read a footnote. "We know what you're doing."
"I know, I just told you that—"
