Page 106 of Not Safe for Work

“That’s very nice, Miss Malik, but I did have something else in mind.”

This time, his perusal is slow and deliberate. His eyes linger on my mouth, then my breasts, before he looks up again, and the sick realization of what he’s suggesting dawns. This fucking pervert.

“I beg your pardon?” I ask, hoping I’ve misread this.

“Come now, Miss Malik,” he says, tutting. “You’ve just finished telling me what a bright young woman you are.”

And that’s when his hand lands on my knee under the table. I freeze, my entire body seizing as it inches higher.

“I’ve seen you spending time with Gallagher’s boy,” he says. “I know you’re not shy.”

He winks, and my blood rushes so loud that white noise howls in my ears. My neck grows hot, and my stomach cramps as Paul gives me a coy smile. I think of Leo sharing that image of me and the endless parade of disgusting photos and texts that followed. Those men all thought I owed them something too.

Paul’s hand moves higher, sliding up my thigh, and that’s when I return to my body.

“Get your hands off me,” I yell because what do I have left to lose? I stand up, the chair skidding away with a screech. “You vile, despicable pig. You want me to sleep with you for the sake of the training program?”

His slimy smile oozes into raw fury. Everyone heard me, their heads spinning all the way around like funhouse clowns.

“Keep your voice down,” he hisses.

“I will not keep my voice down, you prick.” With a thwap, I toss my napkin on the table and look up to see Diane watching us with her bright red lips parted to form a circle.

“This asshole just propositioned me,” I say, pointing to him. “Is that why you invited him here?”

Her mouth opens wider and then closes. I think about what she told me in the golf cart, and I want to believe in her so badly right now. I need her to prove she didn’t mean what she said and that she won’t stand by and allow this to go unchallenged.

I need to see the woman I thought I was idolizing all these years.

Diane and Paul exchange a loaded glance.

For a moment, I witness the barest prick of worry in Paul’s expression. A slight furrow of the brows, as if he’s afraid someone will finally call him on his bullshit after a lifetime of getting away with everything.

But this is the lesson I learn right then: For some people, the status quo will always be their way.

Diane straightens, tugging on the hem of her jacket as she arranges her face into an ice sculpture. And then she, too, reaches into my chest, rips out my heart, and punts it across the room.

“Don’t overreact, Trishara. I’m sure you’re misunderstanding what Paul said.” She fixes her gaze on the slimeball cowering in his chair. “Right, Paul?”

And just like that, Paul recovers. He sits up and squares his shoulders.

No one is challenging his rightful place at the top of the food chain today, and things will be as they’ve always been. He nods as they seal their pact in blood.

Though her expression remains stoic, I’m sure I watch a tiny piece of Diane Hart float away.

“I still would very much like to nominate you for the training program, Trishara,” she adds. “Please have a seat so we can discuss it over lunch as planned.”

Our gazes meet. This is a standoff. We are the bull and his red cloth waving in the wind. We are cowboys dueling at dawn, fingers twitching on our triggers.

As she watches me, I understand this is my moment to decide. Who will I be? What will my future look like? Do I do as I’m told, shut up, sit down, pretend like nothing happened? Do I secure a spot in the training program and try to salvage this career? Or is it truly a lost cause?

No. I can’t do this. I can’t pretend I’m okay with any of this. Diane isn’t the woman I thought, and I can’t have my soul whittled away any further.

“I don’t think so,” I say. “You can take the training program and fuck off. Both of you.”

I grab my purse and stomp out of the restaurant with the weight of an entire roomful of eyes on me. As soon as I reach the door, I turn the corner and burst into tears. I sag against a wall as my heart races and my limbs shake.

I sniffle and dig into my purse for a tissue but come up empty-handed. I spot a bathroom on the far side of the lobby and scurry over, grabbing a paper towel from the dispenser. I study my tear-streaked face in the mirror. My eyes are bloodshot, and my mascara is smudged.