Page 90 of The Truth of Us

Liar.

I knew smug when I heard it. So, by Thursday, I stopped calling and simply showed up.

That felt more productive, like maybe my charm worked better in person.

It did not.

Timothy’s office was best described as bland beige, like oatmeal trying to be fancy. Glass walls, a clean, minimal desk, and one plant that looked fake but apparently was not. Oh, and let’s not forget, a framed certification hung on the wall like he wanted people to know he had credentials beyond irritating me. He sat behind his desk with his hands folded, wearing a charcoal suit that matched his stupid glasses and the expression of a man who had read every email from Harper, saved them in colour-coded folders, and likely slept well at night because he had never destroyed a woman who showed up for him.

I hated him.

“Do you need me to go over the Northwell documents again, or perhaps we can talk through some options for your PR plan,” he said.

“I don’t want the documents, and I sure as fuck don’t need you telling me how to improve my image.”

“Then, unfortunately, I’m not sure what I can do for you.”

“I want Harper.” The words came out before I could make them sound less pathetic.

Timothy’s expression shifted. Not enough for most people to notice. I noticed. A small flicker of satisfaction spread across his face. You cannot wipe that look off his face, Elliot…

“Ms. Lane is not available.”

“She is to you.” I rebutted.

He leaned back slightly. “Even if I had a way to contact her outside professional channels, which I am not confirming, I would not provide that information to you.”

“Why?” I asked and was trying really hard not to run my hands through my hair in exasperation or throw my phone at the man behind the desk.

“Because she did not give me permission to.” He replied with a smug little look on his stupid face.

“Come on.” I pushed away from the chair and paced once across the room. “I’m not asking for her bank records, just her phone number.”

“You’re asking for access to someone who has made it clear she does not want to give it to you.”

That line particularly hurt, so I ignored it and doubled down on the stupid in the room, “I’ll pay you.”

Timothy blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Name your price.”

“Mr. Vale.”

“What do you need? A vacation, promotion, or maybe a better office. Whatever you want.” I said, and at this point, my hands may have been flailing a little.

He stared at me as if I had just stripped naked and started reciting poetry. “You are attempting to bribe me?”

“I’m attempting to solve a problem.” I corrected, because how had this gone so bad? I dealt with people for a living; I was the charm, the face of Northwell.

“You are the problem,” he replied.

My jaw flexed, and Timothy’s eyes widened slightly, like he knew he had gone too far.

Maybe he had a survival instinct after all.

My gaze dropped to his phone when it lit up on the desk. A message, but he turned the screen face down before I could read it, and suddenly every rational thought in my head evaporated.

“Is that her?”