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Hell gets intercepted outside the conference room so I continue to my desk alone, still thinking about something Elizabeth said near the end. I’m halfway through wondering whether I should send her the historical numbers when I hear my name being called from behind me.

“Merryweather.”

I turn to see Phillip walking toward me, an iced Americano in hand. I immediately become aware that I’m holding my notebook, the promotional calendar, two folders and a pen, and my phone that won’t stop buzzing, probably from Dani texting me about coffee. And I wonder, not for the first or tenth time, if the universe has decided that every interaction I have with this man must occur when I’m carrying too many things and emotionally unprepared to say words.

“Hi.”

“Good meeting,” he says as he falls into step beside me. “You should do that more often.”

“My job?”

He laughs. “No. Talk.”

I nearly drop my things. I catch everything against my hip at the last second, which does absolutely nothing for the dignity of the moment.

“Sir, I talk.”

Phillip smiles. “Oh, I know.”

Then, before I can decide whether I’ve been complimented, insulted, or flirted with, he steps into an open elevator and winks at me as the door begins to close.

“Have a good afternoon, Merryweather.”

What the fuck does that mean?

It’s almost five when I remember the list.

Not because I’ve been thinking about it. Hell has spent the afternoon making sure I’m too busy to even hear my own thoughts.

I’m reaching into my purse for a piece of chocolate when my fingers close around the little card from the jewelry stand instead. I must have shoved it in there at some point this weekend without realizing it.

The gold earrings.

I pull out my phone. The note is exactly as I left it a few days ago.

Gold sun earrings.

And nothing underneath.

I look back at the open door to Hell’s office. She’s on a call, one hand moving as she talks, while the folders I finished revising an hour ago sit neatly stacked at the edge of her desk.

My own desk is covered in the remains of everyone else’s days. Printouts. A few sticky notes with handwritten messages on them. An email overflowing with URGENT requests, even though I know they are not.

For most of the afternoon, though, I haven’t been thinking about any of it.

I’ve been thinking about that meeting. On how it felt to be looked at and agreed with and encouraged, even when Hell has spent years making it clear that my job in those meetings is to listen, take notes, and keep my opinions to myself.

I want a promotion.

I stare at that. It should be true, and I’ve worked in this role long enough that I could easily shop around for a new role at this company, or even externally. A promotion, though, would mean more money, more responsibility, a better title, and presumably fewer folders mysteriously appearing on my chair before eight in the morning.

My thumb hovers over my phone screen. Then I delete it.

2. I want people to ask what I think.

My first instinct is to add because.

Because I know what I’m doing.