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St. Clair is not in his office. He’s standing next to my empty desk, his face frozen in harsh lines, inspecting a piece of paper.
I force myself to take the steps forward. My heels echo with each painful step, and it doesn’t sound smart or fierce. It sounds ominous.
When I reach the desk, St. Clair looks over at me. His eyes are flat blue. “You weren’t at your desk.”
“I was heating my lunch.” I raise my falafel wrap up as proof.Here, Judge. Exhibit A.
His gaze drops to it and he frowns.
“Is there anything you need, sir?” I ask, because the best defense is a good offense.
“There is no lettuce on my sandwich.” He flips the paper he’s holding over. A copy of my newly minted resume, swiped from my desk. “What is this, Miss Myers?”
The backs of my thighs hit the hard edge of my desk. “My resume.”
“I can see that. Are you planning on leaving Exciteur?”
It’s been a while since I was on the receiving end of his gaze. That much intensity isn’t meant to be directed at one person. Ever.
“I’m considering it,” I murmur, and brace for the worst.
It doesn’t come.
St. Clair’s eyes narrow in thought and he sweeps his gaze over me, from head to toe, in a way he never has before. He puts my resume down on my desk and gives me a long, final look. It sends a shiver down my spine.
“Interesting,” he says.
He heads toward his office. The door shuts with finality and I release a shaky breath. Across the hallway, Mason is staring at me with wide eyes.
What the hell do I do now?
* * *
The other shoe doesn’t drop the day after. Or the day after that. St. Clair continues to send me emails with no content, only orders typed as efficiently as possible into the subject line.
Push my four o’clock meeting.
Reschedule my Denver flights.
Still, I can’t believe my idiocy. To leave my resume out on my desk, amongst my other papers… I almost deserve to be fired. But still, I hope he doesn’t. Not only because I need this job and the money it provides, or that being fired will make it harder to find a new one.
But because I still haven’t lasted a year, as the timer on my desktop likes to remind me, and beating that shiny, ticking little thing has become a life goal. Two weeks left, and then I'll have worked a full year for Victor St. Clair. I suppose my life will feel empty afterwards, meaningless, even. What do I do when I'm not fighting a war with my boss that he doesn't even know he's in?
Victor likes to work undisturbed for a few hours every afternoon. Any meetings I can delegate, I do. Any conference calls that are not strictly speaking necessary, I decline. So I’m confused when he calls me into his office at five p.m. on Friday.
I know he's not close to slowing down. A Friday afternoon means nothing to St. Clair. I’ve lost count of the weekends I’ve spent working, helping St. Clair with projects, booking obscure plane tickets, sorting out his calendar.
I push back my chair and straighten my pencil skirt. Glance at Mason's empty desk. He’s left, because Eleanor didn't require him to stay longer. She cares about employee satisfaction.
I wonder what that feels like.
Victor is sitting at his desk, back straight, eyes on his computer.
"Sir?"
"Have a seat, Myers.”
Nerves dance in my stomach, but I do as he says, sitting down on the chair opposite his desk. "I'm sorry.”
