Chapter 1 

Sariah

The NovaRise all-hands meeting is exactly as painful as I expected. An overlong slide deck in an over-chilled conference space, filled with the over-caffeinated and underqualified. Rows of sleek black chairs line the amphitheater-style room, everyone angled toward the front where some poor intern is fumbling the remote for the fourth time. The overhead fluorescents buzz just loud enough to make me question whether the migraine blooming behind my left eye is from stress or slow internal combustion.

The CEO, of course, is nowhere to be seen—because Charles Bennett Sr. never shows up for these. He sends one of his silver-haired proxies in a pristine blazer, all veneers and power stances, who smiles too wide and talks about "brand vitality" like she invented the term. Somewhere in the back, someone has forgotten to mute themselves on the Zoom feed, and now we’re all treated to the soothing ambiance of microwave popcorn and what might be a toddler’s emotional collapse.

I don’t flinch. I just cross my legs at the ankle, adjust my skirt, and keep typing with one hand while the other clutches a rapidly cooling black coffee. My inbox is a jungle. My Trello board looks like it’s been cursed by a vengeful ghost. My to-do list includes three fire drills, one passive-aggressive calendar hold from Gideon, and a lingering task labeled “review Kristen’s pitch deck,” which I now joyfully delete without remorse.

After that… it happens.

Kristen Bellamy strolls into the room fifteen minutes late, her glossy smile unapologetic—and she’s wearing his hoodie.

Not a hoodie that looks like his. His. The one with the faded collar and subtle bleach mark on the right cuff, just below the zipper. The one Langston used to toss over my shoulders when I worked late. The one that smelled like bergamot and wood smoke and always made me feel—God help me—safe.

She’s wearing it now. On purpose. Casual, like she doesn’t know exactly what she’s doing. Like it doesn’t still smell like betrayal and bedtime promises broken before sunrise.

I press my lips into a thin line. I don’t look away. Don’t blink. Just raise my chin a fraction, daring her to come closer.

She doesn’t. She just flips her hair, tugs the hoodie off with performative flair, and drapes it over the back of her chair like it’s just another curated piece in her Stepford-influencer wardrobe.

The presentation drones on. Revenue projections. Market shifts. A slide with animated dollar signs that bounces in a way that should be illegal. My fingers hover over my trackpad as I open Slack on autopilot, just to give my brain something else to focus on.

That’s when the universe decides to launch a grenade directly into my face.

A notification pings in the upper corner of my screen. Kristen Bellamy—because of course it’s Kristen. She has just reacted with a red heart emoji to an archived Slack post from nearly four months ago.

Langston’s post. The one where he announced, publicly and cheerfully, that we’d moved in together.

The heart lands like a gunshot. Bold. Bright. Pulsing with digital smugness.

For half a second, I hope it’s a mistake. Maybe she meant to use the thumbs-up. Or the laugh reaction. Anything but the heart.

But no. It sits there, loud and unapologetic, while the Slack thread lights up like the comment section of a breakup blog.

“Oh my god, I thought they broke up?”
“Didn’t she cry in the stairwell last quarter?”
“Wait… is Kristen dating Langston now???”
“Yikes. Cold-blooded.”

The walls of the conference room are glass. Transparent. Nowhere to hide. I’m seated dead center, lit up by the projector glare of a PowerPoint slide labeled: “Project Elevate: Scaling Engagement Through Synergy.”

Of course. The irony could kill a person.

Across the room, Kristen meets my eyes and gives me a soft, sweet smile. Almost bashful. It’s the kind of smile a girl gives after “accidentally” ordering the wrong dessert and deciding to eat both. Innocent. Unbothered. Infuriating.

I don’t move. Don’t flinch. But something inside me cracks like the surface of a frozen lake. The rest of the presentation blurs into meaningless sound, like a podcast I forgot to pause but can’t bring myself to turn off. A chorus of buzzwords—disruption, nimble strategy, and brand agility dances across the screen, while my brain runs a full marathon behind my perfectly composed face.

I know exactly how this will go. Gideon is probably already opening a new tab to draft something clever for the internal memo chain. Kristen will claim it was an honest mistake. HR will schedule a check-in. People will pretend to care.

The whispers will spread like wildfire. Because they always do when blood hits the water. I keep my eyes on the stage, where someone from Business Ops is now doing jazz-hands while explaining a pipeline tracker. It’s so ridiculous, so aggressively corporate, I almost laugh.

Almost.

Instead, I drain the last of my coffee—cold and bitter. Set the paper cup neatly on the armrest. Uncross my legs. Stand without rushing. Smooth my hands over the front of my jewel-toned midi dress with practiced grace.

Without thinking, planning, or breathing—I say it.

“Actually… I’m seeing someone.” The words snap through the air like a live wire.

Laptops slam shut. Bags shift. People pause mid-conversation. Kristen’s hand, halfway raised in a wave to someone at the back, stops cold.

I keep my tone smooth. My chin high.

“It’s new,” I add, calmly. “But it’s really nice.”

The delivery is polished, the kind of line I reserve for brand launches or media interviews. Measured. Unshakeable. Dangerous.

Delaney, bless her entire soul, appears beside me with the calm of a woman who’s seen a fire start and decided she might as well grab a marshmallow.

Her brow arches. Her lips twitch. Then she leans in, voice low.

“If you’re about to throw hands, blink twice and I’ll go grab my hoops.”

I let the silence stretch. One beat. Two. Three. Delaney’s sharp inhale is audible. But she recovers like the pro she is. A slow, feline grin spreads across her face as she flips her notebook closed.

“Good,” she says, too brightly. “About time.”

The lie becomes real.

Or real enough.

A hush follows, the kind that always comes right before the buzz kicks in. Gideon, of course, is the first to recover. He leans against the wall, smirk blooming like mildew on marble. His gaze flicks between Kristen and me, already storing this moment for whatever petty weaponry he needs later.

Kristen doesn’t move, but her posture shifts—subtly, like a house of cards adjusting for wind. The hoodie looks less like a power move now, more like armor.

Then someone claps. One solitary, slow clap from the guy in analytics who once invited everyone to his improv show. Nervous laughter follows. And instantly, my narrative has legs.

Delaney grabs my elbow and ushers me out of the room like I’m an unstable celebrity in need of fresh air.

In the hallway, I yank my arm free. “I’m fine.”

“Who?” she hisses. “You’re seeing someone? Since when? Who?”

I don’t look at her. I scroll through my phone with forced nonchalance, pretending to read a nonexistent text from a boyfriend who doesn’t exist.

“Just trust me.”

She narrows her eyes. “I do. I just don’t trust you not to combust under pressure. Which you are clearly doing. With excellent posture, but still.”

Regret claws at my throat. It comes fast and tight, like a collar I didn’t realize I was wearing. My brain cycles through potential fixes, half-formed exit strategies, and all the PR-grade damage control I can muster.

But the truth is simple. No plan. No boyfriend. No way out. What the hell did I just do?

The walk back to my office is its own kind of stage performance. Each step is deliberate. Measured. The sharp click of my heels against tile echoing like punctuation. I pass open doors, catch stares both curious and cautious, offer nods that say everything is fine even though it clearly isn’t.

I don’t flinch. My expression stays smooth. Controlled. I’ve trained for this kind of crisis—just not this exact one.

My office, a corner cube with floor-to-ceiling windows, waits like a sanctuary of glass and steel. The view stretches out over the Chicago River, glittering and indifferent.

I close the door behind me with a gentle click and exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for weeks.

Then I sit down at my desk, open a blank doc, and type furiously for five straight minutes. Not actual words. Not anything I’ll keep. Just noise. Motion. Proof of life.

Outside, the city hums. Traffic pulses below. A boat drifts through the water like it has somewhere much more reasonable to be.

My phone buzzes.

Delaney: Who is he? Is he hot? Please tell me he’s hot.

I peer at the screen. Then flip the phone face down. In the window’s reflection, I see a woman who looks calm. Professional. Untouchable. But my stomach churns.

The lie is alive now. It has legs. It has an audience. It has momentum.

I know exactly what I did. And not a single damn clue how to fix it.