Lyla Monroe
“Jonathan,” I hissed, grabbing his arm and pulling him away from the front desk. “I told you not to come here! What the hell are you doing here?”
He looked me over, eyes wide, mouth slightly open, like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. And then, deadpan, he said it.
“Why the hell do you look like this?”
I froze. I knew what he meant. The oversized glasses, the black wig tangled over my face, the mismatched lipstick, the brown cardigan swallowing my frame. I looked like I belonged in a thrift store clearance bin, not the lobby of Steele Enterprises.
“That’s not important,” I muttered, crossing my arms. “I work here. Please leave. This is not the place for this.”
But Jonathan stepped closer, lowering his voice. “You need to go back.”
I scoffed. “No. Obviously, I’m not going back. Why would I? This is my life now.”
He let out a disbelieving chuckle. “Girl, this? This is not your life.”
“It is,” I said firmly. “This is where I work. This is what I do. This is who I am now.”
Jonathan didn’t budge. His jaw clenched, and he stared at me with those same sharp eyes I’d grown up resenting.
“Your father told me to find you because you stopped picking up his calls,” he said. “And I found you. You need to go home.”
My chest tightened. I looked around, panicked, as people walked past. I stepped in front of Jonathan, lowering my voice. “No. I will not go back to that man. I don’t even want to be associated with him. Please. Just understand that.”
Jonathan didn’t argue. He just stood there, breathing heavy, his hands balled into fists at his sides.
Then—my phone rang.
LUCA STEELE.
I winced.
“Damn it,” I muttered, already backing away. “I have to go. Jonathan, please, just leave me alone. And don’t tell my father you got a hold of me.”
He didn’t respond, but I couldn’t wait. I turned and power-walked out of the lobby, my heels clicking like rapid-fire across the marble floor.
I made my way two blocks down to Delucci’s, Luca’s go-to sandwich shop. It was this old brick deli tucked between a bank and a pharmacy—one of those places you’d walk past if you didn’t know what to look for. But Luca loved it. Specifically, he loved his sandwich.
A toasted sourdough panini, double turkey, provolone cheese, arugula, no tomato, light mustard—not too much. Cut diagonally. Not across.
And his drink: a double shot of espresso, three cubes of ice, splash of oat milk. Never almond. Never soy.
I placed the order like I’d done a hundred times. The cashier didn’t even ask anymore.
“Steele special?”
“Yeah,” I nodded. “Same time, same way.”
Lunch bag in hand, I checked my watch.
12:48 p.m.
Perfect.
I hurried back through the revolving doors and up to the 25th floor. The moment I stepped out of the elevator, I could feel the tension again—stares, whispers, the silent weight of not belonging. I ignored it all and walked straight into Luca’s office.
He was typing, eyes locked on his screen.
I placed the lunch bag gently on his desk, exactly 12:59.
Right on time.
He didn’t speak. Just looked up slowly, his gaze falling on the sandwich, then flicking up to me.
Not admiration. Not surprise. Just… something like recognition.
Like he knew I didn’t have to ask. Like maybe he was finally starting to notice that I knew him better than most.
Still, he said nothing.
He opened the bag, took out the sandwich, checked the diagonal cut, and gave a small, almost imperceptible nod.
“Between six and seven,” he said suddenly, “I want you to—”
“Fries. Kebab. And a bouquet of red tulips for your mother,” I finished before he could.
He paused. His eyes narrowed, just slightly.
Then he leaned back, folding his hands together. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I mean.”
He dismissed me with a flick of his hand.
I turned, holding onto the smallest sliver of pride I had left, and left his office.
When I reached the cafeteria, it was already packed. Voices echoed. Laughter buzzed. No one made eye contact with me.
I stood with my tray for a few seconds, scanning for an open seat, but it was clear—I wasn’t welcome. People shifted away, looked down at their phones, got up when I got close.
I walked out.
Found my way back to the bathroom stall—the one I cried in that morning. Locked the door behind me and sat.
Balancing my tray on my lap, I took a small bite of my cold sandwich. It tasted like cardboard. Or maybe I just couldn’t taste anything over the knot in my throat.
I pulled out my phone, just to distract myself. To scroll. To breathe. But what I saw made me freeze.
1 New Email – From: Carter Kingsley
I stared at it. No subject. Just the name. My blood turned cold.
How the hell did he get my work email?
