Page 65 of Cold Carnage

But still.

I didn't want that to happen with Ryker.

I couldn't afford another mistake. Not here.

I threw myself into work, trying to drown out the chaos of my thoughts. My fingers flew across the keyboard as I drafted emails, finalized press releases, and updated the social media schedule for the back-to-school event. Each task became a lifeline, anchoring me to the present and away from the tumultuous memories of Michigan and Ryker's heated gaze.

I sifted through spreadsheets, analyzing data with a precision that left no room for error. Numbers and statistics were my refuge, their cold logic a welcome distraction from the emotional storm brewing inside me. The hum of the computer was a comforting constant as I double-checked every detail, ensuring that nothing slipped through the cracks.

My office door remained shut, a barrier against interruptions. The world outside might have been spinning into chaos, but within these four walls, I maintained control. I meticulously planned each step of the PR campaign, envisioning how it would unfold and preemptively addressing any potential issues.

A stack of notes from my earlier meeting with the sponsors caught my eye. I sorted through them, organizing thoughts and ideas into actionable items. The rhythmic tap-tap of my pen on paper was almost meditative. Each line I drew across the page felt like a small victory—a reminder that I could still make order out of disorder.

As the hours ticked by, my phone buzzed with messages and calls. I answered each one with practiced professionalism, my voice steady and composed. There was no room for hesitation or doubt here; every interaction needed to be seamless.

The clock on my wall showed it was nearing seven, but exhaustion hadn't yet set in. Adrenaline fueled me as I finalized the logistics for the event—vendor contracts, guest lists, media coverage plans. Every detail mattered; there could be no room for error.

Papers littered my desk in organized chaos as I cross-referenced schedules and timelines. Each completed task felt like another step away from uncertainty. From weakness.

From Ryker.

But just as quickly as he came to mind, I pushed him away again.

This was about proving myself—to Ryker, to the team, but most importantly to myself.

I could handle this.

By the time seven thirty rolled around, I felt a deep sense of accomplishment. My desk, once a chaotic battlefield, now looked organized and efficient. I looked at my planner and everything I managed to accomplish.

Deciding it was time to head home and relax, I gathered my things. But as I stepped into the hallway, I bumped into Gideon.

"Dinner," he said. It wasn’t a command or a question.

I nodded, understanding it had to do with work.

"Do you know where Le Petit Maison is?" he asked.

I nodded again, though I'd never been there.

"Good," he said. "Meet me there. I've already called ahead."

With that, he walked away, leaving no room for further discussion.

I sighed, my stomach rumbling as if on cue. I just hoped the menu at Le Petit Maison wasn't too fancy. Fancy food always made me feel out of place, like I was pretending to be someone I wasn't.

I put the address into my phone and headed out to my car. The cool night air brushed against my skin, waking me up fromthe haze of work. Sliding into the driver's seat, I started the engine and pulled out of the parking lot.

The drive through downtown felt like a much-needed break. Streetlights cast a warm glow over the city, illuminating pockets of life as people milled about on sidewalks or chatted at outdoor cafes. The hum of my car was a comforting backdrop as I navigated through familiar streets, turning each corner with practiced ease.

The city had a rhythm to it at night—a slower, more relaxed pace compared to the daytime hustle. Traffic was light, making the drive almost therapeutic. As I passed by storefronts and neon signs, my mind drifted to thoughts of Ryker again, despite my best efforts to push them away.

His intensity lingered in my thoughts like a shadow I couldn't shake. The way he looked at me—half judgmental, half something else—gnawed at me more than I'd like to admit.

But tonight wasn’t about Ryker; it was about work. And food. Hopefully food that I actually wanted to eat. Like a burger. Or a hot dog.

I turned onto a quieter street, following the GPS directions to Le Petit Maison. The restaurant came into view, its elegant façade bathed in soft light. I parked and took a deep breath before stepping out of the car, smoothing down my outfit. It wasn't exactly fancy, but since my clothes were professional, it would work.

As I approached the entrance, I caught a glimpse of my reflection in the glass doors—determined but tired eyes staring back at me. Pushing through the doors, I was greeted by the soft murmur of conversations and the clinking of silverware against plates.

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