Page 7 of The Plus One Contract

I barely register the number as I sit at my desk, fingers skimming the trackpad, scanning through reports I should have stopped reading an hour ago.

The glow of my laptop casts a pale light across my darkened office, the only illumination now that the sun has long since disappeared behind the city skyline.

A quiet knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts. Miriam peeks inside, already bundled in her coat.

“Heading out?” I ask, rolling stiffness from my shoulders.

She nods, stepping just inside the doorway. “Just wanted to let you know the reports for the Simmons account are finished and in your inbox. Also, the quarterly review from the marketing team is on your desk.”

My gaze flicks to the perfectly stacked folders at the corner of my desk. Miriam is efficient, organized, and punctual. Exactly what I need in an assistant.

“Thanks,” I say. “I appreciate you staying late.”

She smiles lightly. “Not a problem.”

She turns to leave, then hesitates in the doorway.

“Oh, and—” She gives me a pointed look “—your mother called again.”

I drag a hand down my face, exhaustion settling into my bones. Of course she did.

“Got it,” I say, voice tight. “Thanks.”

Miriam lingers a moment longer, clearly debating if she should say something else. Then she offers a sympathetic smile and leaves, the soft click of the door echoing in the quiet room.

I sit for a moment, rubbing the back of my neck, staring at nothing.

I should ignore the calls. I know what she wants—money, favors, another demand cloaked as a request.

My jaw tightens. Memories rise unbidden, sharp and painful. Sixteen and coming home after double shifts to find my tips gone, her apology shallow. Eighteen, learning the hard way that trust was a luxury I couldn’t afford, even from family. Especially from family.

I glance again at the phone, still vibrating face-down on my desk.

I could ignore it. I should. But I also know if I don’t answer, tomorrow there will be twenty missed calls instead of twelve.

With a frustrated groan, I grab my coat and head to the elevator, hitting her number as the doors slide closed.

She answers on the second ring.

“Oh, so you do remember how to use your phone.”

I exhale slowly. Here we go. “Hello to you, too.”

“You think you’re too important for your own mother now?”

“I was working,” I say flatly.

“Right. Working.” Her tone drips disdain. “Too busy for me. What else is new?”

My jaw tightens painfully. “What do you want?”

“Simon’s car broke down.”

“Who the hell is Simon?”

“My boyfriend,” she snaps.

“I thought the last one was Mark?”

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