Page 65 of Crossing Lines

“It better be to accept, or else I’m going to have to Spice Girls dare you to do it.”

“Ugh, there’s no need to invoke something so drastic. I was going to accept after your little therapy session.”

“Thank God, and I expect to see you soon, or else…”

“I’ll be sure to hold you to thatsuper scarythreat of yours,” I say, full of sarcasm, and Elodie laughs.

“Before you go,” she says, “Aria and I wanted to surprise Stella in Berlin in a couple of weeks. We’re planning to take Aria’s jet and stay at her family’s home there. Can you make it?”

“You’re taking time off from the bakery?”

She snorts. “Well, Hunter insists I go or else he’s kidnapping me and taking me on a forced vacation.”

“I need to get myself a Hunter and force me to take vacation.”

“Too bad he doesn’t have a brother,” she says. “But are you free?”

“Yeah,” I say. “I’ll be there.”

Elodie squeals in delight, and I grin. It looks like the next couple of weeks are going to change my life in one way or another.

I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I went for a business-chic look today—tailored blazer, silk magenta blouse, black pencil skirt that hugs my curves just right—hoping it’ll make me seem like I’ve got my life together. That I’m the right person for the job.

Coughy rattles down the street on the way to Evren’s office for our meeting. With every noise it makes, I grip the steering wheel tighter, as if I can keep the car together with my bare hands. Halfway to Evren’s office, Coughy lurches, and I feel the power drain from the engine.

“No, no, no,” I mutter, panic spiking in my chest. I’m going to be late, and that’s unacceptable. I pump the gas pedal, but it’s no use. The car coasts to a stop right in the middle of the road, the engine making a sound that can only be described as a death rattle.

“Shit!” I smack the steering wheel, my pulse hammering in my ears. This can’t be happening. Not today.

Pressing my emergency lights, I fumble with my purse, searching for my phone. But no matter how many times my hand swipes through the bottom of the bag, I can’t find it. Swallowing hard, I realize it’s not here. I must’ve left it at home in my rush to get out the door after spending far too long picking out my outfit. Without my phone, I can’t inform Evren that I’ll be late or call for help or even an Uber.

My hands shake as cars blast their horn at me, as if I decided to park in the middle of the road, as if they can’t see my lights. What the fuck am I supposed to donow? It’s not like I have anyone’s number memorized if I find a random person who’s willing to let me borrow their phone. And I don’t have some bodyguards following me.

Shit.

I glance down at my heels and sigh. I’m still a couple miles from the stadium, but walking is the only option I have.

The sun blazes overhead as I start my trek, the heat bouncing off the pavement, turning it into an oven. At least it’s not raining. I guess?

Every step sends a jolt of pain up my calves, my thin heels wobbling on the uneven sidewalk. I try to keep a good pace, but the tight skirt is like a vise around my thighs, making it impossible to take long strides.

Within minutes, my feet are screaming, the blisters already forming where the leather rubs against my skin. Sweat drips down the back of my neck, soaking into my blouse, and my hair sticks to my forehead.

By the time I see Evren’s office building in the distance, my feet are on fire, and I’m practically limping. My legs tremble with each step, and every muscle in my body feels like it’s been stretched to its limit. I bite my lip, trying to push through the pain, but it’s too much. I hobble the last few steps, practically dragging myself up to the entrance.

I burst through the front doors, gasping for air. The cool blast of the air-conditioning is like a slap in the face, and I pause for a moment, letting it wash over me.

The receptionist looks up, eyebrows raised, and I say, “I’m here to see Evren.”

She gives me a once-over, and I can feel the judgment in her eyes, but she just nods and picks up the phone. “Mr. Kaya’s guest is here.”

I close my eyes for a second, willing myself to calm down. To stop the tears that threaten to fall. I can do this. I just need to pull myself together. But as I catch my reflection in the glass of the office door—disheveled hair, flushed cheeks, blouse clinging to my damp skin—I can’t help but think I’m not fooling anyone.

The receptionist nods as she listens to the phone and then glances at me once more before saying, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll bring her up.” She hangs up and says to me, “Follow me.”

I limp behind her and follow her into the elevator, through a hallway, and to the conference room. She nods toward the closed door and motions that I should enter. So, with a deep breath, I enter.

The room is all white and sleek. There’s a huge painting of the shield and S logo on the back wall, floor-to-ceiling windows on the right, and windows facing the hallway on the left.

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