Page 18 of The Sexy Ex's Brother
By the time I step into the office the next morning, something feels off. I’m dressed in head-to-toe black, not the crisp, purposeful kind I wear when I want to feel in control, but the kind you throw on when you don’t want anyone to look too closely. My blouse is loose, untucked at the hem, and my blazer’s a size too big, borrowed from the back of the closet. I didn’t bother with lipstick, just concealer under my eyes and the same nude gloss I wear when I don’t have the energy to pretend I slept. Even my heels feel loud today, like they’re announcing how unsteady I am with every step.
The energy in the office mirrors it. It’s more watchful. Like everyone is waiting for something to shift. The air buzzes with fluorescent light and the sterile stillness of a company not quite awake, but it’s something else too. There’s a heaviness I can’t quite name. A subtle shift I try to dismiss, but it clings to everything, the guarded glances, the cautious footsteps, the undercurrent of something unspoken. Maybe it’s the day. Maybe it’s me, dragging too much of last night into a place that only knows how to polish the surface.
I swipe my badge and step into the elevator. My reflection in the mirrored walls looks like someone I almost recognize, hairtwisted into a bun, lips pressed together, posture too upright. A version of me built for endurance, not ease.
When the elevator doors open, I don’t head straight to my desk. Instead, I duck into the bathroom. I lean against the sink, staring at my reflection. I wet a paper towel, dab it beneath my eyes. The concealer’s already caking. I smooth it out with a fingertip and pull in a breath that doesn’t quite reach my chest.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. A message from Sienna:Did you sleep?
I type:Barely. You okay?
Her reply is instant:You’re the one I’m worried about. Call me later.
I promise I will, even though I’m not sure when I’ll have the nerve to speak the things I still can’t quite name. I walk slowly down the corridor toward my office, my heels clicking against the polished concrete. I pass the marketing pod, nodding at a few team members who glance up but don’t say anything. At my desk, I shrug off my coat, drape it over the back of my chair, and power on my monitor. The screen’s glow feels too bright, too stark. I blink against it and sip the coffee I picked up on the walk here, lukewarm now, bitter, but I swallow it anyway.
I’m barely settled when Brianna, our senior account manager, pokes her head into my office.
“Hey, just a heads-up, Jack moved the client pitch to noon instead of two. He wants your insight on the visuals, and he wants them... soon.”
I blink at her. “Okay. Thanks. I’ll pull the deck and adjust the copy.”
She smirks. “You’re a saint. I’d throw coffee at him.”
I give her a half-smile and sit down, pulling up the file. The logo stares back at me like it knows what kind of night I had.
I take a sip of coffee. My hand shakes as I reach for my mouse. I curse under my breath, shove my phone in the drawer, and try to focus.
Across the room, I hear Jack’s voice, measured, low, focused. He’s on the phone, pacing behind the glass wall of his office. I glance up and catch a flicker of him, shirt sleeves rolled to his forearms, phone pressed to his ear, brow drawn. He doesn’t glance over. I don’t have to see him to know he’s there. I feel him in the air, like gravity pulling at the space between us. Like the space between us is louder than words.
By the time the meeting starts, I’ve redone the presentation and even added a few new slides I hadn’t planned to. We file into the conference room, Jack, two junior execs, and me. He sits beside me. Too close.
Close enough that when he leans in to murmur, “Nice work on slide ten,” I catch the scent of his cologne and lose my next thought completely.
I turn my head slightly. “Thanks. You’ll make the interns cry if you rearrange another timeline last minute.”
He gives the faintest smile. “Noted.”
The lights dim slightly as the presentation begins. Jack starts us off with a confident, measured introduction. "Thank you all for coming. What we’re showing you today is more than a campaign, it’s a direction." His voice is calm, magnetic, deliberate. I watch the clients lean in.
When he clicks to slide three, he glances at me, and I take the cue.
“This concept centers on redefining legacy,” I say, standing and motioning to the screen. “Your brand is rooted in heritage, but your audience is looking for more than nostalgia. They want relevance. They want reflection.”
A woman near the head of the table nods. “You’re speaking our language.”
Slide ten, the one Jack praised, fills the screen. A split image of old-world craftsmanship juxtaposed with sleek modern packaging. It’s the one I almost deleted last night, thinking it might be too on-the-nose.
I keep going. “We’re not asking consumers to choose between trust and innovation. We’re giving them both.”
When I finish, there’s a brief pause. Then a man in a navy suit leans forward. “This is clean, smart, and it feels like us without sounding like everyone else.”
The rest of the meeting moves quickly. Questions, clarifications, Jack answering a few metrics queries with his usual steel-edged finesse.
When we wrap, Jack stands and offers his hand to the woman who first nodded. “We’ll follow up with the next-phase timeline by Monday.”
She smiles. “Looking forward to it.”
As they leave, I glance around the table. The interns are quietly exhaling. Jack meets my gaze and gives the smallest, most private nod. Like we just did something bigger than a pitch.
