Page 10 of Their Arrangement
My cheeks flushed. My body went hot and clammy. I felt like I was shrinking into the vinyl seat. Like I was a ghost already halfway out of the building, and no one had even needed to push.
People passed the doorway without looking in. The soft tap of expensive heels. The murmur of voices. The rhythmic clack of keys. Laughter somewhere down the hall, filtered and soft like it didn’t belong to me. Like I couldn’t ever reach it.
Isat in a world apart. No one poked their head in to check on me. No one welcomed me. No one handed me a schedule or login credentials or a flimsy plastic badge.
I had no tasks. No assignments. No guidance. Just a name taped to a monitor and a screen that refused to load.
I shifted again. My skirt rode higher. I tugged it down. It caught on the edge of the chair, dragging fabric against skin. I touched the hem like it mattered. Like it gave me control over something. But it was already as far down as it would go.
The office wasn’t quiet. It was full of noise. Phones ringing. Printers humming. Footsteps. Conversations that turned to whispers when someone important walked by.
But none of it touched me. It passed right over me. Around me. I wasn’t a part of it. I was background. I was exile.
After twenty minutes of pretending to be busy, I gave up. The screen was still spinning. The fan inside the CPU clicked twice—soft, broken. Like it was tired of trying, too.
I pushed back from the desk and stood. My knees cracked. My legs were stiff. My back ached from holding my posture like a shield. And I couldn’t sit there any longer.
I needed to breathe. Or scream. Or disappear. So I wandered. I was a ghost in kitten heels.
I drifted down the hallway like I had no weight, no anchor—just a body moving on autopilot through a world that didn’t want to acknowledge I existed. I passed glass conference rooms, each one gleaming with polished furniture and people who fit into this world with ease. Not me. I kept moving.
Marble counters. Gold-trimmed plaques. The walls were lined with magazine covers and business awards. Their name was everywhere. Their legacy encased in glass.
The Lawlor brothers in every frame.
Barron’s stare on the cover of Forbes—cold, unwavering.
Royal on GQ, grinning like he’d stolen something and dared the world to take it back.
Loyal—softer, in a way—caught in a candid photo from a charity gala. Smiling with someone who looked like they belonged.
And Wolfe?
Always in the background.
Always shadowed.
A shape just beyond the light.
And then I saw her.
The photo stopped me like a slap.
It was framed in silver. Smaller than the others. Mounted delicately in an inset alcove across from the executive elevator—subtle, easy to miss unless you knew where to look.
But I saw it.
Her.
Hair swept to one side. Shoulders bare. The sapphire gown clinging to her like it had been painted on. Her mouth wide with laughter, her eyes squinting like she couldn’t contain her joy.
Alive.
So blindingly alive it made something in my chest split open.
Camille.
Her name hit me like a breath and a blade.
