Page 8 of Their Arrangement
The elevator dinged.
I stepped out onto the same floor where I’d been humiliated less than twenty-four hours earlier—and the air felt colder.
It wasn’t just in my head. The lights seemed dimmer. The marble under my heels sharper. The silence heavier. Like the whole building had shifted itself one inch farther from me, like it had decided I didn’t belong and was now adjusting accordingly.
I clutched my bag tighter to my side, my knuckles whitening. My heels scuffed softly against the polished floor, not bold enough to echo like they had yesterday. I didn’t want to be heard this time. I just wanted to survive the next eight hours without bleeding all over someone’s designer carpet.
Today I wore the nicest thing I owned before last night. An off-white blouse that wrinkled no matter how many times I ironed it, with a seam that puckered awkwardly under my right shoulder blade. A navy pencil skirt that clung too tightly to my hips, climbing higher with every step.
The elastic in my stockings was tired. I could already feel itgiving up on the left side. But there was nothing left to replace it with. I couldn’t afford another run. Couldn’t afford another mistake.
Not after yesterday.
Not after what I said to Barron. What Wolfe had seen in my face. What I offered—whether I meant to or not.
I reached the reception desk and forced a breath into my lungs. The receptionist today was different. Younger. Polished.Cold.
She glanced up from her screen with the exact kind of precision that made it clear she’d been trained not to smile unless necessary.
Her foundation was matte. Her liner perfect. Her bun flawless. She didn’t offer a hello.
“Name?” she asked.
“Cloe Woods.”
She blinked once. No flicker of recognition. She typed my name like she was logging a complaint.
“New hire?”
The way she said it made it obvious she didn’t believe me.
I nodded anyway, trying to sound steadier than I felt. “Intern, I think. I’m supposed to be meeting with…”
I trailed off.
Because the truth was—I didn’t know. No one told me who I’d be reporting to. No welcome email. No folder. No first-day checklist.
I was a stray someone had let in through the side door, and now everyone was pretending not to see the dirt on my shoes.
The woman typed something else. Her nails clicked against the keys with tiny, deliberate stabs.
“Go through,” she said. “Office C. Third on the right.”
That was all.
No badge. No instructions.
Just adirection.
I mumbled a thank-you and turned, heels wobbling slightly as I moved.
The hallway looked even longer than it had yesterday. The walls were too white. The light too bright. The air too clean. It felt like a hospital pretending to be a jewelry empire.
I passed two glass offices—each one sleek, occupied, silent. I didn’t look too closely. I didn’t want to see who was inside. I didn’t want to see who was watching me.
I stopped in front of Office C.
It wasn’t an office.
