Page 48 of Their Arrangement
Frosted glass.
Bronze plaque.
C. Lawlor.
I stopped.
Everything inside me did.
I hadn’t seen it since the funeral. Since the day Barron locked it and told the staff, “No one goes in. No one touches anything.”
And no one had.
Not even to remove her name.
Not even to reclaim the square footage.
I stepped closer.
Raised my hand.
Touched the edge of the plaque. My fingers trembled as they brushed the raised gold lettering. A little dull now. Faded at the corners.
Camille always hated this office. Said it was too quiet. Too far from the chaos. “You can’t flirt with a printer, babe,” she used to say. “But you can with Royal’s assistant.”
And yet—this space was hers.
Still was.
I didn’t try the handle. I already knew.
But my hand moved on its own, reaching for the keypad.
Beep. Red.
Still coded. Still sealed.
Of course.
I stepped closer and leaned my forehead gently against the frosted glass.
Not enough to see through.
Just enough to feel like I could.
The hum of air conditioning vibrated through the wall. Faint. Constant.
I wondered if the light inside still flickered. If the scarf she used to throw over her chair was still there. If her heels still sat tucked beneath the desk.
I closed my eyes.
And everything in me hurt.
The begging.
The lipstick.
The shame I kept swallowing with my coffee.
