Page 69 of Their Arrangement

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Now the columns glared back at me. The cells multiplied. The numbers doubled.

I blinked.

No change.

Still two of everything.

Someone passed behind me.

Heels—easy, confident, composed. They clicked like punctuation marks.

I didn’t look up.

But I heard it.

The breath. The pause.

Then the whisper.

“She’s really still wearing it.”

A second voice, lower, amused. “Did you see the skirt? I bet there’s nothing under it.”

“Oh, there’s something under it,” the first voice shot back. “Wolfe Lawlor’s permission.”

Laughter.

Soft.

Effortless.

Cruel.

I clicked too hard into the next cell. The field autofilled. Wrong. Backspace. Backspace. Missed the key. Mouse slipped. I gripped it tighter. Too tight.

My eyes stung.

Camille would’ve laughed.

Would’ve told me to kick off the shoes and walk barefoot like I owned the floor.

“If you’re going to wear something that screams sex,” she once said, “you might as well moan while you do it.”

But Camille was gone.

And I was still here.

Pretending this was fine.

Pretending I could still breathe.

Ping.

Inbox.

Loyal.

Subject: Update?

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