Page 67 of Babies for the Big Shot
I’ve already raised my voice twice today. Once at Jonah. Once at myself, internally, which is less productive.
None of it is occupying my attention.
Because I can’t stop thinking abouther.
The woman I should have walked away from the moment the elevator doors opened. The one I shouldn’t have touched, shouldn’t have pursued, shouldn’t have let in.
And yet…
She’s still in my head.
Still under my skin.
Still inhabiting every room I enter, even when she isn’t there.
She’s not far. Just down the hall.
In a conference room with her department, leading a presentation she wasn’t technically asked to lead.
She’s efficient. Unshakably composed.
She listens more than she speaks, but when she does speak, the room pays attention. Her questions are precise. Her notes are thorough. She’s already rewritten half the onboarding decks, corrected errors in a campaign that wasn’t assigned to her, and, according to Emily, knows every intern by name.
She smiles at everyone.
Except me.
Not that I blame her, I’m the one who drew the line, the one who decided, without consultation or courtesy, to sever the connection as if it hadn’t meant anything.
As if it hadn’t been the most vivid moment I’ve experienced in years.
It’s been a week.
Seven days of avoidance.
Seven days of not texting her. Not calling. Not saying a word that might undo the damage I inflicted by saying nothing at all.
I’ve drafted messages… too many. Deleted them all. They never said what I meant. Or they said too much.
She deserves clarity. I’ve given her silence.
I’m in the middle of writing another apology I won’t send when the knock comes.
“Package for you, Mr. Ashford.” The voice is young. Male. Possibly one of the new summer interns.
I don’t look up. Just nod once. The envelope lands on my desk.
No return label. No sender.
That makes me pause.
I open it, expecting a vendor sample or a pitch from an overzealous agency.
It’s not.
It’s a photograph.
One glossy 5x7. Studio-grade stock. Professional print.
