Page 8 of Trail of Betrayal
A micro-expression flashes and vanishes—blink, jaw set, hand tightening on the desk edge. He covers it with a soft laugh. “You and Isabella? That’d be... a sight. But babe, you know how I feel about her. Woman drives me crazy.”
“Same,” I say lightly. “She brings out my competitive side. I want to understand what makes her tick.”
He toys with the seam of his tie—small, compulsive. “She’s not really a ‘let’s hang out after hours’ type.” His tone hovers somewhere between dismissal and plea.
“She’ll come if you ask.” I meet his eyes. “You’re good at convincing people, remember?”
For a second, the room stills. His smile falters just enough to register before he straightens, forcing ease back into his posture. “Who else, then?”
“Elise,” I say. “She’ll balance the table. Keeps things civilized.”
He nods too quickly. “Right. Elise.” His gaze flickers toward the credenza, toward the almonds, maybe, or just away from me. A bead of sweat glints near his hairline, but it’s so faint I could pretend it’s the light.
“I’ll ask Isabella,” he says finally, voice steady but one notch lower. “If it’s what you want.”
“It’s exactly what I want.”
The words drop between us, quiet but final. He reaches for his phone again, typing something—too careful, too slow.
I stand, smoothing my skirt, and let my shadow stretch across his desk. “Friday night. Seven. Somewhere nice. Not too obvious.”
He gives a tight nod. “Got it.”
At the door, I glance back. “Looking forward to it.” This time, my smile feels real. He catches it and, for a split second, I see confusion flicker with admiration—and something sharper underneath.
When I step into the hallway, the noise swells back in: phones ringing, laughter in the kitchen, the faint clack of heels on tile. Behind the glass, Lawrence is already back at his desk, pretending to work, pretending not to think about what just happened.
Nobody notices the quiet war that started in his office. But I feel it with every step.
By the time I reach the elevator, my pulse has steadied.
Checkmate. Opening move.
I know Lawrence said he’d ask Isabella to hang out for dinner, but I just couldn’t help myself. I’d rather catch her off guard, before Lawrence can slide in with one of his sweeping undertones ofYou’re already busy Friday night, right? You are? Shucks, I tried, V.
Most people avoid Isabella’s office unless forced. The décor alone is a warning: walls plastered with mood boards and color swatches taped at random, the sour-citrus bite of overbrewed coffee mixing with the ozone stink of her high-speed printer.Where my area is silent and clean, hers hums, every surface layered in drafts, proofs, the shed skin of a thousand abandoned products.
I find Isabella exactly how I expect to. One AirPod in, laptop balanced on a heap of pre-press samples, her left hand conducting silent commentary as her junior team stumbles through a pitch on Teams. She doesn’t see me at first, so I watch her work: the micro-pauses, the silentare you fucking kidding me?raised eyebrow, the way she scrolls her phone while making the intern believe he still has her full attention. Ruthless, I think. Almost admirable.
When the call ends, she pivots immediately—all composure and perfect teeth. "Veronica! To what do I owe this pleasure?" Her voice is bright, but her body’s still braced for impact.
"Just wanted to grab you for a minute," I say. "Nothing urgent. And," I glance at the junior staff, who scatter under my gaze, " preferably in private."
She ends the call and crosses one leg over the other, her skirt riding up just enough to project power. Her nails are painted in a French fade, and she’s wearing a necklace I’ve only ever seen in Vogue editorials.
"So?" she says.
I mirror her posture. "I was talking to Lawrence this morning. We’re putting together a little work outing. Friday night."
The smile doesn’t slip, but her knuckles whiten around the pen she’s been twirling. "Work outing," she repeats, the syllables stretched thin as cellophane.
"Elise from strategy is coming with me," I say, as if it’s the most natural pairing in the world. "Thought you might enjoy a break from the grind. You and Lawrence have been practically living at Westfield when he’s not working on Bedder."
She gives a soft laugh, all breath, no conviction. "Lawrence and I don’t really… hang out. Outside of work, I mean. He’s pretty private."
I let my own laugh slip, low and complicit. "That’s what he says about you. I guess I wanted to see what the chemistry’s like off the clock." I hold her gaze, watch it flicker, recalibrating.
"Where are we going?" she asks, then regrets it in the way her voice tightens, like she’s caught herself leaning in.
