The morning after was a special kind of hell. Lina woke to a violent pounding in her temples, as if a tiny, vengeful god had taken up residence in her skull and was now redecorating with a sledgehammer. The last clear memory was of clinking glasses and warm laughter in the private dining room. How she'd gotten home was a blank, chalked-up spot in her mind.
How the hell did I get home?
She dismissed the question with a wince, hauled herself upright, the movement sending fresh bolts of pain through her temples. Vow: never again. Never fucking drink again. Ever.
She somehow managed to drag herself through a shower and pulled on a simple white tank top and a denim skirt. She swept her hair into a ponytail, neat and tight. The moment she stepped into the Aurum Scents lobby, the atmosphere felt… sticky. It wasn't just the usual morning grogginess. As she walked through the building, she felt eyes. Not the casual glances of coworkers, but loaded looks, quick shifts of attention, whispered conversations that died the second she got near. Something was off.
She forced a bright smile at David from Marketing as he approached, trying to brush it off. "Morning!"
He looked directly through her, his gaze sliding past her face as if she were a pane of invisible glass, and continued walking without a word.
Huh. What the fuck?
A cold trickle of dread, sharper than the hangover, dripped down her spine. What the hell is going on? The blank spot in her memory now felt less like a mercy and more like a trap. Her mind, still tender from the wine, began to spin frantic, awful scenarios. Had she made a scene at the Luxe? God, had she said something awful? What exactly had she done yesterday? No. Breathe. You're being paranoid. Head down, she hurried to her office. She could hide there, drink a gallon of water, and piece this whole shits together.
She pushed open the door and her breath caught.
The sight was so utterly wrong it took her brain a full five seconds to process it. A man she didn't recognize was packing her things—her leather-bound notebook, her wooden tray of essential oils and scent strips, her parents' frame—into a cardboard box. Her laptop was gone. Her chair was gone. Her desk was clear.
"What… what are you doing?" The words came out thin and high. "What is this?"
The man barely glanced at her. "Office reassignment. Just following orders, Miss Johnson."
"Reassignment?" The word felt foreign and threatening. "Orders? What orders? I wasn't informed. Who authorized this?"
The man merely shrugged, a practiced corporate non-expression. "Mr. Hayes asked to see you the moment you arrived. You're to go to his office immediately."
Carter's orders. The floor seemed to drop out from under her. Sacked. Sacked. I'm being fucking sacked. The hangover nausea surged, mixed now with pure, undiluted panic. This was it. The drunken catastrophe had cost her everything. Yesterday's black hole wasn't just cringe; it was career-ending. What the fuck happened yesterday?
But Carter wanted to see her. Immediately. A fragile, desperate hope flickered. Maybe she could explain. Maybe she could beg. It was Carter. He was kind. And softhearted. He'd understand. There had to be a chance.
Hope, desperate and slippery, took hold. She rushed to the elevator, her heart pounding a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She watched the numbers climb with a detached horror, her mind a blank, white static. She burst out of the doors before they were fully open and power-walked to the imposing door of Carter's office.
She stood before it, her palm sweaty. How did one walk into the room where your career was about to end? Tears? Defiance? Groveling?
She decided on groveling. Maybe utter humility would spark mercy.
She knocked.
"Come in."
She opened the door, but instead of walking in, she dropped to her knees and shuffled forward into the room on them.
Carter was behind his desk, reviewing a document. He saw the door open to an empty space. "Huh?"
He raised his head slightly and found her. Lina Johnson, on her knees, crawling into his office like a penitent monk seeking absolution.
"Lina," he said, his voice a mix of shock and disbelief. "What the hell are you doing? Get up."
She heard the sternness in his voice. It's over. He's made his decision. He doesn't even want to hear my pathetic begging. Her head bowed lower. "I know I was wrong," she pleaded, her voice thick. "Please, don't sack me. I'll do anything." She looked up, her eyes landed on his left hand. His thumb was neatly wrapped in a white bandage. The memory didn't just come back; it crashed into her. The bite. The feral, raccoon-like gnawing. The metallic taste of panic and stupidity.
Her mouth fell open. The blood drained from her face, leaving her cold. She had bit her boss. She had actually fucking bitten him.
"Oh my God," she whispered, horror dawning. "I'm so sorry, I shouldn't have bitten you! It was the wine, I wasn't myself, please, I'll never drink again, forgive me! Don't sack me!" The words tumbled out in a mortified rush.
Carter stared, finally piecing it together. She thinks I fired her. He leaned back in his chair, the leather creaking. The amusement vanished, replaced by a stern, unreadable mask. He let the silence stretch, watching her wilt under it.
"Angelina Johnson," he said, his voice a low, controlled rumble that seemed to vibrate in the quiet room.
Lina's blood ran cold at the full name. She looked up. She'd never heard him use it like that, never seen his face like this—serious, unreadable, all the easy charm gone. This was it. The end.
"Get up." The command was flat, leaving no room for argument.
Defeated, she pushed herself unsteadily to her feet. She couldn't bear to look at him. She'd blown it. Unforgivable. She turned, ready to make the walk of shame out of his office and out of the building, when his voice stopped her.
"Who told you you were getting fired?"
She froze. The words simply didn't compute. She turned back, slowly, her eyes wide and searching his face for the cruel joke.
"What?" It was barely a whisper.
"I'm not sacking you." He paused, letting the first wave of shock hit her, before delivering the next blow. "I'm promoting you."
The words made no sense. They just bounced around the empty, panicked chamber of her mind. "What?"
"Promotion." He allowed a small, genuine smile to touch his lips at her shell-shocked expression. "You're being promoted. Effective immediately."
"I'm… getting promoted?" She repeated, her brain utterly short-circuiting. "Why?" The question came out in one disbelieving breath.
Carter leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk, his gaze intent. "Because you've earned it. Your talent is wasted down there." He said it simply, as if it were the most obvious truth in the world. "Your things were being moved. To the office next to mine."
"Wait, what?" The shock was now layered with profound confusion. A promotion was one thing. An office on the executive floor, right next to the CEO's? That wasn't just an ordinary office. It was the office they all talked about. They even named it 'the Girlfriend Office,' the belief that it was meant for his future partner. That was the kind of move that screamed 'favouritism' so loud it drowned out all merit. The whispers, the cold shoulders—it all made a horrible, perfect sense. They thought she'd fucked her way to the top floor. The irony was so bitter she could taste it. Even she would have side-eyed a colleague who vaulted directly to the boss's doorstep overnight.
Carter stood, coming around his desk. He could see the storm of confusion and dawning comprehension on her face. "Come on, I'll show you," he said.
He led her the few steps to the adjacent office door and pushed it open.
The room was completely, utterly empty. Bare walls, bare floors, vacant windows. The last time she'd been in here, it had been a storage room for old marketing materials.
She looked from the cavernous emptiness to Carter, her confusion complete.
"It's… empty," she stated dumbly.
"The furniture from this office was… redistributed to fill some urgent needs elsewhere in other departments," he explained smoothly, waving a hand. "Consider it a blank canvas. Order new furniture. Decorate it. Make it yours. Whatever you like."
Her jaw went slack. Holy. Shit. Not just a promotion. A customizable promotion with an unlimited budget to design her own executive office? This wasn't just too good to be true; it was a fucking fairy tale. "Is this real?" she whispered, more to herself than to him.
Carter chuckled, a warm, genuine sound. He patted her shoulder—a gesture that felt both comforting and strangely possessive. "It's real." He left her then, standing alone in the vast, silent room that was now hers.
The rest of the morning was a surreal blur. She threw herself into ordering furniture—a modern desk, a comfortable chair—with a speed born of delirious joy. She couldn't wait to tell Bella. She floated back to Carter's office to update him.
"The, uh, the furniture won't be delivered until tomorrow. So I'll just head down to the lab for today…"
"Don't be silly," Carter said without looking up from his screen. "Use the alcove in here for today." He pointed to a small, elegant writing desk by the window.
The kindness was so overwhelming it felt suspicious. But the advantage of being so close, of hearing his calls, of being in his space… it was too valuable to refuse. "Thank you," she said, settling in with her laptop, acutely aware of his presence just feet away.
---
Across the city, Daniel Viggo was receiving a very different report. He held his phone to his ear so tightly the casing creaked, his knuckles white around the sleek device, his entire body a coil of tense wire.
"I see." Daniel ended the call without another word.
For a moment, there was only the sound of his own measured breath in the silent room. Then, with a roar of pure, unfiltered rage, he swept his arm across the glass surface of his desk. Laptop, contracts—everything shattered on the marble floor in a violent cascade. The sound was immensely satisfying for a single second before the cold, sharp rage settled back in.
He had been right. He was always right. They were in a relationship. He'd been right about her too. That girl from eight years ago, with the same desperate, calculating eyes. He had been right about her then. He was right about her now. She was a pretender. A liar. A cunning climber, using her boss, using her body, to climb the social ladder.
A slow, menacing laugh built in his chest, devoid of any humor. They were both pushing him. Openly. Defiantly.
Fine.
Let them have their fantasies.
It just made his next move so much easier, and so much more satisfying. He needed her closer than ever now. And when he finally reeled her in, he wouldn't just torment her. He'd make sure Carter Hayes watched as everything he'd given her was systematically destroyed. He had to pay for helping Lina.
Anyone who helped someone he wanted to destroy would fucking pay the price.