Delete My Number (But He Didn't)

Chapter Two: Nine O'Clock

Zara didn't sleep.

Not even close. She lay on her bed staring at the ceiling with her phone face down on the pillow next to her, which was stupid because she could still feel it there, like it had a pulse. Like it was going to vibrate again with another calm, devastating message from a man who apparently knew her name and her floor number and had her entire employment situation in his hands.

She ran the resignation speech in her head four times.

The first version was professional and clean. Short sentences, no emotion, thank you for the opportunity, she was moving in a different direction. Very dignified.

The second version was also professional but she'd added a part where she said she had another offer lined up, which was a lie, but it sounded better.

The third version she scrapped completely because she'd started imagining his face while she said it and gotten distracted by the fact that she'd called him gorgeous in the text and he'd read it, he'd definitely read it, and now she had to walk into a room with that information between them.

The fourth version was just her saying "I quit" and walking out.

That was the one she was going with.

She texted Priya at 2 a.m. because she had to tell someone or she was going to actually lose her mind. She typed out the whole thing, the wrong contact, the text, the screenshot, the meeting at nine, all of it in one long unhinged paragraph.

Priya sent back eleven crying laughing emojis and then: babe you're so cooked.

Then: also gorgeous??? you called him gorgeous to his FACE essentially??

Then: okay but wait is he actually gorgeous because you never told me this.

Zara turned her phone face down again.

She ironed her best blouse at 6 a.m. It was white, structured, the kind of thing that said I am a professional who has her life together even when she absolutely did not. She paired it with her good trousers and the heels she hated but that made her feel tall, which right now felt important.

She looked at herself in the bathroom mirror for a while.

She looked tired. She always looked a little tired, but today there were actual shadows under her eyes and her jaw was doing the tight thing it did when she was stressed and trying not to show it. She put on concealer and mascara and called it done.

She got to the building at 8:38. Twenty-two minutes early, which she immediately regretted because it looked eager, but there was no fixing it now.

She'd never been to the thirty-second floor. Not once in eight months. The elevator ride up felt longer than it should have, and when the doors opened she stepped out into a whole different version of the building. The floors were different up here. The air was different. Everything was quieter in that specific way that money makes things quiet, like even the sounds knew they had to behave.

A woman looked up from a desk near the main office door.

She was maybe late twenties, dark hair pulled back, wearing a blazer that probably cost more than Zara's monthly rent, and she had the expression of someone who had seen everything and been surprised by none of it.

"Ms. Elliot," she said. Not a question.

"Yes," Zara said.

"Elena Vasquez. I manage Mr. Voss's schedule." She stood and picked up a tablet without looking at it. "He's ready for you."

She walked to the door, opened it, and stepped aside.

Zara walked in.

The office was big. She knew it would be big but it was still a lot, all floor to ceiling windows and clean surfaces and not a single thing out of place. It looked like a room that had never experienced a bad day, which made her feel worse by comparison.

Luca was standing at the window with his back to her.

Of course he was.

She stopped a few feet inside the door and waited. She was not going to announce herself. She was not going to clear her throat or shuffle her feet or do anything that suggested she was nervous. She was not nervous. She was furious, which was better.

He turned around.

And god, she wished he was less good looking. She genuinely wished that. It would have made all of this so much easier. But he was standing there in a dark suit that fit like it had been sewn specifically for his exact body, and he looked exactly the same as he always did in the lobby, which was like someone who had never once wondered if they were enough because the question had never occurred to him.

He looked at her the way he looked at everything. Like he was assessing something.

Then he walked to his desk and picked up a single sheet of paper and slid it across to her side without a word.

Zara picked it up.

She read it once. Then she read it again because she needed to make sure she was reading it right.

It was a contract. Temporary. Eight weeks as personal assistant to the CEO for the company's charity gala season. Salary increase. Three thousand dollar completion bonus at the end. Standard confidentiality terms. And at the bottom, a clause about her current employment status being contingent on her decision today, referencing the conduct section of her original agreement.

She set the paper down on the desk.

"This is blackmail," she said.

"It's an opportunity." His voice was even. No heat in it, no irritation. Just fact. "Most people would say thank you."

"Most people," she said, "didn't have their private messages screenshotted by their boss and sent back to them."

Something moved through his expression. Not guilt. Not amusement either, exactly. Something in between.

"You sent a message to your employer's personal number," he said. "At midnight."

"By accident."

"The conduct clause doesn't differentiate."

She looked at him. He looked back at her. The room was very quiet.

"So if I don't sign," she said, "I'm fired."

"Your current role would be terminated, yes."

"And if I do sign."

"You complete the gala season. You receive the bonus. You return to your department in eight weeks."

She picked up the paper again and looked at it like it was going to change if she stared at it long enough.

Three thousand dollars. Plus the salary increase during the eight weeks. That was Danny's tutoring sorted for months. That was her mom's car registration and the loan payment due at the end of the month and maybe, if she was careful, a little left over to breathe with.

She couldn't lose this job. That was the whole problem. She had already run the numbers in her head three times between the bus stop and this building and no version of losing her salary ended well for anyone who depended on her, which was too many people for someone who was twenty-two.

She hated that he knew that. She didn't know if he did know it, but she felt like he might, and she hated it either way.

She picked up the pen from his desk.

Signed her name.

Slid it back.

He picked it up and looked at her signature for a second and then set it to the side.

"My assistant will brief you on the first event," he said. "The initial gala is in three weeks."

That was it. That was the whole conversation. She was dismissed before she'd fully registered that she'd just agreed to spend eight weeks working directly for the man she'd called factory assembled and wished charger injuries on, and who had read every single word of it and not mentioned it once.

She picked up her bag and walked to the door.

Her hand was on the handle when she stopped. She turned around, because she couldn't help it.

"Why didn't you just fire me?"

He was already looking back at his computer screen. He didn't look up. "Eight o'clock tomorrow. Don't be late."

Zara walked out.

Elena was at her desk in the outer office, eyes on her tablet, not looking up. As Zara passed her, the woman said, quiet and even, like she was reading from a list:

"He could have fired you."

Zara slowed.

"He didn't." Elena still didn't look up. "I'd spend some time thinking about why."

She turned a page on her tablet.

Zara stood in the hallway for a second, contract tucked under her arm, jaw tight, the question sitting in her chest like something she didn't have room for yet.

She pressed the elevator button.

The doors opened.

She stepped in and watched the thirty-second floor disappear as she went down, and she thought about Elena's voice. I'd spend some time thinking about why.

Why didn't he fire her.

She'd called him horrible. She'd called him gorgeous, which was arguably worse. She'd sent it to the wrong number like a complete disaster of a person and he had every reason to terminate her contract and every legal right to do it.

But he hadn't.

He'd made her his assistant instead.

And she had a very uncomfortable feeling, standing in that elevator watching the numbers count down, that she had just walked into something she didn't fully understand yet.

The doors opened at the lobby.

She walked out.

Behind her, from somewhere above thirty-two floors of glass and quiet and deliberate everything, Luca Voss was probably already back to work like the conversation had already left his mind entirely.

She told herself that was fine.

She told herself she didn't care.

She was already very bad at lying to herself and it was only getting worse.