Marked By Two Fates

Chapter Six

Alexandra

By Friday afternoon, I was drained, barely held together by caffeine and Elise’s bottomless supply of glittery motivational sticky notes.

I’m still not entirely sure whether the notes help or harm morale.

But as I walk down the hall with the thick project folder pressed against my chest, I feel something I haven’t felt all week:

Accomplishment.

Tentative, fragile accomplishment, but accomplishment nonetheless.

Nicholas Carter’s assignment had been as brutal as expected: a multi-phase financial projection analysis, a department restructuring proposal, and a list of cross-team workflow optimizations so complex it could have doubled as a cryptic puzzle box. Basically, the professional equivalent of being shoved into a gladiator arena with a butter knife and a can-do attitude.

And I’d done it.

At least… I think I’d done it.

Hope I’d done it.

Okay, realistically it’s a coin toss, but I’ll take it.

My heels click across the polished floors, echoing faintly as I approach the glass door of the executive suite. The front desk attendant, Mia, gives me a sympathetic smile. She’s already learned that everyone looks slightly panicked when entering Nicholas’s territory.

“Good luck,” she mouths.

“Thanks,” I mouth back, hoping I look composed.

I do not feel composed.

I raise a hand and knock. Three firm taps.

“Come in,” Nicholas’s deep voice calls out—cool, controlled, edged with that underlying authority that always makes me stand up a little straighter.

I push the door open.

Nicholas sits behind his desk, sleeves rolled neatly to his forearms and jacket on the back of his chair. He’s scanning through something on his screen, jaw tight in concentration. The man looks like he was carved out of marble and unfinished expectations.

I clear my throat.

His gaze lifts.

Instant focus. Blue and intense as ever. I don’t flinch, but I do internally scream a little.

“I’ve completed the task you assigned,” I say, stepping forward and placing the thick folder on his desk.

Nicholas stares for a moment, then gestures toward the folder with a small flick of his fingers.

“Sit.”

A command, not a request.

I sit.

He opens the folder and begins reviewing my work. The only sounds in the room were the soft swish of turning pages and the faint hum of his computer.

I fold my hands in my lap to keep them from fidgeting.

Minutes pass.

Then a few more.

The silence is suffocating. I could probably use it to steam-dry my hair. I watch his expression carefully, trying to gauge anything—a twitch of an eyebrow, a nostril flare, a micro-squint. Anything.

Nicholas, of course, remains unreadable.

Finally, after what feels like the gestational period of a whale, he sets the final page down and leans back slightly.

His eyes lift to mine.

“It’s good,” he says begrudgingly.

Relief nearly buckles my knees—even though I’m already sitting down.

“Thank you,” I breathe out.

He continues, “Your analysis was thorough. Your restructuring proposal was realistic and grounded. And your projections were cleaner than I expected, considering the timeline.”

Did he mention the timeline?

No, he did not.

Out loud, I say, “I appreciate the feedback.”

Inside, I say, Oh thank the moon goddess, my career lives another day.

Nicholas rests his elbows on the desk. “If you have this level of competence, you should rely on it rather than defaulting to… alternate methods.”

“Alternate… methods?” I repeat slowly.

His gaze sharpens. “Trying to get on your boss’s good side. Like you did when you approached me on Saturday.”

Oh for the love of—

He still thinks that was intentional?

I stare at him for a beat, realizing this is the perfect moment to clear that up. And if I don’t, he’ll continue believing I’m the type to fake-flirt for workplace advantage.

Professional integrity: 0

Nicholas Carter’s assumptions: 1

I straighten. “Actually, about Saturday—there’s something I should clarify.”

One eyebrow lifts.

Gods, why does he do that eyebrow thing? It’s like a lie detector.

I inhale. “I didn’t, um, go up to you at the bar because you were my boss. Or to get on your good side. I genuinely didn’t know who you were.”

He stares at me for a long, silent beat.

“You didn’t… know,” he repeats slowly. Not a question. More like he’s reformatting the statement in his brain to see if it makes logical sense.

“Yes,” I say quickly. “It wasn’t a plan. Cassandra dragged me there and then shoved me toward you before my brain caught up.”

His brows draw together, but not in anger—more like confusion. Or recalibration.

“And the… fall?” he asks.

Right. The fall. The graceful dismount from the bar stool. My proudest moment.

I wince. “Also not a plan.”

His expression doesn’t fully soften, but it shifts—just slightly—as if he’s adjusting an internal narrative he’d already finalized.

Eventually, he nods. “All right. Thank you for clarifying.”

His tone is reserved, but it doesn’t have the sharp edge it did earlier.

“I didn’t want you to think I was trying to manipulate anything,” I say.

“I don’t,” he replies.

Then he glances back down at the folder. “You did good work. You can go.”

Dismissed.

Okay.

Cool.

Expected.

I grab the folder, stand, and turn toward the door.

But halfway there, my feet stop moving.

Because a thought hits me.

A thought I’ve been trying to ignore all week.

He remembered me.

Nicholas Carter remembered me.

That has never happened. Not once. Not with anyone outside my immediate circle. Strangers forget me. Casual acquaintances forget me. People I pass on the street forget me. That’s the curse.

Unless my soulmate, maybe.

But Nicholas’s eyes are cobalt. Not honey. Not slate.

Still…

Still.

I should ask him.

Right?

This is my chance. He’s right here. He’s calm. He’s not actively in the process of watching me crash into furniture. If I’m going to figure out why my curse didn’t affect him, this is the moment.

Before I lose my nerve.

I turn back around.

Nicholas looks up again, clearly expecting me to leave. His expression is a perfect deadpan, like he’s bracing himself for whatever nonsense I’m about to bring.

I swallow. “Actually… I had one more question.”

His eyes narrow infinitesimally. “Yes?”

Okay. Here we go.

Choose your words carefully, Alexandra.

I don’t.

“Saturday night,” I blurt. “Do you, um… remember it clearly?”

He blinks once. “Yes.”

I nod too fast. “Right! Right, of course you do. I mean, that makes sense. Obviously. It was a normal night. Nothing abnormal. Nothing memorable.”

He just stares.

I continue digging my grave. “I mean, memorable in a normal way, not in a… weird way. Or a… you-saw-me-fall-off-a-bar-stool way. Ha ha.”

Nicholas does not laugh.

He does not even politely half-exhale.

The silence stretches.

Sweats break out behind my knees.

I try again. “It’s just that—most strangers don’t remember me that well. Like, uh, details slip. Quickly. Very quickly. Sometimes instantly.”

His eyes flicker with a trace of confusion. “Okay…”

I laugh awkwardly. “But you remembered me immediately! Even though I didn’t even introduce myself! So I was wondering if you remembered—uh—the very first moment you saw me? Or if maybe it was blurry? Or if you thought maybe you’d hallucinated me?”

Dear gods.

What am I even saying.

His expression shifts exactly 0.3 millimeters toward perplexed irritation.

Finally, he says, “I remember you. I’m not sure what you’re getting at.”

“I’m not getting at anything!” I say too quickly. “At all. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”

His gaze flattens.

I cave.

“Never mind,” I mumble. “Forget I asked.”

“Gladly,” he says.

Dry. Sharp. Deadpan.

“Okay then! Have a great—uh—rest of your day.”

I turn and flee.

Gracefully.

Probably.

By the time I reach my cubicle, I feel like someone squeezed my neurons like stress balls and then punted them into traffic.

Elise spots me and immediately swivels around in her chair.

“Oh my gods,” she whispers, eyes wide behind her round glasses. “You were gone forever. And rumor has it you were in his office.”

“I was,” I say, sinking into my chair.

“And??”

“He didn’t fire me.”

Elise claps. “In this economy? That’s a win.”

I snort.

She wiggles her brows. “So what did he want? Did he glare at you? Did he give you the Carter Stare? Did he monologue?”

“He reviewed my project.”

“And?”

“And he said it was good.”

Her jaw drops. “He complimented you? Nicholas ‘Neutral Facial Expression’ Carter?”

“It wasn’t really a compliment,” I say. “It was more like… a reluctant acknowledgment.”

“Still counts.”

She leans in conspiratorially. “Okay, spill the rest.”

I hesitate.

Should I tell her? The weird questions? The weird answers? The weirdness in general?

No. Absolutely not.

I pivot instead. “Well, he still thinks I approached him at the bar intentionally.”

Elise gasps so loudly half the office turns. She waves them off. “False alarm, carry on!”

Then she whispers, “That is so on brand for him. He probably thinks the bar was an elaborate espionage staging ground.”

“I clarified it,” I say. “I think he accepted it. Maybe.”

“Good! And the rest?”

“…There is no rest.”

Elise narrows her eyes. “Liar.”

I exhale dramatically and wave her off. “It’s nothing. I was just tired and babbling.”

“Uh-huh.” She’s definitely unconvinced. “Well! In other news—did you know Harold from accounting finally quit? And rumor has it he left a resignation sticky note that just said ‘NOPE.’ Written in red Sharpie.”

I blink. “Honestly iconic.”

“And Lola from marketing accidentally sent a thirst trap to the company-wide Slack.”

“Oh gods.”

“And someone stole all of the good coffee pods again—probably Phil.”

I groan. “It’s always Phil.”

As Elise chatters on, bouncing from gossip topic to gossip topic, slowly—painfully slowly—the mortification of my interaction with Nicholas begins to fade.

Just a little.

By quitting time, I’ve nearly convinced myself it wasn’t a complete disaster.

Almost.

Because I know one thing for sure:

I’m never bringing up Saturday again.

Not to Nicholas.

Not to Cassandra.

Not to anyone.

Except maybe Elias, but even then only if he’s already half asleep or distracted by a pastry.

I rub my temples and exhale.

End of week one in the books.