Chapter Nine
1834 Words
ELENA POV
Week one passes in a blur of controlled chaos.
I barely see Damien. Not alone, anyway. He's suddenly impossible to pin down—always in meetings, always with other people, always maintaining the professional distance we agreed on.
It should be a relief.
It’s not.
Instead, I throw myself into the campaign with manic energy that makes Rachel ask if I’m “doing okay” and David stage a coffee intervention after he finds me on my fourth espresso before noon.
“You’re going to vibrate through the floor,” he says, prying the cup from my hand.
“I’m fine. I just need to—”
“Need to what? Work yourself into a hospital stay? Elena, the campaign doesn’t launch until Friday. You have time.”
But I don’t. Not really. Every day that passes is another day of Marcus watching me like a hawk. Claire delivering subtle digs about “special projects” and “preferential treatment.” Brian Chen circling like a shark scenting blood.
By Wednesday, I’ve contacted fifteen micro-influencers, negotiated partnerships with eight, and designed content frameworks for each platform. The work is good. Better than good.
It’s also not enough.
“You need to eat something that’s not from a vending machine,” Sophia announces, appearing in my office at 2 PM with Thai takeout. “And before you say you’re not hungry, I will physically force-feed you pad thai. Don’t test me.”
I save my work. “You’re bossy.”
“I’m concerned. You look like you haven’t slept in three days.”
“I slept.” Four hours. Maybe five. “I’m fine.”
“Uh-huh.” She sets out containers, hands me chopsticks. “Eat. And tell me why you’re killing yourself over a campaign that doesn’t launch for two more days.”
Because if I stop working, I start thinking. About Damien’s voice dropping low in his office. About the way he almost touched my face. About the email he sent, which I deleted like it could erase the way my heart jumped when I read it.
“I just want it to be perfect.”
“It’s already perfect. You’ve shown me the materials. They’re brilliant.” She studies me. “This isn’t about the campaign, is it?”
“Of course it’s about the—”
“How many times have you seen him this week?”
My chopsticks pause halfway to my mouth. “That’s not relevant.”
“That’s completely relevant. You said you’d keep distance. Are you?”
“Yes. He’s barely spoken to me outside of group meetings.”
“And how does that feel?”
Like I’m suffocating. Like every time I see him across a conference room, carefully not looking at me, something in my chest cracks a little more.
“Fine. It feels fine.”
Sophia’s expression softens. “Oh, honey.”
“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“Like I’m already in too deep. Like this is going to end badly. Like—”
“Like you’re falling for him?”
The words hit like a slap. “I’m not.”
“Elena—”
“I’m not,” I repeat, more forcefully. “It was one night. One impulsive, reckless night, and now we’re both being professionals about it. That’s all.”
“Is that why you’ve lost five pounds this week? Why you look like you’re about to shatter? Why you’re working yourself into the ground trying to prove something?”
“I’m trying to prove I deserve this job.”
“You already deserve it! You’ve done more in one week than the last marketing strategist did in six months. Everyone knows it. Even Marcus is starting to come around—I heard him admit your influencer strategy was ‘not completely terrible,’ which from Marcus is basically a love letter.”
Despite everything, I smile. “High praise.”
“Exactly. So stop trying to be superhuman. Eat. Sleep. Take a breath.” She leans forward. “And maybe admit that keeping distance from Damien Blackwood is killing you a little.”
I set down my chopsticks. “It doesn’t matter how I feel. It can’t. Not while I’m on probation. Not while people are looking for any excuse to prove I don’t belong here.”
“And after probation?”
“After probation, I…” I trail off. What happens then? Do we try this—whatever this is? Do we stay professional? Can we?
My phone buzzes. Text from an unknown number.
Campaign launch moved to tomorrow. Board wants to see results faster. Meet in Conference Room A at 6 PM to discuss revised timeline. -DB
“Shit.” I’m already standing, gathering papers.
“What?”
“Launch is tomorrow. Not Friday. Tomorrow.”
Sophia’s eyes widen. “Can you be ready?”
“I have to be.”
I spend the next three hours in a frenzy. Calling influencers to move timelines. Reworking the rollout schedule. Coordinating with David on creative assets. By 5:45, I have something resembling a plan.
By 5:55, I’m racing to Conference Room A with my laptop, three energy drinks, and what’s left of my sanity.
I’m first to arrive. The room is empty, lights dimmed, the evening sun casting long shadows across the table.
I set up my presentation. Check it twice. Three times.
At 6:03, the door opens.
Damien walks in. Alone.
No Marcus. No David. No Rachel.
Just him.
“Where is everyone?” I ask.
He closes the door. “There is no everyone. The board didn’t move the timeline.”
Understanding dawns slowly. “You lied.”
“I needed to talk to you. You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I’ve been working. And we agreed—”
“I know what we agreed. Professional distance. No private meetings.” He loosens his tie, runs a hand through his hair. He looks exhausted. “But I can’t—I need to know if you’re okay.”
“If I’m okay?”
“You look like you haven’t slept. Haven’t eaten. Rachel said you’ve been here until midnight every night this week.”
“Because I’m working on the campaign you gave me three weeks to complete!”
“You could finish that campaign in your sleep. This isn’t about work.” He crosses the room. “This is about you punishing yourself.”
“For what?”
“For wanting something you think you shouldn’t want.”
The accusation hangs in the air. True. Devastating.
“You don’t know what I want.”
“Don’t I?” He’s close now. Too close. “Because I know what I want. And I know that keeping distance from you is the right thing, the smart thing. And I hate it.”
“Damien—”
“Do you know what this week has been like? Seeing you in meetings and having to pretend you’re just another employee? Watching you work yourself to exhaustion and not being able to—” He stops. Jaw clenches. “I hired you because you’re brilliant. But I’m starting to realize that was a mistake.”
The words cut. “If you’re firing me—”
“I’m not firing you. I’m saying hiring you was a mistake because now I have to see you every day. Watch you be everything I knew you were. Pretend that night didn’t happen when it’s all I think about.”
My breath catches. “You said you regretted it.”
“I lied. I’ve been lying. To you, to myself. Because the truth is terrifying.”
“What truth?”
He’s inches away now. Close enough to see the rapid pulse at his throat. Close enough to touch.
“That I want you. Still. More than I should. More than is wise or professional. And I think you want me too.” His voice drops.
I should deny it. Should step back. Remember all the reasons this is impossible.
Instead, I whisper, “What if I do?”
His eyes darken. “Then we’re both in trouble.”
“We’re already in trouble.”
“Elena—”
“You lied to get me here. Alone. Why?”
“Because I needed to see if I was imagining it. This—” he gestures between us, “—this pull. This constant awareness. I needed to know if it was real or if I was just—”
“It’s real.” The admission escapes before I can stop it. “God help me, it’s real.”
For one suspended moment, we just stare at each other. Two people on the edge of something irrevocable.
Then his phone rings.
The spell shatters. He steps back, pulls out his phone, and curses softly.
“It’s Marcus. He probably heard I’m in the building.” He looks at me. “You should go. If he finds us alone in here—”
“Right. Yes.” I’m already gathering my things, hands shaking. “The launch is still Friday?”
“Friday. But Elena—”
The door opens. Marcus walks in, stops short.
“Damien. Ms. Martinez.” His eyes narrow. “Evening meeting?”
“Campaign review,” Damien says smoothly. “Ms. Martinez was just leaving.”
“Of course.” Marcus’s smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Elena, I’ve been meaning to speak with you about budget expenditures. Several influencer payments seem… excessive.”
“They’re within approved parameters.”
“Barely. I’d like to review each contract personally.”
Translation: I’m looking for reasons to prove you’re wasting money.
“I’ll have everything on your desk tomorrow morning.”
“See that you do.” He turns to Damien. “We need to discuss Q4 projections. Now?”
Damien’s jaw tightens. “Of course.”
I leave before being dismissed. In the hallway, I lean against the wall and try to catch my breath.
It’s real.
I said it out loud. Admitted it. And he didn’t deny it.
My phone buzzes.
That was too close. But I meant what I said. Every word. -DB
I stare at the message. Should delete it. Should tell him to stop.
Instead, I type back:
So did I.
I hit send.
His response comes immediately.
Two more weeks until probation ends. Then we figure this out. Together.
Together.
The word feels like a promise. And a threat.
In two weeks, everything changes.
Either this campaign succeeds, and I prove I belong here.
Or it fails, and I lose everything.
Including him.
I head back to my office and work until midnight.
The campaign launches in sixteen hours.
And I have no idea if I’m more terrified of it failing or succeeding.
Because either way, I’m in too deep to find my way back to safe ground.
And the worst part?
I don’t think I want to anymore.
- Writer
