Chapter 7: The Secret Job
896 Words
Day 1 of pretending we’re not about to ruin each other.
8:03 AM. Jackson Group. 40th floor.
I showed up in my cleaning uniform because that was the only job I had on the schedule.
Victor was already there. In a fresh suit. Hair wet from a shower. No sign of the broken-down car, the almost kiss, or the man who said “I don’t hate you anymore.”
He was CEO again. Cold. Perfect.
“Conference room. Now.”
That’s all he said.
I followed him, heart pounding. HR was there. Two VPs. And Mrs. Boma, looking like she was about to faint.
Victor slid a folder across the table to me.
“Explain this.”
Inside: Photos.
Me. At 5AM mopping floors.
Me. At 3PM at a diner in Queens, waitressing.
Me. Collapsing in the bathroom between shifts.
My second job. The one I lied about on my application.
Mrs. Boma whispered, “I’m so sorry Mr. Jackson, I didn’t”
“Stop.” Victor held up a hand. His eyes were on me. “You lied.”
“Yes.”
“You committed fraud to get hired.”
“Yes.”
The room was silent. I could hear my own breathing.
This was it. This was where he fired me. Blacklisted me again. Called security.
Victor leaned back in his chair. Tapped his pen once. Twice.
“Storm relief donations came in this morning,” he said. Out of nowhere. “$2.3 million. Jackson Group is handling distribution for 6 shelters in Brooklyn and Queens. We’re short-staffed. People are still displaced. No power in half the boroughs.”
I blinked. “...Okay?”
“I need someone to run it.” He closed the folder. “Someone who knows what it’s like to be broke. Someone who won’t steal the money. Someone who will actually show up at 5AM.”
The VPs stared at him.
“Sir, with all due respect, she’s a cleaner”
“She’s my new Crisis Assistant.” Victor cut him off. “Effective immediately. $68,000 salary. Benefits. She reports directly to me.”
My mouth fell open. “What?”
“You heard me.” He stood. “You start today. 9AM. My office.”
He walked out.
Leaving me in a room full of people who now hated me more than before.
---
9:17 AM. His Office.
Victor tossed me a Jackson Group ID badge. My photo. My real name.
“Sally Bennett. Crisis Assistant.”
I turned it over in my hands. “Why are you doing this?”
“Because you’re good at showing up.” He was typing, not looking at me. “And because I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me a job.”
“I owe you 3 years.” He finally looked up. “This is the first payment.”
He slid a tablet across the desk. A spreadsheet with 6 shelters, supply lists, and a map with red zones.
“We have 48 hours to get water, generators, and food to these places before FEMA shows up. You’ll coordinate with me. Daily. 8AM meetings.”
“Daily?”
“Daily.” His jaw ticked. “Problem?”
My brain was screaming. _This is a trap. He’s going to watch you. He’s going to find a reason to fire you._
But my mom’s hospital bill was paid. And I was tired of being scared.
“No problem.”
---
Day 3
We fought.
About supply routes. About budget. About whether to give the last generator to a senior center or a shelter with kids.
“You can’t save everyone, Sally,” he snapped.
“Watch me try.”
He stared at me for a long time. Then signed off on both.
Day 5
I fell asleep on his couch during a 2AM call with a shelter. Woke up to a blanket over me. Again.
Victor was working across from me, tie off, sleeves rolled up.
“You snore,” he said without looking up.
“I do not.”
“You do. It’s cute.”
I threw a pillow at him. He caught it. And for half a second we were smiling.
Day 7
Lily called his phone during a meeting.
“Dad? When is Sally-Auntie coming to see me?”
The room went silent.
Victor’s face went blank. “Soon, baby.”
He hung up. Looked at me.
“You used to bring her blueberry muffins,” he said quietly.
“I know.”
“You should come by. She asks.”
The air between us changed. Again.
This wasn’t just work anymore.
This was 8AM meetings. Shared coffee. Late nights.
This was him asking my opinion. This was me yelling at him and him listening.
This was dangerous.
Because the more time we spent together, the harder it was to remember why we were supposed to hate each other.
And the easier it was to remember why we used to be friends.
At 11:47 PM on Friday, he walked me to the elevator.
“Thank you,” he said. “For today. For the shelters.”
“You’re welcome.”
We stood there.
“Sally”
The elevator dinged.
He stepped back. “See you Monday. 8AM.”
I nodded. Got in.
As the doors closed, I saw him still standing there. Hands in his pockets. Watching.
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