First day
1485 Words
The harsh glare of the sun did nothing to perturb me as I walked toward the glass doors that marked the entrance of Trove Company. My reflection stared back at me faintly in the sheen, curls slightly frizzed, bangs uneven after the morning rush. I paused for a heartbeat, smoothed my hair, straightened my blouse, and tilted my chin up. Above me, the imposing letters of TROVE gleamed in steel against glass, proud and unyielding. A tremor worked its way through me.
“Finally… a corporate job,” I whispered, the words trembling out in a small squeal I tried to mask as a laugh.
I pressed a palm to my chest, breathed deep, and pushed open the door. The lobby yawned wide, cool and sterile, with its polished floors and scattered leather chairs. The receptionist barely looked up when I asked for directions to the PR department. Fifth floor. I thanked her, smoothed my bangs again, and hurried to the elevators.
“Deep breaths, Valentina,” I murmured. “Time to meet your coworkers.”
I pressed the button, watching the numbers light up above the doors, but just before they slid shut, a voice called out behind me.
“Wait! Hold it!”
My hand darted to the open button. The doors widened, and in strode a young man—then stopped, frozen mid-step as his eyes landed on me.
For a moment, he just stood there, staring. My skin prickled.
“Creepy,” I thought, my gaze flicking down to check my blouse, my shoes. Did I spill something? Did my hair look strange? I patted it down quickly.
“Uh—aren’t you getting in?” I asked, pulling my hand back from the button.
That snapped him out of it. He shuffled forward hurriedly, clutching the strap of his satchel. The elevator doors slid shut behind him.
“Sorry,” he said, adjusting the collar of his pleated white shirt. “It’s my first day.”
I eyed him cautiously. That explained nothing about the staring.
He glanced at me again, more hesitant this time. His eyes—chestnut brown, warm but shadowed with something I couldn’t quite place—lingered for a moment too long. Familiar somehow, though I couldn’t imagine why.
He tugged on the black suit jacket he’d been carrying over his arm, smoothing out its creases as though the gesture steadied him. Then he extended his hand.
“Adam Jordan. First day in PR.”
The stiffness of his movements softened when he smiled, and though a part of me still wanted to keep my guard up, my lips curved in response.
“Valentina Berkeley. PR as well.”
His brows lifted, and the grin widened. “New hire too?”
“Is it that obvious?” I asked dryly.
He chuckled, light and easy. “Only because the nervous energy is rolling off you in waves. Not that I’m any better.”
I laughed, surprised at myself. The elevator chimed, and we stepped out together into the fifth-floor hallway. I paused at the door to the PR department, my hand tightening on the handle.
“We got this,” Adam murmured beside me. His voice was steady, reassuring.
I gave him a thumbs up, drew a breath, and pushed the door open.
The hum of chatter inside faltered. Dozens of faces turned toward us. Fingers stilled on keyboards, whispers hushed, eyes narrowing with thinly veiled curiosity. My stomach lurched.
“Welcome, welcome!”
A woman in her early thirties rose from her desk with a bright, practiced smile. She strode toward us, heels clicking on the tiles. I recognized her instantly: Miss Debra, the department manager. I remembered her from my interview—the sharp flash of distaste in her eyes when I’d mentioned my alma mater. That memory alone soured my mouth.
“I’m Miss Debra,” she said warmly, shaking both our hands. “Manager here. Why don’t you introduce yourselves?”
I opened my mouth. “My name is Valentina Berkeley, I’m a—”
“Let’s all welcome Mr. Adam!” Debra cut in, voice pitched higher. “A graduate of journalism, if you can believe it.”
Gasps fluttered across the room.
“Yes, yes,” she continued, eyes alight. “This gem comes to us after winning an excellence award at CNN—after just one year!”
The whispers surged. CNN? Excellence award? Why here?
Debra leaned toward Adam, her smile syrupy. “So, tell us—what’s a journalism genius like you doing in PR?”
Adam smiled easily, but there was a flicker—something unreadable in his eyes before it smoothed over. He shrugged. “Privacy reasons.”
Debra froze. The silence that followed was almost comical.
But Adam clapped his hands lightly, as if he’d never noticed. “Well, can someone show us to our desks? We’re excited to get started.”
Debra’s smile faltered, and with a stiff huff, she gestured toward two empty desks side by side.
As we settled in, coworkers drifted over. Some introduced themselves warmly—Janet, a fresh graduate with a soft voice and kind smile; Jameson, the bespectacled researcher who muttered something about deadlines before scurrying off. Others lingered by the printer or water cooler, whispering behind cupped hands, eyes darting between Adam and me.
The contrast was glaring. When Adam laughed, people leaned in. When he spoke, the air seemed to bend toward him. I, on the other hand, received polite smiles, nods that didn’t quite reach their eyes.
“Why did you do that?” I whispered once Debra was out of earshot, grateful his desk was beside mine.
“Do what?”
“Deflect her like that. She was—” I lowered my voice further. “She was rude to me.”
He shrugged, still typing. “Exactly why.”
I studied his profile for a moment. He was enigmatic, that was for sure—friendly, yes, but there was something else beneath the surface, something carefully tucked away.
“Thank you,” I murmured, meaning it more than I’d expected.
He shot me a quick grin, thumbs-upped, and went back to work.
I powered on my computer, my face reflected faintly in the blank screen. My eyes looked too bright, jittery with nerves, and the dark half-moons beneath them betrayed sleepless nights. My neck was bare. I had planned to wear the teardrop necklace I’d bought on Tuesday, but when I reached for it that morning, it was gone.
The memory hit me hard.
I saw the jewelry box tumbling to the ground, my shopping bags spilling as my gaze locked with a man across the aisle. Simon Valero. My ex-husband.
I had forgotten to breathe. His eyes—cold, dark, endless—raked over me once. For a flicker of a second, they brightened, almost softened. I blinked, and it was gone.
I had opened my mouth, desperate to say something, anything. To hurl all the anger, the pain, the ruin of my life since our divorce. But nothing came. His attention shifted back to the jeweler, dismissing me like a stranger.
Anger had clawed up my throat. My fists clenched. I wanted to c***k his façade, to see fire instead of that suffocating void. But I swallowed it down. I had too much to lose.
Gathering my bags, I snapped the jewelry box shut, left in a rush, and didn’t realize the necklace had slipped out until it was too late.
Now, staring at my own reflection, I exhaled shakily.
“Valentina?”
Fingers snapped in front of my face. I blinked, finding Adam watching me with concern.
“You’ve been staring at that screen for minutes. Need help?”
“Oh—no. I’m fine. Thanks.”
The day wore on. Tasks were assigned, reports explained. Lydia checked on me kindly, while a trio of coworkers whispered whenever Adam passed by. I tried to focus, grateful when the clock finally ticked past five.
After work, I caught the bus to Ajax’s afterschool program. His face lit up the moment he saw me.
“Mum!” He launched into my arms, and I bent to catch him, heart unclenching.
“I missed you so much,” he said, muffled against my shoulder.
“I missed you too, baby. Hope you didn’t wait long.”
His teacher handed over his bag with a smile. “He was glued to the clock.”
Ajax sighed dramatically. “You said to wait until the long hand reached six. It took soooo long.”
I ruffled his hair, thanked the teacher, and adjusted my mask. Hand in hand, we took the bus home.
In the elevator up to our apartment, someone was already inside. A pleated white shirt, black suit trousers.
I froze.
He lifted his head, and those chestnut brown eyes met mine.
- Writer
