If I Could Hate You

Chapter 17 - Sophia

The morning air in the city felt heavier than usual as I walked into the towering glass building of FitzGerald & Co. I had been here before for smaller meetings, but today carried a different weight. This was the first official meeting since the chaos that erupted, the same chaos that led to headlines with my name plastered beside Michael FitzGerald’s. I could still hear Natalie’s teasing voice in my head, calling me “my little celebrity.” The thought almost made me smile, but then my nerves quickly drowned it out.

I took a deep breath as I stepped into the conference room. The long polished table stretched across the space, with executives already seated, papers spread out, murmurs rising and falling. The entire room carried an air of tension, like everyone was holding their breath, waiting to see how the company would move forward after the tragedy.

And there he was.

Michael FitzGerald. Seated at the head of the table, his suit perfectly pressed, his expression unreadable, his presence commanding attention. His eyes lifted just as I entered, and for a fraction of a second our gazes locked. My chest tightened instantly. He looked at me like I was just another employee, nothing more, nothing less. Cold. Distant. It was almost enough to fool me if not for the flicker of something in his eyes before he quickly masked it.

I forced myself to look away and walked to my seat. I could not allow myself to falter. My father’s words echoed in my mind like a warning bell. Stay away from Michael FitzGerald. He might be danger itself.

I sat, smoothing my skirt as if the fabric could hide my unease. The room went quiet as Michael cleared his throat.

“Let us begin,” he said, his voice deep, steady, with that sharp authority that made people listen whether they wanted to or not. “We have less than two days before the press conference. We need a strategy that will not only settle the press but also protect the image of FitzGerald & Co.”

He looked around the room, his gaze moving across the executives before landing briefly on me. My fingers curled into fists beneath the table.

One of the older executives, a man with a sharp jawline and a bald head, leaned forward. “We could frame this as a simple clarification. State that the photographs were misunderstood and assure them that nothing more is happening internally.”

Another woman, wearing glasses perched at the edge of her nose, chimed in. “That is risky. The photographs have already gone viral. Denying them will only feed suspicion. We need something stronger, more emotional. Something that shifts focus from scandal to sympathy.”

Michael nodded slightly, his face still stern. “Go on.”

I felt the weight of eyes on me, and before I could stop myself, I spoke. “We should not treat this like an isolated scandal. We need to acknowledge what truly happened. A man died. A colleague, someone people in this company knew and worked beside. If we brush past that, the public will not forgive us. But if we honor him, if we show that this company values its people, we change the narrative.”

The room went quiet. I could feel every gaze pinned on me, but I kept speaking, my voice gaining strength.

“The press conference should double as a memorial. That explains the timing. People will understand why it is happening a week after the incident, because during this time we have been grieving, honoring the memory of our fallen worker, and supporting his family. We can reveal that we gave his family financial support and assure everyone that the company is taking stronger safety measures. Cameras across all floors, more security personnel, earlier closing hours. We show strength, unity, and compassion.”

A hush followed. My heart hammered against my ribs, but I kept my chin high.

Then, to my shock, applause erupted. One by one, people around the table nodded, some clapped, some murmured approval.

“Brilliant,” someone whispered.

“That is exactly what we need,” another agreed.

Even Michael’s carefully crafted mask cracked for a second. His eyes softened as they rested on me, and for a fleeting moment, I saw something that almost looked like pride. Then, just as quickly, he straightened, his face returning to its usual calm.

“Well,” he said, his voice even. “It seems we have our strategy. The press conference will honor our colleague and make clear that FitzGerald & Co stands united. Sophia, you will spearhead the messaging. Ensure everything is perfect.”

A strange mixture of pride and resentment filled me. He was giving me responsibility, yes, but his tone carried that same cold distance, as though I were nothing more than a pawn in his plan.

The meeting continued with logistics, but I barely heard any of it. My mind buzzed with Michael’s fleeting look, the way he had almost faltered.

When it was finally over, I gathered my things quickly and left. The tension had left my shoulders aching, and I needed something sweet, something simple, something normal.

So I walked to a café nearby, the kind of cozy place with pastries lined up behind glass and the warm smell of coffee filling the air. I bought myself a box of doughnuts, smiling a little as the sugar smell lifted my mood. For a second, it almost felt like everything was fine.

But then, I noticed him.

A man in a black suit, standing across the street. He was not looking directly at me, but I knew. My instincts screamed. I had seen him before. One of Michael’s security men.

I narrowed my eyes and decided to test it. Pulling out my phone, I called a cab. When it arrived, I slipped inside and told the driver simply, “Just drive.”

As the car pulled away, I turned slightly and looked out the back window. Sure enough, a sleek black car followed. My pulse quickened.

“Keep driving,” I whispered.

We drove through several blocks, turning corners, and still the black car trailed us. Finally, I told the cab to stop near a quieter part of town, one with narrow streets and fewer shops. I paid quickly, stepped out, and pulled out my compact mirror, pretending to fix my makeup. But my eyes were trained on the reflection behind me.

There he was. The man in the black suit, slipping out of the car like a shadow, his eyes darting toward me before he tried to disappear into a corner.

Got you.

I spun on my heel and marched straight toward him. “Alright,” I said sharply, my voice cutting the silence. “What exactly do you think you are doing?”

He froze, then quickly tried to compose himself. “I do not know what you mean, miss.”

I crossed my arms. “Do not play games with me. You have been following me. I led you here on purpose. There is nothing here for you, no reason for you to be in this part of town. So unless you want me to call the cops right now, I suggest you start explaining.”

His shoulders sagged. He looked around, then finally sighed. “Fine. I was sent by Mr Fitzgerald. He wanted me to keep an eye on you. To make sure you are safe.”

For a second, my breath caught. The anger I had been ready to unleash was interrupted by something else. Warmth. Flattery. The realization that Michael cared enough to have me watched, to protect me, even in secret.

But then that warmth twisted into frustration. “I am not a child,” I snapped. “I can take care of myself. I do not need a babysitter following me around.”

“I understand,” the man said, his tone almost apologetic. “I will leave. But please, at least let me drive you home. This part of town is not safe. You should not be walking here alone.”

I hesitated. He was right. This place was shadowed and quiet, and the stories I had heard about muggings here made me uneasy. Reluctantly, I nodded. “Fine. But the moment we get to my place, you leave. Understood?”

“Yes, miss.”

The ride was quiet, but my mind was not. My heart thumped with a confusing mixture of emotions. As soon as I reached my apartment, I pulled out my phone and dialed Michael’s number.

He picked up on the second ring. “Sophia.”

“I caught your little spy,” I said, my voice sharp.

Silence stretched on the other end before he finally spoke. “I did what I had to do. It was for your safety.”

“I appreciate the thought,” I said, trying to keep my tone calm even though my pulse was racing, “but I do not appreciate being followed without my knowledge. That is not protection. That is control.”

“Had I told you,” he countered, his voice hard, “would you have agreed?”

I opened my mouth to retort, then stopped. He was right. I would have said no.

“…No,” I admitted quietly. “But that does not make it right. I am fine without your security, Michael. Do not ever pull a stunt like that again.”

He was silent for a moment, and then his voice softened, just barely. “Sophia…”

“Goodnight,” I cut him off and hung up before he could say more.

I set my phone down and leaned back against the seat, my thoughts spinning. He cared. He truly cared enough to watch over me. But did that care come from responsibility as his employee, or something deeper he refused to admit?

I closed my eyes, unsure if I should feel angry, grateful, or something in between.