MY NAME IN HIS STORY
1009 Words
Monday started like any other Monday.
It didn't stay that way.
I was three steps from my desk when Priya grabbed my arm.
Priya, who sat two rows over, who brought homemade lunch every day, who had never in eight months of working beside me, touched me with anything resembling urgency.
She was gripping my arm like it was a lifeline.
"Tell me it's not true," she said.
"Tell me what isn't true?"
She pulled out her phone.
Turned it to face me.
The headline was clean. Expensive looking. The kind of font serious publications used when they wanted you to know they meant it.
DAMIEN CROSS AND CELESTE HARMON CONFIRM SPLIT — SOURCES CITE MYSTERY WOMAN
I read it once.
Read it again.
The article was three paragraphs. I found my name in the second one.
Sources close to Cross confirm the billionaire has been seen with Nova Reyes, 24, a campaign strategist at Callum & Drake, the firm recently hired to handle the Cross Foundation's public outreach.
My name.
My age.
My job title.
In print.
I lowered the phone.
"Nova." Priya's voice was careful. "Is it true?"
The office noise moved around me: keyboards, conversation, the particular hum of a Monday morning that had no idea what it had just become.
"I need a minute," I said.
I made it to the bathroom.
Locked the stall.
Stood very still.
My name, printed into his life.
I hadn't been ready for that. I hadn't, in all of Saturday morning's warmth and mismatched coffee cups and his hi against my temple, thought about this part. The part where the world was watching him and, by extension, watching anyone near him.
I was near him.
I was in print near him.
I pressed my back against the stall door and breathed.
In. Out.
Again.
My phone buzzed.
Derek.
My office. Now.
Derek's office had a glass wall.
I was aware, walking toward it, that half the floor could see exactly where I was going and why. I kept my face neutral. Kept my pace steady. Walked in and closed the door behind me.
Derek was standing.
That was never good.
"Sit down," he said.
"I'll stand."
He put his phone on the desk and turned it to face me.
Same article.
My name in the second paragraph.
"Tell me," he said, "that this is a coincidence."
"Derek…"
"Tell me that the timing. You, on this account, Cross ending his engagement, your name in a gossip column forty-eight hours later. Tell me that's a coincidence and I will believe you."
I held his gaze.
I didn't tell him it was a coincidence.
His jaw tightened.
"Nova." He sat down heavily. "Do you understand what this does to the account? Do you understand what Cross Foundation will do when they see their client's name tied to one of our junior strategists in a…"
"I understand."
"Do you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you walked into a professional relationship and made it personal, and now it's in the press, and I am the one who has to…"
"Derek." My voice came out steadier than I felt. "I hear you. I understand the position this puts you in. But I need you to let me handle it."
"Handle it." He stared at me. "How exactly are you planning to…"
My phone buzzed on his desk between us.
We both looked at it.
Damien Cross on the screen.
Silence.
Derek looked at the phone.
Looked at me.
"Answer it," he said quietly.
I stepped into the corridor.
"I've seen it," I said before he could speak.
"I know." His voice was even. Controlled. Underneath it, something tight. "I'm sorry. I didn't expect it this fast."
"How did they get my name?"
"I don't know yet. I'm finding out."
I pressed my free hand flat against the wall.
"Damien." I kept my voice low. "My name is in a national publication attached to your breakup. I've been on this account for two weeks. My boss is standing ten feet away looking at me through a glass wall."
A pause.
Brief. Weighted.
"I know," he said.
"That's not enough right now."
"No," he said. "It's not." Another pause. "I'm making a statement this morning. My team is drafting it now."
"What kind of statement?"
"The kind that takes your name out of it."
Something loosened slightly in my chest.
"And if they keep pushing?"
"They won't." The certainty in his voice was absolute. Not arrogance. Just fact. The particular confidence of someone who understood exactly how much power he had and was prepared to use it.
"Nova."
"I'm here."
"I'm sorry you're handling this alone." A beat. "That's not how this was supposed to go."
I closed my eyes for exactly one second.
"It's fine," I said.
"It's not." Quiet. Firm. "But it will be."
I went back into Derek's office.
He was still standing.
"Well?" he said.
"He's releasing a statement this morning. My name won't be in it."
Derek looked at me for a long moment.
"Nova." His voice had shifted, less sharp. More tired. "I put you on this account because you're the best person I have. Don't make me regret it for the wrong reasons."
"I won't."
"If this becomes a story…"
"It won't."
He held my gaze.
Then he sat down. Picked up his coffee. Looked at his screen.
"Close the door on your way out," he said.
I sat at my desk.
Opened my laptop.
My phone buzzed.
Not Damien this time.
Unknown number.
It buzzed again.
I almost let it go.
Something made me answer.
"Hello?"
Silence for exactly two seconds.
Then a voice I recognized from a photograph caption and a three-year relationship I had no right to know anything about.
Smooth. Composed. The particular tone of someone who had rehearsed staying composed.
"Ms. Reyes." A pause. "This is Celeste Harmon."
The corridor. The glass
wall. Derek's office.
None of it had prepared me for this.
"I think," she said carefully, "that we should meet."
- Writer
