In His Sheet

Episode 013

I didn’t stay long after that.

The music was still playing, people were still laughing, glasses still clinking as if nothing had happened, but something in me had already checked out. I found Elise eventually.

“Hey,” she said, immediately noticing my face. “Are you okay?”

“I’m just tired,” I replied, forcing a small smile. “I think I’m going to head home.”

Her brows pulled together slightly. “Already? You just got here. Did something happen?”

“Long day,” I said lightly. “Work.”

She studied me for a second longer, like she wasn’t entirely convinced, but then she nodded. “Okay… text me when you get home, alright?”

“I will.”

She hugged me again, soft, warm, genuine.

The ride back to my side of the city was a quiet, suffocating blur. I sat near the grime-smeared window of the night bus, my fingers tightly gripping the torn strap of the emerald gown. The fabric felt like a shroud now, a heavy reminder of how quickly a mask can be ripped away. The cold weight of Adrian Holt’s words echoed in my ears, repeating with every shudder of the bus engine.

Loose models. The street where you belong.

He hadn't just looked at me with anger; he had looked at me with the kind of absolute apathy reserved for dirt on an expensive shoe. To him, I wasn't even a threat. I was just another nameless girl trading her dignity for a piece of the penthouse view.

When I unlocked the apartment door, the apartment smelled faintly of boiled potatoes and cheap vapor rub. Joan was curled up on our sagging armchair, a textbook cracked open on her lap. She blinked against the dim light, shaking herself awake the moment the door clicked shut.

"Mara?" She stood up, her eyes immediately tracking the way I was clutching my shoulder. Her expression hardened instantly. "What happened? Did someone tou—"

"No," I whispered, my voice sounding hollow even to myself. I kicked off the borrowed heels, the sudden contact with the cold linoleum floor grounding me. "Someone stopped him."

Joan let out a breath, her shoulders dropping. "Thank God. Who?"

"Adrian Holt."

The room went entirely still. Joan stared at me, her mouth slightly open. "Mr Holt, but isn't he coming to your office next Friday?"

"He thinks I'm a call-girl, Joan," I said, a bitter laugh escaping my throat as I walked over to the small sink to wash my face. I scrubbed at the expensive makeup until my skin burned bright red. "He thinks Leonard brought me there as entertainment. He told me to get out of his sight before he had security throw me into the street."

Joan walked over, wrapping her arms around my shoulders from behind. "Firstly, who the f**k is Leonard? And also Mara... you can't go to that meeting next week. What if he recognizes you—"

"I have to go. Besides, I doubt that he would. We were only together for a few minutes," I snapped, turning around to face her. My eyes were wide, a dangerous fire finally breaking through the numbness in my chest. "If I skip that review, Clara will fire me. If I lose this job, the medicine stops. The rent doesn't get paid. We're right back to where we started."

"But what if he did and calls you out in front of Clara—"

"He won't," I said, though my heart hammered against my ribs at the mere thought. "To him, I'm nobody. A face in a dark hallway. He didn't hear my name. He doesn't know Mara Collins exists. Next Friday, I just have to be invisible. I’ll keep my head down, hand out the folders, and let him focus on Clara."

Joan looked at me for a long, silent moment before sighing. "You're playing with dynamite, Mara."

"Then I'll just have to be careful with the match."

The next seven days were an exercise in mental torture.

The Allegra Group office was a pressure cooker. Sarah was constantly on edge, barking orders at the interns and double-checking every single document in the Project Alpha binder. Clara spent her days locked in her office, her voice carrying through the frosted glass as she argued with catering vendors and floral designers.

Every time the elevator doors slid open on our floor, my stomach dropped into my throat. Every car that pulled up outside the building made my breath hitch.

I threw myself into the work, making myself completely indispensable. I organized the quarterly spreadsheets until my eyes blurred, memorized the seating charts, and made sure Clara’s coffee was exactly how she liked it before she even had to ask. I needed to be the perfect assistant. If I were perfect, Clara might protect me.

By Thursday night, the entire office was pristine. The glass conference table was polished to a mirror shine, and twelve identical leather folders sat precisely three inches from the edge of the mahogany seats.

I didn't sleep a wink that night.

Friday morning arrived with a cold, grey drizzle that matched the dread pooling in my gut. I dressed in my most boring, conservative outfit—a high-necked black blouse, a charcoal gray skirt that fell past my knees, and my hair pulled back into a bun so tight it pulled at my scalp. No makeup. No jewelry. Just a nameless corporate drone.

At 8:45 AM, the entire senior staff was lined up in the lobby. Clara stood at the front, her red lipstick looking like a splash of fresh blood against her pale, tense face. Sarah was right behind her, nervously clicking her pen.

I stood at the very back of the line, half-hidden behind a massive indoor palm tree, my hands folded neatly in front of me.

"He's here," the receptionist whispered, her voice trembling.

Through the massive glass front doors, a sleek, ink-black Maybach glided to a halt. Two security guards in identical dark suits stepped out first, scanning the perimeter before one of them opened the back door.

A long, polished leather shoe hit the wet pavement.

He stepped out.

Even in the drab morning light, his presence was staggering. He wore a midnight-blue bespoke suit that emphasized his massive frame, his dark hair immaculate despite the damp wind. His expression was a mask of cold, unreadable authority as he walked toward the entrance, his long strides forcing his assistants to practically jog to keep up.

The glass doors slid open, and the temperature in the lobby seemed to drop five degrees.

"Mr. Holt," Clara said, stepping forward with her most dazzling, professional smile. "Welcome to Allegra Group. We have everything prepared for the presentation."

Adrian didn't smile. He gave her a brief, dismissive nod, his steel-grey eyes already scanning the lobby with piercing efficiency. "Let's make this quick, Clara. I have a flight to London at noon."

"Of course. Right this way," Clara said, guiding him toward the executive elevator.

As the group moved forward, I fell into step at the very back, keeping my eyes firmly glued to the floor. Just stay invisible, I repeated like a mantra. Just a few hours.

The conference room was dead silent as everyone took their seats. Adrian sat at the head of the long table, his presence dominating the entire space. His laptop clicked open, and he didn't waste a single second. "Let's start with the luxury division projections."

Clara stood up, clicking to the first slide on the screen, her voice steady and confident as she began her pitch.

For the first twenty minutes, it worked perfectly. I stood in the shadowed corner near the back door, waiting for my cue. Adrian was entirely focused on the data, his sharp brow furrowed as he occasionally interrupted Clara with a brutal, cutting question about the margins. He didn't look at the staff. He didn't look at me.

"Mara," Sarah whispered under her breath, nudging my elbow. "Hand out the supplementary financial sheets. Now."

My throat went entirely dry.