Chapter Three: The Ex-Factor Disaster
1063 Words
The office smelled like cheap coffee and desperation. Arabella stood in the hallway, clutching a spray bottle and a too-clean microfiber cloth as she was about to enter battle. Which, in a way, she was.
“Why does this building look like the mafia’s Pinterest board?” Allison asked, eyes wide as she took in the mahogany walls, dark leather chairs, and dramatic golden accents.
Arabella tilted her head. “Because it probably is.”
Allison blinked. “Wait, what?”
Arabella shrugged, smirking. “Just a hunch." You didn’t read the contract?”
“Babe, I skimmed. If I see more than two paragraphs, my brain throws a tantrum.”
“Explains your dating history.”
“Low blow, Bell.”
They were standing in the admin hallway just off the main office floor, where they'd been assigned their first day of work—cleaning and organizing the second-floor executive offices. Not the penthouse yet. Not Xavier’s level. Just the floor where important-looking people yelled into phones and wore designer suits like they were born in them.
Arabella still wore her Dollar Store lip gloss and slightly-too-tight jeans.
Today wasn’t about reaching the top floor. It was about surviving without cussing out someone in Prada.
They split duties. Allison, with her weaponized charm, fluttered around the front office, pretending to dust while eavesdropping on dramatic client calls. Arabella got stuck in a glass-walled corner office filled with files that hadn’t been touched since fax machines were in style.
She knelt to sort through a drawer, muttering to herself. “Who the hell needs this many paper clips? Is there a black market for this stuff?”
“Don’t ask questions,” Allison called from the hall. “If you find a suitcase full of cash, act blind.”
Arabella laughed, dusting the edge of the desk. “Right. Mafia rule number one.”
She was halfway through trying to plug in a dead office fan when she heard Allison gasp. A dramatic, horror-movie-worthy gasp. The kind that only meant one thing.
Trouble.
Arabella popped her head out of the office, and the moment she saw who walked in, her heart dropped like it owed someone money.
There he was. Her ex.
Logan freaking Parker.
Wearing a white button-up too crisp to be legal and holding hands with a walking i********: filter—his new girlfriend, a blonde with lashes longer than her legs and a laugh that could break glass.
Arabella froze. Her heart tried to claw out of her chest. She hadn’t seen him since the breakup, and the universe apparently had zero chill about how he’d make his comeback.
“Bell?” Logan blinked in fake surprise. “Wow, I didn’t know you worked… here.”
Arabella straightened, suddenly aware that she was wearing a cleaner badge and holding a bottle of Windex like it was a teddy bear.
“Logan,” she said, with all the icy grace she could muster. “Didn’t realize this place let in rats.”
Allison, bless her, snorted behind her palm.
Logan chuckled like he was on a sitcom. “Still got that fiery attitude. I told you it wouldn’t get you far.”
The blonde leaned in. “Babe, is this the ex you said had ‘potential’ but was too angry at the world?”
Arabella blinked. Then smiled sweetly. “And you must be the discount version of me.”
The girl blinked. “Excuse me?”
“Sorry. That’s rude to discounts.”
Allison had to turn around to hide her laughter, shoulders shaking. Arabella could feel the c***k in her own composure though—because even while she smiled, her heart ached.
Logan used to hold her hand at rainy bus stops, promising her they'd escape their small lives together. He once told her she was the storm and the rainbow, all in one.
Now he stood in a skyscraper office with a newer model, looking at her like she was gum stuck to his shoe.
“You still cleaning up messes, Bell?” he asked, glancing at the spray bottle. “Guess some things never change.”
Arabella blinked fast.
Don’t cry. Don’t cry. If you cry, he wins. And Allison will probably throw a stapler.
She took a breath, placed the spray bottle down, and smiled wide. “Yes. Speaking of messes… how’s your credit score?”
Logan’s smirk faltered.
“You look good,” he said after a moment, softer now. Like that would fix it. “Healthier.”
“I started walking away from toxic people,” Arabella replied smoothly. “It’s great cardio.”
And with that, she turned around and walked back into the office.
Allison followed, shutting the glass door like it was sealing them in a bomb shelter.
“Okay,” she said, her voice low. “Do we need to bury him? Because I have a shovel in my trunk.”
Arabella sat on the desk, arms folded. “No. But if he gets hit by a pigeon with stomach problems on his way out, I won’t cry.”
Allison patted her back. “You were brilliant. That ‘discount version’ line? Iconic. Emmy-worthy.”
Arabella chuckled through the tightness in her chest. “Yeah. Felt like I was back on stage.”
“Stage of what?”
“Heartbreak. Starring: Me. Featuring Logan’s emotional constipation.”
They sat in silence for a beat.
“I really thought he was my forever,” Arabella admitted, her voice softer. “And now he’s out there making TikToks with Barbie 2.0.”
Allison leaned against the desk. “You were his upgrade, not the other way around. He’s going to realize that one day. Probably while his new girl was asking how to spell ‘entrepreneur.’”
Arabella smiled, finally letting herself exhale. “You’re the best.”
“Obviously. Also, side note, we might’ve missed cleaning the break room fridge… and something in there is growling.”
Arabella laughed. The ache was still there, but it was smaller now—buried under sarcasm and sisterhood.
She looked up toward the ceiling, wondering if the penthouse could hear them from here.
“Let’s just survive today,”
She said. “Then tomorrow, we will tackle the fridge. And maybe fate.”
Allison nodded. “One moldy container at a time.”
- Writer
