Chapter Eight – The Rival
346 Words
The following Monday, the office buzzed with unusual energy. Amara noticed the change immediately—staff whispering in corners, secretaries adjusting their hair, the air alive with anticipation.
She didn’t have to wait long to find out why.
The elevator doors slid open, and a woman stepped out as though she owned the building. Tall, elegant, draped in designer silk, with heels that clicked like a metronome of power. Her red lips curved into a knowing smile, her eyes scanning the room before settling on Adrian’s office.
“Who is that?” Amara whispered to a colleague.
The woman grinned. “Vanessa Monroe. Socialite. Business heiress. Rumored to be Adrian Cole’s… everything.”
Amara’s stomach tightened. She tried to focus on her screen, but when Vanessa swept into Adrian’s office without knocking, the door closing behind her, concentration became impossible.
Minutes turned into an hour, then two. Amara’s imagination betrayed her—what were they discussing? Business? Pleasure? Both?
Finally, the door opened. Vanessa emerged, laughing softly, her manicured hand brushing Adrian’s arm. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t stop her either.
“Lunch this week?” Vanessa purred.
“We’ll see,” Adrian replied evenly.
Their eyes met, and for a fleeting second, Amara swore Adrian’s gaze flickered past Vanessa—straight to her.
But then Vanessa noticed. She turned, her sharp eyes raking over Amara like a critic appraising a cheap painting. “And who is this?”
Amara rose politely. “Amara Johnson. Mr. Cole’s assistant.”
Vanessa’s smirk widened. “Assistant. Of course.” She leaned closer, lowering her voice but loud enough to sting. “Careful, darling. Men like Adrian don’t… settle.”
Before Amara could respond, Vanessa glided away, leaving behind the faint trail of expensive perfume and poisoned words.
Amara sank back into her chair, pulse unsteady. She hated how much it bothered her, how much she cared.
But what unsettled her most wasn’t Vanessa’s warning.
It was the fact that when she dared glance at Adrian again, his eyes were still on her. Watc
hing. Measuring. Almost… conflicted.
- Writer
