Chapter 4
1463 Words
ALICE
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The email notification glowed on my phone like a live wire:
**G&E Records HR:** *"Congratulations! Your application for Executive Assistant has been approved. Please confirm your availability for an in-person interview—"*
I swiped it away just as Mark’s polished Oxfords clicked against the marble floor behind me.
"Who’s emailing you at this hour?" His fingers brushed the back of my neck as he peered over my shoulder.
I locked the screen. "Just Tiffany."
His smirk was razor-thin. "Of course."
He didn’t ask further. Why would he? In his world, I didn’t *work*. To him, to his family, to even my own parents—I was just *Alice*, the pretty freelancer-turned-fiancée who’d won the golden ticket.
The lie curdled in my stomach.
G&E Records huh?.. A memory flashed in my mind from the last night I'd spent at Tiffany’s
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**Tiffany’s Apartment
The microwave clock blinked 11:47 PM as I dug through her fridge. Three untouched bottles of Jonah’s favorite IPA sat collecting dust beside a rotting takeout container.
Tiffany slumped against the counter, peeling the label off her beer. "You know what’s f****d up?" Her voice was raw. "I keep forgetting he’s gone. Like, I’ll hear some shitty song and think *‘Jonah’s gonna hate this,’* then remember he’s not here to b***h about it."
The admission hung between us, thick as the humidity clinging to the windows.
I thought of the demo tape, of Jeremy’s handwriting on the label. Of all the things we’d left unsaid.
"Maybe that’s why you sent it in," I said quietly. "To keep him—"
"Alive?" Tiffany barked a laugh. "Nah. I sent it because you’re both being *cowards*." She jabbed her bottle at me. "You with your *‘I’m engaged’* bullshit, him with his *‘I’m married’* mess—like either of you actually *want* those people."
The truth of it stung. I stared at the peeling G&E Records sticker on her fridge—the same logo from the job listing.
"You really don’t remember where you sent it?"
Tiffany took a long swig. "Some label Jonah liked. Why?"
The microwave beeped. Neither of us moved.
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**The Next Morning - Mark’s Penthouse**
I woke to the sound of paper tearing.
Mark stood at the foot of the bed, my printed application in his hands. The G&E Records header glared up at him, bold as a slap.
His voice was eerily calm. "You *applied* to a *job*?"
I sat up slowly. The sheets pooled around me like a surrender flag.
His grip tightened, crumpling the paper. "And not just any job—*Goode Records*?" The name cracked like a whip. "*Jeremy Goode’s* company?"
I hadn’t known.
The realization must’ve flashed across my face, because his laugh was ice. "Oh, this is *rich*. You didn’t even *check*?"
He threw the application at me. It fluttered to the floor, the words *"Alice Michaels"* staring back in my own handwriting.
"Cancel it," he said.
I didn’t move.
His wedding band gleamed as he reached for his phone. "Or should I call your father? Remind him how much that *‘fancy car’* of yours costs?"
My phone buzzed twice on the nightstand.
**Tiffany:**Jonah's mom says the label wants you IN STUDIO next week. Also, you're welcome.
**Unknown Number:** *The bridge needs your voice. Just like before. - JG
Mark’s thumb hovered over his phone screen, his wedding band catching the morning light like a warning. My father’s number was already pulled up. One tap, and he’d hear how his *perfect daughter* was sabotaging her *perfect future* over some *nostalgic whim*.
I forced my voice steady. "It’s just an interview."
"Just an interview." He repeated it back to me, slow and mocking, like I’d said something naive. *Cute*. "At the company owned by the man you swore you’d never see again."
My fingers curled into the sheets. "I didn’t know it was his."
"Bullshit." The word was a blade. "You think I don’t remember how you *sounded* when you talked about him?" His gaze dropped to my throat, as if he could still see the way my pulse used to jump when Jeremy’s name came up.
The phone buzzed again between us.
**Unknown Number:** *You know where to find me.*
Mark’s jaw tightened. He didn’t need to see the screen to know who it was.
I reached for my robe, fabric whispering like a shield. "I won't cancel it."
The air between us had turned to glass—one wrong move, and it would shatter.
Mark went to stand by the floor-to-ceiling windows, the city lights casting long, jagged shadows across his face. His phone was in his hand, thumb hovering over the call button. The name on the screen: *Dad.* Not his. *Mine.*
I didn’t move from beside the bed.
"Last chance," he said, voice smooth and menacing "Cancel the interview."
I took a slow breath. The lie was right there, ready—*Fine, I’ll cancel it.* But something in me snapped.
"No."
His head tilted, just slightly. Like he hadn’t heard me right.
I straightened my shoulders. "I’m not canceling it."
A beat of silence. Then, a cold, disbelieving laugh. "You’re joking."
"I’m not."
He crossed the room in three strides, stopping just inches from me. Close enough that I could smell his cologne, the faint hint of bourbon on his breath. His voice dropped, low and lethal.
"What did you just say to me?"
I held his gaze. "I’m taking the interview."
His hand shot out, gripping my wrist hard enough to bruise. "You don’t *get* to make that decision."
I didn’t pull away. "Watch me."
For a second, he just stared at me, like he was seeing someone else. Someone who didn’t exist anymore. Then his grip tightened. "You think this is about a *job*?" he hissed. "This is about *him.* About you throwing everything away for some—"
"I’m not throwing anything away," I cut in, my voice steady despite the storm in my chest. "But I’m also not letting you decide what I do."
His jaw clenched. "You’re *mine,* Alice."
The words hung there, ugly and raw.
I yanked my arm free. "No," I said softly. "I’m not."
Something dangerous flickered in his eyes. He reached for his phone again. "Then I guess your father should know where his money’s really going."
I didn’t flinch. "Call him."
His thumb froze over the screen.
I turned and walked toward the bedroom, my pulse roaring in my ears.
"Where the hell do you think you’re going?" he demanded.
I didn’t look back. "Packing."
Silence. Then, behind me, the sound of shattering glass.
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**Tiffany’s Apartment – Two Hours Later**
I didn’t knock. The door swung open before my fist connected, and Tiffany stood there in Jonah’s old NYU sweatshirt, eyes bloodshot but sharp.
"You look like hell," she said.
"Mark knows."
She snorted, stepping aside to let me in. "Yeah, well, he was gonna find out eventually. You’re a s**t liar."
The apartment smelled like stale beer and incense, the same way it had the night Jonah’s mom called to say they’d found his car abandoned near the bridge. His guitar still leaned against the couch, a layer of dust on the strings.
I pulled out my phone and showed her Jeremy’s text.
Tiffany’s smirk faded. "Well, fuck."
"You sent the demo to *him*?"
"I told you, I don’t remember!" She grabbed a half-empty coffee cup off the counter and took a swig. "But yeah, probably. Jonah always said Jeremy was the only one who *got* your voice."
I sank onto the couch, the weight of it pressing down. Jeremy had heard the tape. He knew what was on it.
And now, so did Mark.
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**Mark’s Penthouse – That Night**
The shower was running when I got back. Steam curled under the bathroom door, and through the rush of water, I could hear Mark on the phone.
"—not a request. I need everything on Goode’s movements for the past six months." A pause. "No, *she* doesn’t leave the city."
I froze.
The water shut off. I barely had time to step back before the door opened, and Mark emerged, a towel slung low on his hips.
His gaze locked onto me. "Problem?"
I held up the takeout bag I’d grabbed on the way home. "Pad Thai."
He didn’t smile. "You’re back early."
"Tiffany had a date." The lie slid out too easily.
Mark’s phone lit up on the counter. A notification from his PI—*Goode Records: Studio Logs Attached.*
He didn’t bother hiding it. Just picked up the phone and swiped, watching my face as he did.
"Cancel the interview, Alice." His voice was soft. Dangerous. "Or I’ll do it for you."
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- Writer
