And every morning, like clockwork, I'd wake to the faint smell of her perfume. Breakfast would be waiting. She'd already be gone by the time I came out of the shower.
You'd think, considering we worked in the same damn building, we'd drive to work together. Maybe share a car, laugh about the office politics, argue about music or coffee stops. But no — not Nita.
She insisted on driving separately, leaving thirty minutes earlier.
And me? I was losing my mind.
At work, she was brilliant — cold, composed, terrifyingly efficient. Every report she presented was flawless, her numbers airtight. Watching her in the boardroom was a twisted kind of torture; she was magnetic and untouchable, her confidence making every man in that room take notice.
And I wanted to be proud of her. I was. But I also wanted to shake her until she yelled at me again, until that fire came back. Anything was better than this perfect, polite distance she maintained.
