Jennifer came back to work two days after the sprain, even though every single person in her life begged her to stay on the couch. Cookie had cornered her the four nights before, voice low and urgent: "You've got one brutal month until Garden of Grace. Rest." Jennifer just smiled, the same calm smile she'd given Vincent, the same one she'd given Carlos. "Shape isn't legs, Cookie. Shape is here." She tapped her temple. "My mind's ready. The rest of me will catch up."
So that morning she walked into the lobby like she owned the marble under her sneakers (back straight, chin high, black cotton tunic fluttering over white jeans). She felt electric, and she knew exactly why: three straight nights of pretending with Vincent—pretending they were only roommates, only colleagues, only two people who happened to share the same roof and the same stubborn insomnia.
Last night he'd kissed her until the room spun, then pulled away with a ragged "Get some sleep, Jennifer." Something in his eyes had shuttered, and whatever it was, it sat heavy on her ribs. But today was work. Today she could shove it all into a drawer and lock it.
"Hey…" Cassandra came skidding around the corner, ponytail whipping like a banner.
"Cass." Jennifer's smile felt real for the first time in days. They hugged quick and fierce.
Cassandra stepped back, eyes narrowing. "You look… different."
Jennifer felt heat crawl up her neck. "Turns out eight hours of sleep is a hell of a filter."
"Uh-huh." Cassandra cocked one perfectly sculpted brow. "Sleep, or peace of mind?"
Jennifer opened her mouth, closed it, opened it again. Cassandra's palms pressed together in mock prayer. "Tiny harmless question?"
"Shoot."
"What exactly is going on with you and Mr. Moretti?" The name tumbled out so fast Cassandra slapped a hand over her own lips like she could stuff it back in. "I'm sorry!"
Jennifer laughed—short, surprised, honest. "I'm not gonna stab you, relax." She started walking again; Cassandra fell in beside her like a shadow with opinions.
"So? Friends? Friends who frost each other's cupcakes? Give me something."
"I don't… know." Jennifer watched the elevator numbers climb. "I've never really had a friend, Cass. I'm still learning the definition."
"Ouch." Cassandra's voice softened. "Well, you've got me now."
"Mmhmm."
The doors slid open on ten. Cassandra leaned in, voice dropped to conspiratorial velvet. "No buttering the biscuit? No sampling the honey pot? No midnight trip to Pound Town?"
Jennifer choked on air. "You are not as innocent as you look."
"Girl, I'm a walking sin tax." Cassandra looped an arm around Jennifer's shoulders. "Spill."
Jennifer stopped outside the dressing rooms. "Fine. We've kissed."
Cassandra's squeal could've peeled paint. "Define 'kissed.'"
"Five times. Maybe six. I lost count after he used tongue."
"Atta girl!" Cassandra high-fived the air. "So why stop at kissing?"
Jennifer's smile faded. "He's got a lot on his plate. Divorce papers. A mother who thinks I'm not worth her son. And I've got… me. Which is already a full-time disaster."
Cassandra nudged her with a hip. "He knows how you feel?"
Jennifer exhaled. "I may have blurted it out at two a.m. while he was making cocoa."
Cassandra clutched imaginary pearls. "Jennifer!"
"What? It slipped!"
"You never lead with the heart, babe. You let them chase. You're the prize."
Jennifer's laugh was soft, a little broken. "In my story, Cass, he's the prize. I'm the girl who grew up believing love was just two idiots taking turns hurting each other."
Cassandra opened her mouth, closed it, then opened it again. "Damn. That's bleakly poetic."
"Don't worry," Jennifer said, pushing through the door. "I still like him enough to be stupid."
Cassandra grinned. "Welcome to the club."
"But you're totally gone for Mr. Pretty-Boy, aren't you?"
"Don't call him that," Jennifer snapped, cheeks flaring. Cassandra threw her head back and cackled like a hyena on helium.
Jennifer folded her arms, eyes glinting. "Maybe if you marched up to your crush and used actual words instead of that glittery pocket rocket while picturing his face, who knows? You two might already be picking out couple mugs."
Cassandra's jaw dropped. "Ouch, babe. Right in the batteries."
Jennifer's laugh spilled out, bright and unapologetic. "I said I was sorry!"
Cassandra flicked her ponytail, mock-haughty. "William's playing in the majors and I'm still warming the bench in pee-wee league."
Jennifer arched a brow. "I thought women were the prize?"
"Point taken," Cassandra sighed, rolling her eyes so hard they nearly looped. "But even if I magically leveled up, Natalia's been riding that man like a mechanical bull in the tenth-floor storeroom. Every. Single. Day. Soundtrack's NSFW and the walls are thin."
Jennifer recoiled. "What?"
"Moans, thumps, the occasional 'yes, daddy.' I need noise-canceling headphones and a priest."
Jennifer shook her head, half-laughing, half-horrified. "You shouldn't be eavesdropping."
"I'm not eavesdropping," Cassandra protested, "I'm involuntarily enrolled in their porno podcast. There's a difference."
They spilled into the hallway just as Natalia rounded the corner, hips rolling like she was on a runway that existed only in her head. A faint bruise bloomed beneath the makeup on her left cheek—someone's palm print, fresh and angry.
"If it isn't Veloura's favorite charity cases," she sang.
Cassandra didn't miss a beat. "Wow. Zero shame. Tell me, does your great-aunt air-drop rescue missions now?"
Natalia's smile thinned. "She's a donor, darling. Donors get VIP."
"Lying comes easy when your whole career's a filter," Cassandra shot back.
Cookie's voice cut through the hallway. "Cass! Robe check, now."
Cassandra squeezed Jennifer's hand. "I got you." Then she was gone.
Natalia turned the full wattage of her sneer on Jennifer. "Thought you'd still be crying in a corner, number two."
Jennifer stepped around her. Natalia's hand clamped on her wrist like a cuff.
"You answer when I speak, trash."
Jennifer met her eyes. "I'm late for work. Move."
Natalia leaned in, perfume choking. "Vincent won't always be around to save you."
"Funny. Trouble and I take the same Uber." Jennifer twisted free.
Natalia's phone appeared between them. A grainy photo: William's arms around Jennifer in the bathroom, her face buried in his shoulder the night he'd found her shaking. "Already forwarded to my aunt. Vincent's inbox should ping any second."
Jennifer felt the floor tilt. "You're pathetic."
Natalia's hand rose—slow, theatrical. Jennifer braced for the sting.
"Natalia!" William's voice cracked like a whip. He crossed the hall in four strides, hands in his pockets, calm as Sunday brunch. "What did you call her?"
Natalia faltered. "William—"
"I swear, if I see you within ten feet of her again, I'll forget I was raised polite." His tone never rose, but Natalia shrank anyway. She fled, heels stabbing the marble.
William turned to Jennifer. "I'm sorry—"
"Don't." Jennifer stepped back. "I didn't ask for your white-knight routine."
He caught her wrist before she could bolt. One tug and she collided with his chest; his arm locked around her waist like iron. He dipped his head until his breath grazed her cheek. "I'll have you, Jen. Willing or not." His tongue flicked the tip of her nose—wet, deliberate, wrong. Then he let go.
The hallway blurred. Voss's laughter echoed in her skull. She ran, shoulder slamming the bathroom door, tears already burning.
***
Vincent stood at the study window, sunlight flickering across the bourbon in his glass. Files on Edson Fords lay scattered like confetti from a bad party. Nothing. Not one damn thread. Worry for Jennifer gnawed harder than the alcohol—two days back at work on a sprained ankle. He'd texted three times; she'd answered with thumbs-up emojis. Emojis. He was losing his mind.
The doorbell rang once, twice. He'd given the staff the weekend off, sent his mother to her sister's. He carried the glass downstairs, yanked the door open, and the afternoon went cold.
Tracy strolled in, red-soled heels clicking. "Still have that effect on you, darling?"
Vincent's knuckles whitened around the tumbler. "What do you want?"
She smiled like a cat who'd swallowed the sun. "I came to show you what your little saint's been doing behind your back." She flicked her phone alive; the screen glowed with the bathroom photo—Jennifer folded into William's arms, eyes closed, lips parted.