Chapter 4
I got in at seven-thirty the next morning. The office looked different in daylight. The dark wood desk was just a desk. The windows showed the street seven floors down instead of bokeh lights. I’d covered the circles under my eyes and put my hair back in the same low bun, and I kept the cream blouse buttoned to the top. I turned on my computer, turned off the lamp, and started answering emails like nothing had happened.
My name is Emily, and I was trying to make the night before disappear by being early.
Daniel Reid arrived at eight. Black suit, same silver watch on his left wrist. He didn’t say anything about last night when he passed my desk, just a quiet “Morning, Emily” and a nod. I nodded back. My hands were steady on the keyboard. I’d told myself I could hold the other part of my life outside this room for eight hours.
At 9:04 the desk phone rang.
It wasn’t my cell. It was the office line, the hard trill that cuts through everything. My shoulders jerked before I could stop them. I flinched, hard, my hand knocking against the mouse. The phone rang again. I caught myself and reached for it too fast, like I was trying to cover the reaction.
“Reid Capital, this is Emily,” I said. My voice came out higher than I wanted.
It was a vendor confirming a delivery. I wrote down the time, said thank you, hung up. My breathing was shallow. I didn’t look up, but I felt him looking from his doorway.
He didn’t comment. He waited until I’d finished logging the call, then said, “Emily, can you bring your notepad in for a minute?”
That was how he did a closed-door check-in. He left his door open two inches. I took my notepad and the call log sheet I’d started.
His office smelled like coffee and paper. He stayed standing by the window at first, then sat on the edge of his desk, not behind it. It kept the distance professional.
“You said you’d log them,” he said. His voice was low, controlled calm. “Did you?”
I slid the sheet across the dark wood toward him. I’d written it out that morning before anyone else was in. Three lines. Date, time, number. I’d blacked out the last four digits with a marker.
He looked at it, didn’t touch the marker part. “Same number each time?”
“Yes,” I said.
“After hours?”
“Mostly.” My throat tightened. “Evenings. Once early morning.”
He studied the pattern, not the redacted digits. He didn’t ask me to uncover them. “Emily, this is the office line now too,” he said quietly. “That changes things.”
“It was one call on the office line last week,” I said. It sounded like an excuse even to me. “I didn’t think— I didn’t want to make it a thing here.”
He nodded once. He didn’t push. “I’m not going to pull the system logs without your okay. That’s not how we do this. But I want you to have options that don’t involve you handling it alone.”
He opened his desk drawer and took out a plain card, slid it next to my log. Employee Assistance Program. Confidential legal aid. Number on the back.
“I’ve seen this before with staff,” he said. “They have people who can advise without it becoming an HR file unless you want it to. No report goes anywhere unless you sign it.”
I stared at the card. The letters blurred a little. I thought about the seven days, about what I actually owed and why, and how saying the number out loud would make me look irresponsible. I thought about rent.
“I appreciate it,” I said. My hand didn’t move toward the card right away. “I don’t want a formal report. Not yet. It’s — it’s a personal debt thing. It’s not a safety issue for the company.”
“It’s a safety issue if it comes through that phone,” he said, not unkindly. He tapped the log lightly. “I hear you on not reporting. I won’t escalate without your consent. But I need you to promise me something in return.”
I finally picked up the card, just to hold it. “What?”
“If he calls the office line again — today, tomorrow, ever — you tell me that day. You don’t cover it, you don’t log it and wait. You tell me.”
The phone had not rung again, but I could still hear that trill in my ears. My hand had stopped trembling.
“I will,” I said. “If it’s the office line, I’ll tell you.”
He held my gaze for a second, then let it go. “Okay. Keep the log. Keep it accurate.”
May you like
I took the sheet back, the redacted numbers stark against the white. When I stood, he was still standing too, silver watch catching the daylight. He opened the door for me but didn’t touch my shoulder, didn’t close the space like he had the night before.
Back at my desk, I slipped the EAP card into my drawer under a stack of envelopes. I promised myself I’d keep the log clean, and that I would keep the rest out of here. And I listened to the quiet office, waiting for a phone I now had to report.
