Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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IT'S SAFE TO SAY I don't walk to work with Margo. The second I realise there's absolutely no reasoning with her—that she's hell-bent on destroying my career—I get to my feet and leave the overly crowded café without looking back. I don't respond or say goodbye, refusing to acknowledge her existence any more than I already have.
I don't care if it's rude.
I feel like I've narrowly escaped with my life.
When I coast onto the concrete footpath and head in the general direction of Elevated's HQ, it occurs to me that I'm trembling a little. It's freaking cold outside, but mostly, it's because I'm so hopped up on adrenaline and caffeine. So on edge after my run-in with Margo.
The entire ten-minute trek to work, my brain obsessively breaks down and sorts through my limited options—asking Max for help (even though we're equally culpable), fessing up to Veronica before Margo can show her the video and accepting my fate, or . . . resigning. Again.
I really don't want to do that. I don't want to pack up my office and pretend that coming back here was a mistake. But I also don't know if I have much of a choice.
My stomach hollows further.
It doesn't help that I'd rather eat glass than spend any more time with Margo, but alas, we work together, so I need to find a way to be okay with seeing her again in the staffroom, in our flexible workspace . . . literally everywhere I turn. All day, I'm going to be reminded of her threats, of the heavy noose she's tied around my neck.
The weight of just thinking about that—not even actively dealing with it—presses down on me, suffocating.
I drag a much-needed breath into my lungs.
Don't panic.
Don't make any rash decisions.
Don't let her get to you.
The automatic doors to the office building slide open, and I enter the heated lobby, forcing my outward composure back into place. I scan my ID card, wait for the elevator, and then press the button for the eleventh floor on the panel.
As the elevator ascends, the illuminated numbers climbing the closer I get to reception, the impending sense of dread I've been carrying around deepens. However I decide to handle this, I do know one thing: the chances of my career still being intact by the end of the day are low.
Abysmally low.
My time at Elevated may as well be over.
Even if Max comes to my rescue—big, fat if—he'll probably ask one of his big-shot connections if they have any openings at their company. It'll be one of our long-time competitors. Worse, in a completely different industry. I'll be transferred, and Margo will be gloating over her victory.
