Chapter 151
Madison
The shrill ring of my phone cut through my morning routine like a chainsaw. I glanced at the screen while struggling to zip up my pencil skirt and groaned. Jackson.
My thumb hovered over the decline button. I could always claim I was in the shower or cooking. But something about ignoring him felt unnecessarily mean. With a sigh that carried the weight of social obligation, I accepted the call.
“Hello?” I wedged the phone between my ear and shoulder while searching for my other heel.
“Good morning, Maddie!” Jackson’s voice was irritatingly chipper for 7:30 AM. “Hope I didn’t wake you.”
“No, just getting ready for work,” I said, triumphantly fishing out the missing shoe.
“Perfect timing then. I’m heading to my office downtown and have to pass right by Knight Industries. Thought I could swing by and give you a ride.”
I rolled my eyes at my reflection in the mirror. Of course, he did.
“Oh, that’s so nice of you,” I said, injecting fake disappointment into my voice, “but the company car is already waiting downstairs.” The lie rolled off my tongue with practiced ease.
“Ah, company car. Moving up in the world, I see.” He sounded genuinely impressed. “Well, have you given any thought to dinner? The offer still stands.”
I checked my watch. This conversation was eating into my carefully scheduled morning routine.
“I’m kind of swamped with work right now,” I said, applying mascara one–handed. “Maybe this weekend?”
“Sure, sure. Just give me a call when you’re free.”
“Will do. Gotta run now, bye!” I hung up before he could respond, tossing my phone onto the bed.
“Why can’t he take a hint?” I muttered to myself, stepping into my heels. Men like Jackson confused me. He hadn’t directly asked me on a date, just “dinner,” which left me in this weird limbo where I couldn’t outright reject him without seeming presumptuous.
Had he asked me out in college? The memory was fuzzy. We’d hung out, and he’d always paid special attention to me, but I couldn’t remember if he’d ever made a move. Not that it mattered – I hadn’t been interested then, and I certainly wasn’t interested now.
I grabbed my purse and headed for the door, still mulling over the Jackson situation. The problem
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Chapter 151
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with guys like him was they mistook basic kindness for romantic interest. I’d agreed to coffee to catch up with an old friend, not to rekindle some non–existent flame.
The elevator arrived with a cheerful ding that matched none of my current feelings. Inside, Mrs. Goldstein from 4B was wrestling with her overloaded shopping cart.
“Morning, dear,” she said, eyeing my outfit. “My, don’t you look professional today.”
“Thanks, Mrs. G.”
“Hot date tonight?” she asked with a wink.
I nearly choked. “Just work.”
“Hmm.” She gave me a knowing look. “That skirt says otherwise.”
I glanced down at my outfit. It was a perfectly appropriate pencil skirt and blouse combo. Okay, maybe the skirt was a bit more fitted than strictly necessary, but that was beside the point.
“The skirt says, ‘I’m a competent professional who knows how to dress for success,“” I insisted.
Mrs. Goldstein cackled. “If you say so, dear.”
The elevator reached the lobby, and I escaped before she could comment further on my wardrobe
choices.
Outside, the morning air hit my face with a welcome freshness. I hailed a cab, sliding into the back
seat with a sigh of relief.
I watched the city blur past the window, mentally reviewing my to–do list for the day. The real estate project was moving forward, but countless details remained to iron out. The pressure of proving myself worthy of the promotion weighed heavily on my shoulders.
The cab pulled up to the gleaming glass building of Knight Industries. I paid the driver and stepped out, straightening my skirt and squaring my shoulders. No matter what challenges awaited me inside, I was determined to face them head–on.
The security guard nodded as I passed through the lobby. “Morning, Ms. Harper.”
“Good morning,” I replied with a smile.
The elevator ride to my floor was mercifully free of nosy coworkers. When the doors opened, I made my way to my desk with purposeful strides, greeting a few early birds along the way.
As I approached my workspace, I noticed something out of place. Several small folded notes were scattered across my keyboard and desk. Frowning, I picked one up and unfolded it.
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“Knee pads must be part of your office supplies,” it read in anonymous block letters.
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My stomach clenched as I opened another: “Wonder what position got you your promotion?”
And another: “Does Mr. Knight prefer his assistants on their backs or knees?”
Heat rushed to my face – not from embarrassment, but from anger. I crumpled the notes in my fist, looking around the office. Everyone seemed absorbed in their work, with no guilty face in sight.
“Cowards,” I muttered, sweeping the remaining notes into my trash bin.
I sank into my chair, trying to calm the storm brewing inside me. Part of me wanted to march around the office, demanding to know who had left these childish messages. But that would only feed the gossip mill.
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