From Neglected Wife to CEO’s Obsession novel Chapter 179

“This is the deal, Ms. Greenwood. The event is set in the capital, and everyone attending is a trailblazer in science. Of course, there’ll be veterans like Mr. White, too. Mr. Swanson needs a date with real professional credentials. PR just isn’t a good fit.”

“What if the PR team got some training?”

Please, stop dangling Mr. White in front of me like it’s some irresistible carrot. I’ve fallen for that before and it never ends well.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Greenwood. There just isn’t enough time.”

“There are plenty of smart, qualified women at Elite Tech. Need me to introduce you to a few?”

“Ms. Greenwood, are you saying there’s someone at this company more qualified than you—our Director of Engineering?”

...Well, that’s a trap. No matter how I answer, I’d be digging myself into a hole. Either way, I’d end up looking foolish.

“When do we leave? How long will we be gone? I’ll go pack.”

“No need to bring anything. This is business—everything’s taken care of. We leave in thirty minutes. Please be ready.”

Thank god they gave me a half-hour’s notice. Any less and I wouldn’t even have time for a bathroom break.

I ducked into the break room, fixed myself a coffee, and grabbed a couple of snacks to keep my blood sugar steady on the road. I barely took a sip before my phone rang—a delivery was here. Vicky, who’d been helping me, dropped what she was doing and zipped out like she’d just heard a fire alarm.

She’s been way too interested in my packages lately.

She came back holding a slim, rectangular box. “Avery, you got something from Thompson Corporation—same-day delivery.”

The box looked familiar. I opened it up. Inside was a brand-new journal. The cover had a lush, leafy tree, and if you looked closer, the trunk and branches were actually a single calligraphic word looping around itself. It reminded me of the journal Marissa had given me.

I opened it to the first page. The top half had a delicate sketch of a jasmine branch, nine tiny white blossoms in full bloom.

Nine—the number for forever, endless happiness. At least, that’s what people say. It’s supposed to be a good omen.

Below the drawing, in neat, old-school script, was a message:

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