Chapter 21 Seraphine
The elevator jolted violently.
My breath caught.
He turned toward me with that smile — greasy, slow, crawling across his face like mold spreading over bread.
“Well,” he said, adjusting his suspenders, “that was quite the performance out there.”
I stayed still. “Ted deserved it. He crossed a line.”
“Oh, he crossed several,” Brantley agreed warmly. “But you, Vale…” He let his eyes roam over me, lingering on the curve of my waist in Amara’s blouse. “You crossed a few lines of your own today. Didn’t you?”
I stiffened.
He took a half step closer, hands behind his back like he was a middle school principal about to deliver a lecture.
“You know, Vale,” he said softly, “I used to think you’d be gone by now.”
I gripped my bag tighter.
Don’t speak. Don’t flinch.
He continued, his voice full of a sick kind of admiration.
“You’re persistent,” he said. “I’ll give you that. Most girls with your… insecurities? They don’t last long in this business. They break. Collapse. They quit. But not you.” His eyes narrowed. “Even after James.”
My stomach dropped.
“What about James?” I forced out.
He waved a hand casually. “Oh don’t get sensitive. You know what I mean. He went digging into the wrong story and—” Brantley snapped his fingers. “Poof. Gone.”
I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood.
“But you,” he said, pausing as if truly impressed, “you keep going. You do everyone’s work. You clean up everyone’s mess. You rewrite Ted’s garbage drafts. You edit every column. You stay late. You take the stories no one else will touch.”
My heart hammered.
“And let’s not pretend I haven’t noticed.”
He tapped the elevator wall.
“I know exactly how good you are.”
The compliment should’ve felt good.
It didn’t.
It felt like a rope tightening around my neck.
Brantley stepped a little closer, voice dropping lower.
“You’re the best editor here. Better than Ted, better than the newbies, better than everyone.” He nodded approvingly at my outfit. “And today… you decided to show it.”
I swallowed back the bile rising in my throat.
He wasn’t done.
“But let’s be honest,” he said, leaning in slightly, “you’re not exactly the network’s dream face. You’re not… what the board calls ‘camera-friendly.’”
Every syllable hit like a slap.
“They want thin. Polished. A certain image,” he continued. “Meanwhile you’ve been hiding behind your sweaters like you’re ashamed to take up space.”
His gaze fell to my hip, to the curve of my thigh under my tailored trousers.
“But today…” he smiled, slow and revolting, “…you actually dressed like you believe you belong here.”
I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt.
“You have a figure, Vale. Who knew?”
He chuckled.
“Under all that fabric, who would’ve guessed?”
My heart pounded so loudly I almost couldn’t hear him.
“I was just telling Ted,” Brantley went on, “that I might promote him. Assistant editor. That’s what the board expects. But you…” His eyes gleamed. “You make me reconsider.”
I felt like the floor had vanished.
“Sir…” I whispered.
“Oh, don’t ‘sir’ me,” he said lightly. “This is a… private conversation. A mutually beneficial one.”
No.
No, it wasn’t.
“I’ll be honest,” he said, rubbing his jaw, “the board doesn’t want you in a public-facing role. They think—well—someone with your body distracts viewers.” He shrugged. “Their words.”
My face burned, humiliation and rage mixing like acid.
“But,” he continued, taking another step closer until I could smell his cologne — cheap, sour, suffocating,
“I don’t care what the board wants.”
He lowered his voice to something intimate and rotten.
“I prefer a woman with curves. A woman who looks like a woman. Not those little broomsticks the interns trip over.”
He let that hang in the air between us.
Sick.
Smothering.
Heavy.
“And I know,” he added softly, “that you’d be… very appreciative of someone recognizing your worth.”
I pressed back against the elevator wall.
“What are you saying?” My voice was tight.
He smiled wider.
Like he’d been waiting for me to ask.
“I’m saying,” he said smoothly, “that I can make you assistant editor. Permanently. I can ensure your job security. Your future. Your salary. All the things you deserve.” He paused. “But you need to show me you want it.”
My stomach turned so violently I thought I might throw up.
“You scratch my back, I scratch yours,” he said.
“That’s how this business works. That’s how it’s always worked.”
My hands shook uncontrollably.
He leaned in so close I could see the stubble he missed under his chin.
“One night, Vale,” he murmured.
“One night with me. No one needs to know. You can have anything you want.”
My throat closed.
My lungs refused to move.
“You interested, Vale?”
My mouth opened, but nothing came out.
He waited.
He enjoyed waiting.
The power sat in the silence.
Finally, I forced out one word:
“…No.”
It was barely a whisper.
But it was mine.
Brantley smirked like he’d expected that answer.
Like “no” simply meant “convince me.”
“You’ll think about it,” he said.
Not a question.
A command.
He pressed the emergency stop switch again.
The elevator jerked violently back into motion.
I stayed rigid, shaking, swallowing back everything clawing up my throat.
When the doors opened, he stepped out first.
I stepped out second — in the opposite direction.
Just before the doors sealed shut, his voice floated to me:
“You have until Friday. Don’t waste the opportunity.”
I didn’t breathe until the doors closed.
Then I ran.
Straight to the women’s room.
All but collapsed into the farthest stall.
Locked it.
Slid to the floor.
Pressed my fist to my mouth so the sob wouldn’t escape.
My heartbeat roared in my ears, so loud I thought it might crack my ribs.
I tasted acid.
I tasted humiliation.
I tasted rage.
Mom’s voice echoed in my head —
Never let them see you fold, Vale. They’re already waiting for it.
I wiped the tears off my cheeks — hard — refusing to let them fall again.
I wouldn’t fold.
Not for Ted.
Not for Brantley.
Not for anyone.
My hands shook as I reached for my phone.
My thumbs hovered.
I typed:
Drinks tonight?
And hit send before I could stop myself.