Chapter 11

In college I was diagnosed with generalized anxiety disorder, or GAD, for short.

It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to me but it did, even though I’d been anxious for most of my life, worrying excessively about everything, so that at one point it became a running joke between my parents—how once when I was fifteen, I’d gotten so fixated on how the ceiling fans in our house could randomly fall on us at any time that I had constant panic attacks, which only let up when they all got replaced by standing fans.

That was one of many examples they had of me going off the deep end over an event that wasn’t likely to occur, which in turn meant my GAD held me prisoner, though years of involuntary practice meant I’d gotten good at managing it even as I went undiagnosed.

All of that fell apart over my third year, when my grandmother, Marie (who I’d been close to), died in her sleep.

I became wracked with a debilitating apprehension as soon as I heard, convinced that the next time I slept I would die, and this feeling took me through a six-day caffeine-induced haze that only ended when I collapsed from sheer exhaustion in one of my classes, though even then I had to be sedated before I slept.

I had never experienced anything on that scale prior to or after, and whenever I tried to explain those six days to people I always felt like my descriptions fell short. It wasn’t that I thought I was going to die. It was that I knew, and subsequently my brain had worked me into a state of such complete terror that I simply became blind to reality.

As I made my way to Rita’s office, fresh-faced from the bathroom after having cleaned off my makeup since I could attempt nothing more than a mere dab of lipstick, I considered the options I had spread out in front of me.

I was better now, as years of therapy and being on antidepressants had made managing my symptoms easier, but before even interviewing for the position at Wilkinson I’d done my research to make sure their health insurance policies were golden, and they had mental health workplace priority.

Rita would’ve been informed of my GAD diagnosis, since I’d let HR know and it was already registered as a psychological disability, so I couldn’t be fired. She could suggest I take a medical leave though, which wouldn’t bode well for me so early on in my career here.

Usually I did phenomenally under pressure as I’d had my whole life to practice; at least until I didn’t, but this time my breakdown was warranted, and I felt like anyone in my position would’ve reacted the same way.

I was justified, but it didn’t stop my confidence from faltering as each step drew me closer to Rita, and by the time I arrived at my destination I was prepared to go down on my knees and beg for another chance. I’d sacrificed my pride, spontaneously bursting into tears in front of my entire floor the way I did, and I figured that the little I had left wouldn’t help me cover rent.

I took a deep breath, knocked, and at her murmured invitation I pushed through the doors, stepping into Rita’s office for the second time since I’d arrived at Wilkinson.

It was a wide, austere space, with unmarked dark blue walls and tasteful furnishings that’d left me in awe the first time I took it all in. But I’d seen Elijah’s command station and while this time I was still impressed, it didn’t carry to an extent where it felt like I’d need to pick my jaw off the ground.

Shutting the door behind me, I approached cautiously and without looking up Rita motioned to one of the chairs in front of her which I gratefully lowered myself into, unsure of what I would’ve done if she hadn’t offered me a seat.

She paused in what she was writing to throw me a leveled glance over the rims of her reading glasses, heavy with a meaning I couldn’t discern. Then she resumed, and as the seconds ticked by noiselessly I wondered if she expected that I would be the one to broach the topic of why she’d asked to see me.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity later, Rita dropped her pen, stretching slightly before settling back into her chair. She looked exhausted, I realized, and straightening in my seat, I resisted the urge to ball up my fists and stifle a yawn. Watching her bulldoze through her workload alone had been enough to inspire a sense of inertia. I couldn’t imagine how she was feeling.

“Could you tell me what the scene I walked in on earlier was about?”

She stapled her fingers together and I felt a flush start to climb up my chest which made me give silent thanks to the foresight I’d had in choosing to wear a high-necked dress to work that day.

“Did Tristan do anything to make you feel uncomfortable?” Rita prodded, and I shook my head in reply to indicate he hadn’t—though in all honesty it depended on what you took uncomfortable to mean.

I found Tristan overbearing. He was slightly creepy, and a bit of a slime bag too if I was being honest, but he hadn’t assaulted me. He’d met me at the worst possible time, yes. Triggered a meltdown too, but he hadn’t assaulted me.

“I’ve been a bit on edge lately,” I supplied when it became evident that she wouldn’t continue until we’d had the conversation, and after filling her in on the secret admirer fiasco—a story she must have heard already—she suggested, like my parents, that it would be best if I filed a report with the police and didn’t worry about the optics of how that came off.

Mostly, it was better safe than sorry. I noticed she skirted around the topic of Tristan.

“I won’t lie to you, Aurora,” Rita added as she drew to a close. “You’re determined, smart, and I think you have a lot of potential—but this line of work can get brutal sometimes and I need to know I can count on you.”

“You can one-hundred percent count on me.” I squared my shoulders, tilting my chin up to meet her gaze with an equally determined one of my own, which I hoped she’d somehow translate to how passionate I was about this job. How I had no interest in starving to death. “Today was an isolated incident. I’ll handle myself better next time.”

She considered me for a long moment, before dipping her head.

“Good, because your employee appraisal was a hit, I mean tens across the board.”

It took a beat for the import of her words to register, and when they did an earsplitting grin started to creep up my face. I tried resisting it, but the giddy sense of relief overpowered my inhibitions until eventually I sat in front of my supervisor, beaming.

Rita’s lips twitched in amusement, but she said nothing else, letting me savor the first bit of good news I’d received in a while until a reasonable amount of time had passed, and then she spoke words which put a damper on my mood.

“Mr. Wilder, especially, was impressed with you. It’s why we dropped by your office earlier.”

My smile wobbled as I remembered the afternoon I’d spent alone with the man in his office, where after turning down his offer for a drink (it was the middle of the afternoon for God’s sake), I explained that even though I didn’t regret what we’d done I knew he was engaged—information which may or may not have led me to making a different choice with my body had I known—and would prefer it if our illicit affair remained under wraps.

“Your passport is valid, am I correct?”

Her question I realized I’d zoned out again and I knocked my knees together, responding affirmatively, though I couldn’t didn’t see what purpose this bit of knowledge served.

I must’ve voiced this out loud, because something in Rita’s eyes flashed and again a smile tugged at the corners of her mouth.

She rubbed her hands together, anticipating, and I wrung mine beneath the protection of her desk as a sense of foreboding swept through me when she leaned forward.

“You’re to accompany Mr. Wilder to this year’s annual Holding’s Business Conference,” Rita said, before adding: “I hope your French is good, because you’re going to Paris.”

I could only make out the shapes her mouth made after that as a sharp memory came into focus of Elijah and me in his office; how silent he’d been as I laid down my argument before him, not until I finished, at which point his hands made a slight flapping movement which stopped as abruptly as it’d begun when he took up adjusting his cufflinks.

“What happened between us will stay between us,” he’d said conversationally, running a hand repeatedly over the fabric of his slacks. “But you should know two things. The first is that I still remember the way you taste.”

He paused to let his words sink in, and when they did, for an instant I forgot that I could even breathe.

“The second is,” Elijah continued as a challenging light entered into his eyes. His words sounded like a warning, a promise. “I’ve never been able to stop myself from chasing after what I want. I don’t think it’s something I’m capable of.”