CHAPTER 70:Liela Brooks vs. The Consequences (She Accidentally Wins)
I walked into my office like someone entering a crime scene—slow, cautious, and deeply aware that one wrong move might trigger something loud, judgmental, or fluorescent. The quiet hit first. Not peaceful quiet. Suspicious quiet. The kind that suggests everyone else knows something you don’t and has collectively agreed to let you find out the hard way. My heels echoed far too loudly on the floor, each step announcing my arrival like an unwanted sequel. “Okay,” I whispered to myself, peeking around, “why is it this quiet? Who died? And is it my reputation?”
My office looked exactly the same as I’d left it, which somehow made it worse. Desk neat. Chair pushed in. Computer asleep like it had been minding its business all morning. I dropped my tote on the chair and immediately regretted it when the sandwich inside shifted ominously, threatening to reveal itself to the world. I froze, staring at the bag. “Don’t you dare,” I warned it under my breath. The office remained silent, but I swear my printer judged me.
I slid into my chair and spun once, because if you don’t spin in your chair at least once when you sit down, are you even emotionally stable? The stillness pressed in again. No emails popping up. No phones ringing. No coworkers dramatically sighing within earshot. It felt like the calm before a storm—or worse, the calm after everyone had already survived the storm and forgotten to tell me. I logged into my computer half-expecting an email titled We Need to Talk or Per My Last Seven Messages. Nothing. Inbox blissfully empty. I frowned. “This is unsettling,” I muttered.
I leaned back, hands on my stomach, suddenly aware of two things: one, I was starving; and two, eating a bacon-and-egg sandwich in a quiet office felt illegal. Still, desperate times. I carefully unwrapped the napkin like I was disarming a bomb, wincing at every tiny rustle. Each sound echoed in my head like a confession. I took one bite and nearly cried. Warm. Salty. Comforting. “You’re doing amazing,” I whispered to the sandwich, chewing slowly like a person who had been through things.
As I ate, I scanned the room again, half-expecting someone to burst in and catch me mid-bite like this was a morality test I was failing spectacularly. But nothing happened. The quiet stayed put. My office remained calm, neutral, innocent. Which, frankly, made me nervous. I wiped my hands, straightened my posture, and told myself I was ready for whatever the day threw at me. This was a lie, but it was a confident one—and sometimes that’s enough to get you through the morning.
Elliot ruined the silence by existing in it.
He appeared in my doorway without warning, leaning casually against the frame like a man who had never experienced fear, regret, or the consequences of four alcoholic drinks. “So,” he said brightly, eyes flicking to my desk, then to my face, then narrowing with far too much interest, “how’s the hangover treating you?”
I stared at him for a full three seconds, slowly chewing the bite of sandwich still in my mouth, because if I spoke too soon I might say something violent. When I finally swallowed, I smiled—tight, polite, deeply unwell. “It’s not a hangover,” I said calmly. “It’s my brain rebooting after a traumatic software update. Some features didn’t reinstall properly.”
He grinned like this was the best possible answer. “You look… reflective,” he said, stepping fully into the room and glancing around as if my office might contain clues. “Like someone who woke up and questioned every life choice that led her here.”
“Oh, absolutely,” I replied, waving a hand. “I woke up and my skull immediately asked me why I hate it. My mouth tastes like regret, my eyes feel personally betrayed by light, and I’m pretty sure my soul is still at the restaurant arguing with the bartender.”
Elliot laughed, loud and unrepentant. “Classic,” he said. “You should try lemon water. It’s good for hangovers.”
I narrowed my eyes at him. “Don’t,” I warned softly. “Do not bring lemon water into this conversation unless you want to be interrogated like a suspect in a true crime documentary.” I took another bite of my sandwich for emphasis. “This,” I added, holding it up, “is medicine. Prescribed by common sense.”
He perched on the edge of my desk, entirely too energetic for a weekday morning. “You don’t even look that bad,” he said. “I’ve seen worse. Remember that conference in July?”
“That was heat exhaustion and professional disappointment,” I shot back. “This is different. This is my body reminding me that I am not twenty-two and invincible. I am thirty and fragile, like a decorative plate.”
Elliot snorted. “You’re dramatic.”
“I am accurate,” I corrected. “If someone claps too loudly near me right now, I will cry. If the printer jams, I may resign.”
He tilted his head, studying me with way too much curiosity. “Worth it, though?”
I paused, considered the question, then sighed. “Ask me again when my head stops trying to escape my body,” I said. “Right now, I’m surviving minute by minute. Emotionally. Physically. Sandwich-ly.”
Elliot laughed again, clearly pleased with himself, while I took another careful bite and silently prayed the universe would give me at least one calm hour before anything else—emails, meetings, or consequences—found its way into my office.
After I finished the sandwich—respectfully, ceremonially, like it had saved my life—I wiped my hands on a napkin and leaned back in my chair. My stomach settled. My soul stabilized. I looked at Elliot. “Okay,” I said, suddenly suspicious. “You didn’t barge in here just to emotionally bully me about my hangover. What’s the news?”
Elliot froze. Actually froze. His smile vanished, his eyes widened, and he snapped his fingers once. “Oh my God,” he said. “That’s why I came.” He stared at the ceiling like the information might fall back into his brain. “Wow. I fully forgot. I got distracted by your suffering.”
My spine straightened. “Elliot,” I said slowly, every word a warning, “if you tell me you forgot something important, I will throw a pen at you. And I have excellent aim when motivated by fear.”
“No, no, no—this is good,” he rushed, hands up. “Like, really good. Like, life-altering, stress-shaving, heart-stopping good.” He paused for effect, which I immediately hated. “Grayson emailed me this morning.”
The room tilted. Just slightly. “He what,” I said flatly.
“He emailed,” Elliot repeated, grinning now like he’d been sitting on a winning lottery ticket. “Very short. Very… Grayson. But he said your draft is accepted. As is. You can continue working on the revisions.”
I stared at him. Then I blinked. Then I laughed once—sharp, disbelieving. “No,” I said. “That’s not funny. Don’t joke about things that control my blood pressure.”
“I’m not joking!” he insisted. “He literally said—” Elliot mimed typing in the air, “—‘The draft is acceptable. Proceed.’ That’s it. No threats. No disappointment. No literary execution.”
Shock hit me late and hard, like my brain had been buffering. “Accepted,” I echoed faintly. “After I didn’t show up. After yesterday. After everything.” I pressed a hand to my chest. “I am either dreaming, still drunk, or about to wake up screaming.”
Elliot beamed. “See? Worth the hangover.”
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, a laugh bubbling out of me despite myself. “I skipped a meeting. Went to an art fair. Blacked out emotionally. Confessed crimes I shouldn’t have. And somehow… won?” I shook my head slowly. “I don’t understand the universe anymore, but I will not question this blessing.”