Chapter 6 Lunch
Violet
I don’t let myself breathe until the elevator doors close behind me.
Even then, I keep my face neutral. My shoulders squared. My steps measured as I walk back toward the front desk like nothing just happened—like I wasn’t standing in Rowan Ashcroft’s office thirty seconds ago with my job balanced on the edge of his patience.
The lobby hums the way it always does. Phones ringing. Footsteps echoing. Voices low and important.
Normal.
That’s the rule here. Whatever happens behind closed doors stays there. You don’t bring it back out with you. You don’t let it show.
I sit down and slide my headset back on.
“Ashcroft Industries,” I say smoothly, already rerouting a call, already pulling up the calendar Rowan told me to double-check. My fingers don’t shake. My voice doesn’t waver.
If anyone’s watching, they won’t see a thing.
Inside, though, my pulse is still too fast. My chest tight in that uncomfortable way that comes from holding everything in and refusing to let it spill.
I replay the meeting once. Just once. Any more than that would be indulgent.
He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t threaten me. He didn’t fire me.
He noticed.
That’s worse.
I adjust routing settings meticulously, line by line, confirming what I already know is correct. It’s busywork, but it gives my hands something to do while my mind tries to settle.
External matter.
The words echo uncomfortably.
I don’t like that I said them. I don’t like that he noticed the hesitation before them. I especially don’t like that he didn’t ask questions.
Rowan Ashcroft doesn’t ask questions unless he’s already decided the answer matters.
By noon, I’ve checked everything twice. I’ve taken three messages for Theo, blocked a city official, and rerouted a journalist who tried to sound charming enough to get past me.
It works. It always does.
Camille appears at my desk right on schedule, tablet tucked under her arm, eyebrows lifting the moment she takes me in.
“You alive?” she murmurs.
“Barely,” I say.
She smiles faintly. “Lunch?”
I nod, already standing. “Please.”
We leave together, stepping out of the building and into the muted chaos of the street. The air outside feels different—less controlled, less heavy. I didn’t realize how tense I was until my shoulders drop a fraction.
Camille doesn’t speak until we’re seated in a quiet café two blocks away, menus untouched.
“So,” she says carefully, “you want to tell me why Rowan Ashcroft summoned you like a disappointed god?”
I snort despite myself. “That obvious?”
“You don’t get called into his office unless something’s wrong,” she replies. “And you don’t come back looking like that unless it was personal.”
I stare at the table for a moment, gathering my thoughts. Camille waits. She always does.
“I made a mistake,” I say finally.
Her eyes widen slightly. “You don’t do that.”
“Apparently, I do.”
I tell her what happened—about the call, the detective, the misrouted line. I don’t give her names. I don’t need to. The details are enough.
Camille listens without interrupting, fingers curled around her coffee cup.
“And he didn’t fire you,” she says when I finish.
“No.”
She exhales slowly. “That’s… surprising.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Did he ask why you were distracted?”
“No.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. “That’s worse.”
I nod. “I know.”
We sit in silence for a moment. The café smells like coffee and bread and normal lives. People laugh at a nearby table. Someone complains about the weather.
“I hate him,” I say suddenly.
Camille raises an eyebrow. “Hate is a strong word.”
“So is what he does to people,” I reply. “He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t threaten. He just… looks at you like you’re a calculation. Like your entire existence is something he can subtract if it inconveniences him.”
Camille doesn’t argue.
“I know I screwed up,” I continue. “I know the rules. I follow them. I always follow them. And the one time I don’t—because a detective is implying my missing brother might be involved in something criminal—I’m standing in his office explaining myself like I’m expendable.”
“You’re not,” Camille says quietly.
I laugh under my breath. “We’re all expendable there. Some of us just take longer to replace.”
She studies me. “You okay?”
“No,” I admit. “But I will be.”
“That detective,” she says. “You believe him?”
“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “That’s the problem. He didn’t sound like he was trying to help. He sounded like he was waiting for me to slip.”
Camille’s expression hardens. “That’s not fair.”
“Nothing about this is.”
I take a sip of water, then another. “I hate that Rowan noticed. I hate that he’ll remember it. And I hate that a part of me is relieved I wasn’t fired.”
Camille smiles slightly. “That part makes you human.”
“I don’t have time to be human,” I say. “I have bills. I have a mother who needs care. I have a brother who’s missing. I need that job.”
Camille reaches across the table and squeezes my hand once. “You shouldn’t have to carry all of that alone.”
“I don’t,” I say. “I just don’t have a choice.”
Lunch ends too soon. It always does.
Back at the building, the glass doors slide open and the familiar weight settles over me again. I walk back to my desk, slip on my headset, and reenter the rhythm like I never left.
From the corner of my eye, I see Avery pass by—laughing, phone pressed to her ear, excitement written all over her face.
Of course.
I don’t react.
I answer another call. I log another message. I keep everything contained.
But as the afternoon stretches on, I can feel it—a quiet awareness, like a spotlight I can’t see but know is trained on me.
Rowan Ashcroft didn’t fire me.
He didn’t question me.
He didn’t forget.
And that, somehow, is the most unsettling part of all.
I just know somehow this is going to bite me in the ass down the road.