Page 11 of Lucas

My spine stiffens, hesitating before I yank open the warehouse doors that spill into our makeshift office space. Tucked on the edge of Brooklyn’s grittiest streets, the building’s a fallen brick or two short of being condemned. But Liz has worked practical magic with her amateur design skills, transforming the once dank dungeon into a funky workspace that melds with the magazine’s unique style.

The scent of butter wafts from the corner of the lobby, where an antique popcorn machine churns through a steady stream of kernels. Intended for clients, the snack quickly became like a staff mascot, until we had to start letting people go, and fewer visitors braved the Brooklyn streets to stop by.

But somehow, I can’t bear to let this tradition go.

I scoop popcorn into a small paper bag and weave past the empty front desk. A picture of our old receptionist smiles at me as I pass, but I avert my gaze, still stinging from the loss of having to lay her off. I’d hand-picked her myself, plucking her from a stack of monotone resumes, hers a sparkling rainbow among the gray suits vying for a place on our then growing team.

It’s funny how life can be interrupted. How you can leave the house, expecting to come back, but then your path takes a left instead of a right, and everything changes. You change.

Marnie and Liz sit at their cubicles when I slip behind the privacy screens that separate the lobby from the once bustling workspace. Our phones used to ring off the hook, but in the wake of the impending lawsuit, fewer “scoops” land on our laps. Now, when we need it the most, we lack the resources to dig for those bigger stories.

Liz has her cell tucked under her chin, balancing it on her shoulder as she taps away on her keyboard. She glances up, spots me, and holds a finger in the air.

“Must be laundry day,” Marnie whispers, giving my attire the once over. My stomach clenches with unease. I have no plausible explanation for what I’m wearing. Next to Marnie’s simple jumpsuit and Liz’s classic dress pants and sweater combo, I’m more primed for the runway than our dusty office. It’s clear that I’m now an insect under a microscope. “Unless we have a meeting I don’t know about,” she goes on, obliviously not about to let this easily pass. “We saw the lawyer yesterday.”

As if I could forget.

I set my messenger bag down without comment, and fire up my laptop. The giant clock hanging high on the lofted wall clicks over to nine, which officially makes this latest I have come into work. That, coupled with the guilt I’m sure taints my skin crimson, practically screams, Yes! I had a fucking one-night-stand, okay!

My lips press together to staunch the urge to confirm what is flashing like a giant neon sign of confession. I’m shaken, my routine derailed by the events of the past twenty-four hours, and my partners would have to be blind not to know that something isn’t right.

Marnie sets a coffee on my desk, and leans her hip up against my chair. She folds her arms across her chest. “You good?”

I nod, perhaps unconvincingly.

Her lips purse. “You’re different…something’s not right. What’s with the getup?”

A lump forms in my throat. I swallow, prepared to drum up any excuse not to tell the truth. None of us are saints, but a one night stand is enough out of my character to grant a full-on inquisition, and I can’t handle that. Not with how things ended.

God, I never even learned his last name.

Reliving this morning’s rejection isn’t how I’d like to spend the day.

Marnie taps her mouth, still contemplating me, while I stay mute. “Hey!” she perks up. “Did something happen between you and Austin?” Her eyes twinkle with impish mischief. I open my mouth to interject before her assumption morphs into full tantrum mode, but it’s as if my vocal cords have been severed. She slams her palm on the desk with a heavy thwack. “Oh my god. That’s it!” She’s grinning like the Cheshire Cat now, and I can’t do a bloody thing about it. Her pitch rises, excitement taking over. “That’s why he isn’t here yet, isn’t it?”

“Not quite,” Liz interrupts while the phone sits cradled against her shoulder, her tone concerned. “Austin is at the hospital.”

Marnie sucks in a gasp, shocked. “What happened?”

I hold my breath, unable to speak, even though I already know. It shouldn’t surprise me that his wounds needed professional tending—I see his bloodied nose in my guilt-ridden vision.

“He was beaten up pretty badly at a bar last night,” Liz says. Her eyebrows furrow. “Got into a fight with none other than Lucas Hammer.”

My mouth goes dry. “Did you just say—?”

She smiles tightly. “Yeah. That Lucas Hammer. One of the founding partners at Daylight Holdings.”

My blood goes cold and I feel suddenly faint.

Daylight Holdings is one of the most successful hedge fund firms in the country. No one actually knows how much the business is worth, but every news outlet in the U.S., including Rubberneckers, would love to find out. Over the years, our staff has scanned the dark web, combed the media, and networked with their competitors in search of scandal, some kind of juicy gossip that hasn’t already been dredged through the press.

But the company’s biggest “secret” has been so over-reported it’s old news—the fact that Lucas and his partners, Holden and Mason, were the only survivors in a high school shooting that killed a room full of their classmates, along with their well-loved and respected teacher, Mrs. Kratky.

The three boys grew up and eventually channeled their grief into building Daylight Holdings, a company that has a reputation for being ruthless in the face of adversity, but shrewd traders on the stock exchange.

I can’t fucking believe I didn’t recognize Lucas Hammer, but the other two tend to do more of the media friendly activities for the company. Lucas is notoriously reticent to deal with people in my industry—although on the whole Daylight Holdings is very secretive and not kind to those in my profession.

Marnie puts her hand on my wrist. “Eden, you were at that bar with Austin. Did you see what happened?”