Page 67 of Wells

The thought tightens my chest, but I shove it down. Things come up, schedules collide. He could have gotten pulled into something urgent and lost track of time.

10:30.

I pick my phone back up and type a message through the platform chat.

Everything okay?

I stare at the text, then delete it. Too needy, too whiney. I try again.

Running late tonight?

That sounds worse. I delete it, too.

The cursor blinks in the empty box, waiting for me to say something that doesn't make me feel small. I close the chat instead.

10:43.

The light never turns green.

I click my camera off and remove the wig, dropping it on the desk. My real hair sticks to my scalp, flattened and damp with sweat. I pry the contacts out one at a time and blink until my vision clears. Brown eyes stare back at me from the mirror, tired.

I go to the bathroom and turn on the faucet. Cold water runs over my hands, and I splash it on my face. Mascara streaks down my cheeks in thin black lines. Foundation smears across my fingers. I scrub harder, watching the woman I built for him wash away and circle the drain.

The red lipstick clings. I wipe it off with a towel, and the fabric comes away stained.

I lean against the sink and let the water run until my hands go numb under the stream.

I turn off the faucet and dry my face. The towel smells like my detergent. I press it into my nose and breathe it in a few breaths. I go back to my bedroom and climb into bed without turning on another light. I don't look at my phone.

Fuck him.

The elevator doors slide open on my floor, and I step out. The coffee in my hand is bitter, but I drink it anyway. I must have left it in the pot too long, or my pot needs a cleaning. Who the hell knows?

I didn't sleep at all. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw the black screen and the clock ticking past midnight.

I drop my bag at my desk and log into my computer, initiating the startup sequence. Wells has our server locked down like Fort Knox.

Once everything loads and I put in my twenty-thousand passwords, I pull up the Rotterdam file, scanning the notes with Wells's feedback. He wants me to refine the risk visualization before the partner review on Monday. I open the draft and stare at the screen.

My phone vibrates in my bag. I pull it out, half hoping for a message from Midnight. The screen shows a notification about a dentist appointment next Tuesday. I lock the phone and shove it back into my bag.

The office door opens behind me. I don't turn around, but I know the sound of Wells's footsteps and the faint smell of cigarettes that always precedes him. He stops near my desk.

"Did you get my feedback?"

His voice is flat. Not angry, not warm. Functional.

I turn and nod. "I did. I can work on that now and have it done before lunch if you want. Unless there's something else you want me to work on this morning."

"I'd like you to focus on this first."

I wait for him to add something. A comment about the file or a question about the timeline. He doesn't say anything else. His gaze moves past me to the screen on my desk, then back to my face. It's honestly been so weird since Florida. Sometimes he's warm and flirty, other times he's so cold I wonder if I did something to piss him off.

I'm sick of trying to anticipate him or whatever it is he wants from me.

Expectations, I hear Locke saying.

"I'll send them over in twenty minutes."