Disloyalty

- Unfamiliar Familiarity -

I woke up in a cold room, groggy and still half-asleep. I turned over, reaching for Isaac's warmth, only to find an empty space next to me. My hand brushed against a Post-it note stuck to his pillow:

"Gone to work early. Good luck with your event. Xx."

What the hell? Isaac never goes to work early. At least he left a note this time. I groaned and glanced at the clock—crap. I'd overslept.

James had emailed me the event details last night. It was at the Clarus building, a place I'd never been but heard plenty about. Fancy. Tall. Full of people who expect you to show up polished to perfection.

I had also heard the CEO is a total twat.

I scrambled to get ready, settling on a black pencil skirt and a blue and white striped button-up. I buttoned my blazer, trying to look as professional as possible for the self-important business owners I'd be dealing with. My hair curled just right, and I grabbed my Kate Spade bag because I literally have nothing else then slipped on my chipped black heels.

Im still dreaming of those Christian Louboutins. One day.

As I was about to back out of the driveway, I realized I'd forgotten my coat. Shit. Then my stomach growled. Double shit. I hadn't eaten.i looked at the time and now all I could do was to hope there'd be food at the event.

After five confusing minutes of wandering through the maze of high-rise buildings, I finally spotted the Clarus building—a sleek, glass tower that looked like it belonged in a movie.

"Holy shit," I muttered, staring up at the massive structure. It was over 50 stories tall, its mirrored facade gleaming under the morning light. It practically screamed wealth and power.

I pushed through the polished glass revolving doors into a grand lobby. Marble floors gleamed under the lights, reflecting the enormous chandeliers that hung from the ceiling. It was breathtaking, but the effect was ruined by the parade of rich assholes strutting by in tailored suits.

At the reception desk, a woman—perfectly coiffed and all business—typed away on a computer that probably cost more than my rent. Four more women sat beside her, each a polished clone of the other.

"Hi, I'm here for the event?" I said, trying to sound confident as I couldn't deny that I felt slightly intimidated by them.

"Just a second," she replied, her fingers with perfectly manicured and never paused over the keyboard when typing. I waited, feeling increasingly out of place in this temple of excess.

Finally, she handed me a pass. "Elevators on the left. 30th floor. Turn right—you'll see it."

"Thanks," I mumbled, taking the pass and immediately feeling self-conscious about my chipped nails.

The elevator ride felt like a glimpse into another world—mirrored walls, soft classical music, and me, standing awkwardly next to a guy in a three-piece suit. When I stepped out on the 30th floor, I found a pair of grand double doors. Behind them, I could hear the murmur of voices and the clink of glasses. A knot of anxiety tightened in my stomach.

 I didn't belong here, and I was sure the second I walked in, the entire room would stop and stare and they would all be thinking to themselves look at that state of mess with chipped heels that are being held together by thoughts and prayers.

But they didn't. No one noticed my late arrival, too caught up in their conversations and champagne. in fact it was the opposite of what I thought, I was so insignificant no one even  noticed my arrival.

The room was stunning—floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the city, and the crowd was made up of business elites, all laughing in that rich, detached way. Waiters moved through the crowd with trays of champagne and tiny appetisers. 

I grabbed a few hors d'oeuvres, shoving them straight into my mouth before realising they were covered in caviar and some other ingredients I couldn't make out . Gross. I swallowed them down with a gulp of champagne as water clearly wasn't a thing here.

I wandered through the room, pretending to look busy while trying to find someone who might actually be relatable. I eventually joined a group of well-dressed strangers by the bar, introducing myself with a handshake and a smile.

Twenty minutes later, I was ready to leave. These people were not my crowd. They droned on about investments and market shares while I prayed no one would ask me anything remotely serious.

Of course, they did.

"So, Mia, how do you define success?" someone asked, all eyes turning to me.

Oh God. "Uh, success is, you know, subjective... like finally going grocery shopping after putting it off for days."

They laughed, the kind of laugh that drips with privilege. I could practically hear their private jets revving up.

A bald man leaned in with a smirk. "For me, success is eight figures in the bank and a hot mistress." Cue more obnoxious laughter. I forced a smile, but inside, I was dying to leave.

"Excuse me, I need to use the restroom," I lied, making my escape. I didn't actually need to go, but I needed a break from the pretentious chatter.

As I wandered through the room, scanning for a bathroom sign, I stopped dead in my tracks.

my eyes caught something they shouldn't have...I saw him.

Andrew.

stood at the far end of the room, looking as different as he was familiar. His eyes locked onto mine, and for a moment, everything else disappeared. It felt like the world had gone silent, just like it had the first time we met.

But this wasn't the same Andrew. His face was harder, more mature. His sharp suit and controlled demeanor screamed power and confidence—like he belonged here, in this world I was fumbling through. And yet, despite his transformation, something about his presence sent a wave of nostalgia crashing through me.

Why was he here? Should I talk to him? Should I leave? Then I heard someone say beside me, "Do you know who the CEO of Clarus is?"

I watched as another mans hand extended out and pointed straight towards Andrew.

My stomach dropped even lower this time.

my eyes went back to him and he was still as frozen as me.

Andrew He was the CEO.

What the actual fuck.