Disloyalty

- Unfamiliar Familiarity -

I woke up in a cold room, groggy and tangled in the sheets. My first instinct was to reach for Isaac, craving the warmth of his body. Instead, my fingers met an empty pillow. I frowned, my hand brushing against a sticky note.

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

I squinted at the note, trying to process. Isaac never went to work early. Hell, he barely went on time. Suspicious. But at least he left a note this time—progress?

I groaned and rolled onto my back, staring at the ceiling before glancing at the clock. Shit. I'd overslept.

James had emailed me the event details last night. Some corporate networking thing at the Clarus building, which I had never been to but had heard plenty about. Fancy. Tall. Full of people who owned yachts they used twice a year.

Also, I'd heard the CEO was a total twat.

Dragging myself out of bed, I scrambled to get ready. Black pencil skirt, blue-and-white striped button-up, and a blazer to scream "I'm a serious professional, please take me seriously." I curled my hair, grabbed my Kate Spade bag (the only one that didn't look like it had been through war), and slipped on my black heels—chipped, scuffed, and being held together by sheer willpower.

Still dreaming of those Christian Louboutins. One day.

As I backed out of the driveway, reality hit me like a truck.

Coat. Forgot it. Shit.

Breakfast? Didn't have time. Double shit.

I glanced at the clock. No time to stop anywhere, so I just had to pray there'd be food at this event and hope it wasn't some tiny canapé nonsense that would leave me starving by noon.

—

Downtown was a maze of mirrored high-rises that all looked the same, and after five confusing minutes of wandering, I finally spotted the Clarus building.

Holy shit.

It was a glass, sleek and imposing, as if it had been plucked straight out of a futuristic dystopia. Over 50 stories of pure intimidation.

 The kind of building that screamed power, money, and men named Chad who ordered espresso martinis unironically.

I stepped inside and was instantly swallowed by a lobby straight out of an Architectural Digest spread. Marble floors so polished they could double as mirrors. Chandeliers that probably cost more than my entire apartment, what's wrong with an Ikea light these days.

Business types strutted past in designer suits, exuding an effortless wealth that made me want to evaporate.

At the reception desk, a perfectly poised woman typed away on a computer that probably had more processing power than NASA.

"Hi, I'm here for the event?" I said, trying to sound confident despite feeling like a lost child in a luxury department store.

She didn't even glance up. "One moment."

Her manicured fingers never hesitated over the keyboard, making me painfully aware of my own chipped nails. After an excruciating pause, she handed me a pass.

"Elevators to the left. 30th floor. Turn right—you'll see it."

I mumbled a thanks and scurried away before I could further embarrass myself.

The elevator ride was like stepping into another world. Mirrored walls, soft classical music, and me—awkwardly wedged between a guy in a three-piece suit and a woman who smelled like wealth and intimidation. I stared at my reflection, silently pep-talking myself.

You belong here. You are a confident, capable professional. You are not a walking disaster.

The elevator dinged. Showtime.

—

The event space was even more extravagant. Floor-to-ceiling windows showcased the city skyline, the kind of view that made you feel small in the best and worst ways. The room was filled with business elites, all laughing in that detached, rich-people way.

Waiters glided through the crowd, offering champagne and delicate hors d'oeuvres, even the waiters looked more sharper and more important than me, can this get any more embarrassing.

Thank God. Food.

I grabbed a few appetizers and popped them into my mouth before I could think twice. Immediate regret. The texture was...unsettling. Something slimy, something barely edible to humans. 

Caviar.

I downed a gulp of champagne to wash the taste away, reminding myself that water apparently wasn't an option at these things.

For the next twenty minutes, I made small talk with people who used words like "market shares" and "diversification strategies" in casual conversation. My brain was slowly melting.

Then, the inevitable happened.

"So, Mia," some polished finance bro turned to me with a smirk, "how do you define success?"

Oh God.

I fumbled for an answer, my brain offering nothing useful. "Uh...success is...you know, subjective. Like...finally going grocery shopping after putting it off for days."

Silence.

Then, laughter. The kind of laughter that said, 'Aw, how charmingly broke you are.'

Bald guy with a Rolex leaned in. "For me, success is eight figures in the bank and a hot mistress."

Cue more obnoxious chuckling.

I forced a polite smile, suppressing the overwhelming urge to launch myself out the nearest window.

"Excuse me, I need to use the restroom," I lied, making my escape before I lost my sanity.

I wandered away, scanning for a sign when—

I stopped.

Dead in my tracks.

My breath caught in my throat. My heart stuttered.

Because standing across the room was someone I hadn't seen in years.

Andrew.

He looked different. Sharper. Older. The boy I once knew was gone, replaced by a man who wore his confidence like an armor. His suit was immaculate, his presence commanding.

And yet, his eyes locked onto mine with the same intensity as the first time we met.

Time froze.

My stomach twisted, my hands clenched into fists as a flood of memories crashed over me.

Why was he here?

Should I talk to him? Should I leave?

Before I could decide, someone beside me muttered, "Do you know who the CEO of Clarus is?"

I barely had time to process before a hand pointed in Andrew's direction.

My head snapped back to him, my breath shallow.

Andrew.

He was the CEO.

What. The. Actual. Fuck.