He's not my dad

part 7

I woke up convinced two things had gone terribly wrong.

One: my head was attempting to split itself in half.
Two: the sun was personally attacking me.
I groaned and rolled over, immediately regretting both actions.

“Oh no,” I whispered to no one. “Oh no.”
From somewhere down the hall came a noise that could only be described as a wounded animal attempting speech.
“I’m never drinking again,” Kate croaked.

I blinked at the ceiling. “im sure you say that every time.”

“And every time,” she moaned, “it’s a lie.”

I dragged myself out of bed, each step a betrayal. My phone confirmed my worst fear.
7:42 a.m.
I was supposed to be at work in eighteen minutes.

“Kate,” I called weakly. “We have to go to work.”

Silence.

Then: “No.”

I found her sprawled on the couch, fully dressed, mascara smeared, one heel still on like she’d passed out mid-escape.
“You look like a crime scene,” I told her.

She squinted at me. “You’re glowing.”

“That’s dehydration.”

We stared at each other for a long moment, then burst out laughing—which was a mistake. I clutched my head. She clutched her stomach.

Bree wandered in, fresh-faced and infuriatingly fine. “Morning, sluts.”

“How are you alive?” Kate whispered.

Bree shrugged. “Practice.”

Coffee became our religion. We drank it like it was medicine. Or penance.

On the walk to work, Kate clung to my arm like a Victorian orphan crossing the street.
“If Mr. Groves looks at me today,” she said, “I will cry.”

“If anyone looks at me,” I replied, “I might pass out.”

The elevator ride was silent. Reverent. Hungover solidarity.

When we finally reached the floor, Richie looked up from his desk and immediately frowned.

“Rough night?” how does he look normal, he drank just as much as we did.

Kate nodded solemnly. “We saw God.”

“And?” he asked.

“He was disappointed in us.”

I sank into my chair, head pounding, stomach churning, praying no one said the words tea campaign too loudly.
My phone buzzed.
A text.
Unknown number.
I didn’t open it.
I physically could not handle anything new today.

Kate leaned over and whispered, “If this is karma for flirting with hot strangers, I want a refund.”
Same.
Very, very same.

..  

The office was chaos.

Phones rang nonstop, printers groaned in protest, and people rushed past my desk with the kind of urgency that suggested deadlines were either due or already missed. Mr. Benjamin was in back-to-back meetings, darting between conference rooms like a man being hunted. If he noticed Kate and me clinging to life by caffeine alone, he gave no indication.
Which, honestly, was a blessing.
Kate sat at her desk with the posture of someone who had given up on dignity entirely. Her sunglasses stayed on. Indoors. She claimed it helped.

“I can hear my heartbeat,” she muttered. “In my teeth.”

“I think my organs are vibrating,” I whispered back.

No one cared.
The office hummed along without mercy.
I was answering emails when I felt it—that familiar prickle at the back of my neck. The unmistakable sensation of being watched.
I glanced up.
Greg Groves stood across the floor, mid-conversation with two executives, coffee in hand. His gaze was on me. Not casual. Not passing.
Intent.
He wasn’t smiling—yet.
I looked away first, suddenly very aware of my pale reflection in my monitor. When I dared to look back, he was still watching.
This time, he smirked.
Slow. Knowing. Entirely unfair.
Oh, he was enjoying this.
I narrowed my eyes at him, silently accusing him of finding my misery entertaining. The moment our eyes locked properly, his expression shifted.
The smirk vanished.
He looked away—too quickly.
Like a man who’d been caught staring at something he wasn’t supposed to want.
My stomach flipped, and I wasn’t entirely sure it was the hangover.
The rest of the morning passed in a blur of emails, phone calls, and Kate quietly threatening death to anyone who spoke above a whisper. Greg appeared and disappeared between meetings, and every time he did, I felt it.
Watching.
Once, as he passed my desk, he slowed—just slightly.

“You look… fragile today,” he said calmly.

“Thriving,” I replied without looking up.

“Radiant, even.”

A corner of his mouth twitched. “Mm.”

And then he was gone again, leaving behind the faint scent of coffee and something sharper.
Kate leaned toward me once he was out of earshot. “Why does the CEO keep looking at you like that?”

“I don’t know,” I said honestly.

She squinted. “That’s the look men get right before they make bad decisions.”
I swallowed.
If that was true, I had a feeling Greg Groves wasn’t the only one in danger.