The next morning, the office felt different. The air was thinner, charged with the static of survival. The people who hadn't been fired walked with their heads down, guilty and relieved.

Bridger sat in his office, the door closed. On his desk lay a single manila folder.

Personnel File: Gracia Maxwell.

He opened it. His eyes skipped over her education-he knew she was brilliant-and landed on the personal details section.

Marital Status: Married.

The word was typed in standard Arial font, but it looked like a jagged scar.

Married.

Bridger felt a sour taste in his mouth. He scanned down to the emergency contact.

Emergency Contact: Martha Maxwell (Mother).

He frowned. Why not the husband?

He looked at her salary history. It was pathetic. She was making barely above entry-level wages, despite having been here for three years.

"Is this what you wanted, Gracia?" he whispered to the empty room. "You left me for this?"

He had imagined she left him for someone with more freedom, someone who wasn't burdened by a legacy. He had imagined a bohemian life, painting in Paris.

Instead, she was grinding data in a cubicle, married to a ghost who wasn't even listed as her emergency contact.

Bridger hit the intercom button. "Get me HR."

Five minutes later, the HR Director was on the line, sounding terrified.

"Maxwell's background check," Bridger said, cutting through the pleasantries. "Anything unusual?"

"No, Mr. Jennings. Clean record. She did ask for a salary advance six months ago. Hardship request. Denied per policy."

Bridger hung up.

Hardship.

She was struggling. The husband was useless.

He stood up and buttoned his jacket. He needed to see it. He needed to see the reality of her life up close, to kill the lingering fantasy of the girl in the library.

He walked out of his office, ignoring Sloane's attempt to hand him a schedule. He took the elevator down to the 12th floor.

The marketing floor was quiet. Bridger walked through the rows of cubicles. Heads snapped up. Eyes widened. He ignored them all.

He found the breakroom.

Gracia was there. She was standing by the hot water dispenser, dunking a tea bag into a mug that had a chip in the rim.

She looked tired. There were shadows under her eyes that makeup couldn't hide. Her blazer was a size too big, the cuffs frayed.

She was listening to two other women gossip.

"Did you see him?" one woman whispered. "God, he's gorgeous. I'd let him fire me if he did it in person."

Gracia stared at her tea. "I didn't get a good look," she murmured.

Bridger stepped into the doorway.

"Maybe you need glasses," he said.

The room froze. The two gossiping women turned pale and practically melted into the cabinets.

Gracia's back went rigid. She turned around slowly, clutching her mug with both hands.

"Mr. Jennings," she said. Her voice was steady, but he saw the pulse jumping in her throat.

Bridger walked past her to the coffee machine. It was a high-end espresso maker that was reserved for management, but no one was going to stop him. He selected a dark roast. The machine whirred, grinding beans.

The smell of fresh coffee filled the space, overpowering the scent of Gracia's cheap tea.

He leaned against the counter, crossing his ankles. He looked her up and down, letting his gaze linger on her scuffed shoes.

"The coffee on this floor is terrible," he said.

"It's free," Gracia replied, her chin lifting slightly.

"You get what you pay for," Bridger said. He took his cup. He took a step closer to her, invading her personal space. He could smell her-vanilla and rain. It was the same scent. It made him want to scream.

He leaned down, his voice dropping so only she could hear.

"Your standards have really lowered, Gracia. In every aspect."

He saw the flinch. It was small, a tightening of her eyes, but it was there.

"My standards are fine," she whispered back.

"Are they?" He glanced at her ring finger. She wasn't wearing a ring. "Where's the happy husband? Can't afford a ring on a clerk's salary?"

Gracia went pale. "That's none of your business."

"Everything in this building is my business."

He straightened up, taking a sip of his coffee. He looked at the other women, who were staring in shock.

"Get back to work," he commanded.

They scrambled out.

Bridger looked at Gracia one last time. "You too, Mrs. Maxwell."

He emphasized the 'Mrs.' like an insult.

He walked out, leaving her standing there with her watery tea. He felt a twisted sense of satisfaction, followed immediately by a wave of self-loathing.

He had wanted to hurt her. He had succeeded. So why did he feel like he was the one bleeding?

It was lunchtime, but Gracia was still at her desk. She had a sandwich wrapped in foil, but she hadn't opened it.

Her personal phone buzzed on the desk.

Birdie Calling.

Gracia grabbed it instantly. She looked around. The office was mostly empty, just a few people eating salads at their desks with headphones on.

She answered. "Hey, baby."

"Mommy," Birdie's voice was small and wet. "My tummy hurts. Like the bad hurt."

Gracia's heart stopped. "The bad hurt" meant the cramps that sometimes preceded a seizure.

"Where is Grandma?" Gracia asked, keeping her voice low and calm.

"She went to the pharmacy. She said to wait. But it hurts now."

Gracia checked the time. 12:15 PM. If she left now, she could be there in forty minutes. But she had a meeting with Brenda at 1:00 PM. If she missed it, she was out.

She heard the heavy thud of footsteps on the carpet behind her. A group of people. Men.

She glanced over her shoulder. It was Bridger. He was walking with the CFO and two other suits, heading toward the conference room at the end of the hall. He was ten feet away.

Panic spiked in her chest. If Birdie kept talking, if she mentioned anything specific...

Gracia had to control the narrative. She had to make Birdie sound like a normal child with a normal, present father.

She raised her voice slightly, pitching it so it would carry just enough.

"It's okay, sweetie," she said into the phone. "Don't be scared. Let Daddy come get you, okay?"

On the other end of the line, there was silence. Birdie was confused.

"Daddy?" Birdie whispered.

Gracia saw Bridger's step falter. Just for a fraction of a second. His back stiffened.

He slowed down, his head turning slightly toward her cubicle. His eyes were narrowed, scanning her.

"Yes," Gracia continued, her hand sweating against the plastic phone case. "Daddy is right near the house. I'm calling him right now on the other line. He'll take you to the doctor."

She was acting for an audience of one.

Bridger stopped completely. The CFO stopped with him, looking confused.

Bridger stared at Gracia's back. She could feel his gaze burning through her cheap blazer.

"Okay, Mommy," Birdie said, sounding small and scared but trusting.

"Be a brave girl. Daddy is coming."

Gracia hung up. Her heart was hammering so hard she thought it might bruise her ribs.

She didn't turn around. She stared at her black computer screen, waiting.

Bridger stood there for another five seconds. He was dissecting the conversation. Daddy. So the husband was around. He was involved. He was the one who picked up the sick kid.

A surge of irrational, hot jealousy flooded his veins. He hated this imaginary man. He hated that Gracia relied on him.

"Jennings?" the CFO asked.

Bridger snapped out of it. His face hardened into a mask of stone.

"Let's go," he growled.

He walked past her cubicle without another glance, but the air around him felt turbulent.

Gracia slumped in her chair. She immediately texted her mother: Emergency. Go home now. Birdie is in pain.

She waited until the three dots turned into On my way.

Ten minutes later, an email hit the general inbox.

From: HR General.

Subject: Policy Reminder - Personal Calls.

Effective immediately, all personal calls must be taken outside of the work area. Family matters should not interfere with core business hours. We are a place of business, not a daycare coordination center.

Gracia read the email. Her hands curled into fists.

It was petty. It was cruel. And it was directly aimed at her.

She looked toward the glass office at the end of the hall. Bridger was in there. She couldn't see him, but she knew he had dictated this.

He was punishing her for being a mother. He was punishing her for having a "husband."

Gracia swallowed the lump in her throat. Fine, she thought. You want a war? I can take it. As long as you never find out that you're the Daddy I was talking about.

The elevator dinged at 9:30 PM.

Gracia rubbed the back of her neck. Her muscles were tied in knots. She had finished the data entry. It was perfect.

She stepped into the elevator, desperate to get home.

There was someone already inside.

Bridger.

He was leaning against the back wall, holding his suit jacket over one arm. His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone. He looked exhausted, but devastatingly handsome.

Gracia froze. The doors started to close. She put her hand out to stop them, intending to back away.

Bridger hit the 'Door Close' button.

"Get in," he said, his voice flat. "I don't have time to wait for the next elevator."

Gracia stepped in. She pressed herself into the front corner, as far away from him as the six-by-six box allowed.

The air smelled of him. Sandalwood and something sharp, like expensive scotch.

The elevator descended. Floor 30. Floor 29.

Bridger didn't look at her. He stared at her reflection in the polished steel doors.

"Working late," he observed. It wasn't a question.

"Yes," Gracia said.

"Does your husband mind?"

The question hung in the air.

Gracia gripped her bag strap. "He supports my career."

Bridger let out a short, harsh laugh. "Career? Is that what you call data entry?"

"It pays the bills," she said defensively.

"Does it? Or does he expect you to bring home the bacon while he plays daddy?"

He was baiting her. He was fishing for information about the man he thought she loved.

"He's a good father," Gracia said. It was the only truth she could offer, because Bridger would be a good father, if he knew.

Bridger turned his head to look at her. His eyes were dark pools of resentment.

"I'm sure he is."

The elevator hit the lobby. The doors opened.

Outside, a storm had broken. Rain lashed against the glass doors of the lobby, turning the world into a blur of gray and black.

Gracia pulled out her phone. She opened the Uber app.

$82.00.

She stared at the number. Surge pricing.

She couldn't afford it. That was half a week of groceries.

Usually, the company expensed rides after 9 PM.

Bridger walked past her. A black Maybach was waiting at the curb, the driver already standing there with a massive umbrella.

Bridger stopped. He looked at the rain, then at Gracia.

"By the way," he said casually, over the sound of the thunder. "We're cutting costs. As of tonight, the late-night transportation stipend is suspended for non-executive staff."

Gracia looked up at him, horror washing over her face. "What?"

"You heard me. No more free rides."

He signaled to his driver.

Gracia looked at her phone again. $82. She couldn't do it.

"Why?" she asked, her voice trembling.

Bridger stepped under the umbrella. He looked back at her, his face illuminated by the headlights of his car.

"Call your supportive husband," he said coldly. "Let him pick you up."

He got into the car. The door slammed shut with a heavy, final thud.

The car pulled away, splashing water onto the sidewalk.

Gracia stood alone in the lobby. The security guard looked at her with sympathy.

She put her phone away. She pulled out a broken umbrella from her tote bag. One of the spokes was snapped.

She walked out into the rain. The subway station was four blocks away.

Bridger watched her from the back seat of the Maybach. He watched her struggle with the broken umbrella as the wind turned it inside out. He saw her hunch her shoulders against the freezing downpour.

He waited for a car to pull up. He waited for the husband to save her.

No one came.

She walked into the dark, wet night alone.

Bridger felt a knot tighten in his gut. He reached for his phone to tell the driver to turn around, but his pride stopped his hand.

She chose this, he told himself. She chose him.

But as the car sped toward his penthouse, the image of her small figure fighting the wind burned into his retina.