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.

Gracia was coughing. It was a wet, hacking sound that she tried to stifle in her scarf.

Her nose was red, and her skin was the color of old paper. The walk to the subway in the freezing rain had done its damage. She had a fever; she could feel the heat radiating behind her eyes.

It was 12:30 PM. The breakroom was crowded.

The air smelled of heated leftovers-curry, lasagna, popcorn.

Gracia sat at a small round table with a cup of hot water. That was her lunch. She had spent her last twenty dollars on Birdie's refill this morning.

Her stomach growled. A loud, guttural protest that silenced the conversation at the next table.

Gracia flushed crimson. She pressed her hand against her stomach, pretending to check her phone.

Tess sat down across from her. She dropped a heavy brown paper bag on the table.

"I accidentally ordered two turkey clubs," Tess said, not making eye contact. She pushed a wrapped sandwich toward Gracia. "They won't keep. Help me out?"

Gracia looked at the sandwich. It was from the gourmet deli downstairs. It cost $18.

"Tess, I can't," Gracia rasped.

"You can. Unless you want me to throw it in the trash, which is a sin against turkey."

Gracia's pride warred with her hunger. The hunger won.

"I'll pay you back on Friday," Gracia whispered.

"Shut up and eat."

Gracia unwrapped the sandwich. Her hands shook as she lifted it. The first bite was heaven.

Up above, on the glass-walled mezzanine that overlooked the breakroom, Bridger stood like a gargoyle.

He was watching her.

He saw the way she devoured the sandwich. He saw the way she held the cup of hot water like it was precious.

Where is the money? he thought. Where is the husband's money?

If she was married to a partner, why was she starving?

He felt a surge of irrational anger at the unknown man. You don't take care of her, he thought. I would have fed her.

He turned to Sloane.

"Why is the temperature in here so low?" he demanded.

Sloane checked the thermostat app. "It's 72 degrees, sir."

"It's freezing," Bridger lied. "And get someone to restock the first aid kits on the marketing floor. They're empty."

"Are they?"

"Just do it."

Bridger walked away. He couldn't watch her eat charity anymore. It made him want to break something.

Down in the breakroom, Tess leaned in.

"Hey, did you hear about Project Windfall?"

Gracia swallowed a bite of turkey. "No."

"The new gaming division. They're trying to hire Zephyr for the concept art."

Gracia choked. She coughed violently, grabbing her water. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Zephyr. The name echoed in the small, crowded space, a secret she guarded with her life.

"Zephyr?" she squeaked, forcing her voice to sound casual.

"Yeah, the digital artist. The ghost. No one knows who he is. Or she. Bridger is apparently obsessed with getting them. Says the style is the only thing that fits the vision."

Gracia's heart pounded. She took a slow sip of water, her mind racing. An opportunity. A dangerous, terrifying opportunity.

"Did they... find him?" Gracia asked carefully.

"No. They're putting out a blind bid. Massive money. Six figures for a portfolio."

Six figures.

Gracia looked at her empty sandwich wrapper. Six figures meant Birdie's surgery. It meant paying off the debt. It meant freedom.

But it meant working directly with Bridger. It meant risking exposure.

"Crazy," Gracia said, trying to sound bored.

She went back to her desk. Sitting on her keyboard was a box of DayQuil and a bottle of Vitamin C.

She looked around. "Tess?"

Tess shook her head from her own desk. "Not me."

Gracia picked up the box. It was the expensive brand.

She looked up at the glass office on the top floor. The blinds were drawn.

She popped two pills. She didn't care who sent them. She just needed to survive the day.