Resigned to go the rest of the afternoon hungry, I apologized profusely to herandthe long line that had formed behind me. I gathered what was left of my pride and walked out of the café empty-handed.
As soon as I hit the sidewalk, I called Amy, but it went to voicemail. “Hey, do you know if we got hacked again? I tried to pick up lunch, and the card was declined.” I left out the part about my own card also being declined. Leave it to me to not realize my checking account was dangerously low after some late-night retail-therapy sessions.
“Anyway,” I huffed, “I should be back uptown in a few minutes. My toes arekillingme in these heels. I can’t believe I let you talk me into them. They are hot, though ... okay, I?—”
The phone cut off my rambling, and I made a face at it. Undeterred, I sucked in a cleansing breath and took in the sunny June afternoon.
This is fine. Everything is fine.
Downtown Grand Rapids wasn’t New York or LA, but it had the same overpriced coffee shops and overpriced people. Amy and I had met sophomore year of college and become fast friends. After graduation, we had created the most successful event and PR consulting firm in the city. Together we’d built it from the ground up, and that was something to be proud of.
She was the brains behind the operation—always a shark circling the waters, finding new opportunities—but I was the closer. As a team we specialized in planning and promoting high-profile events, brand launches, and charity galas in the city. I knew what our clients needed before they did and could sell any idea, no matter how ridiculous.
A millionaire heiress who was obsessed with her dog? Boom. A pet fashion show where the ultra-rich dressed their pets in custom couture and walked them down the runway for charity? Nothing saidgiving backlike a Yorkie in Gucci.
A lonely high-profile influencer with a tragic haircut? Not a problem. TheI Can Fix Himcharity date auctionhad been one of our most profitable events last year. Guests bid on “fixer-upper” bachelors—guys with bad haircuts, questionable fashion choices, or chaotic dating histories. All proceeds went to a relationship wellness nonprofit, and just last month our client got engaged to his date.
Ilivedfor the high of nailing something that seemed just slightly out of my reach. Granted, the fake smiles, endless networking, and crisis management left little time for an actual life, but that was totally fine.
My boyfriend, Brandt, was an up-and-coming attorney, and he was completely unbothered by my late nights and long weekends at work.
By the time I gave up on my heels and hailed a cab, my failed attempt at lunch was all but forgotten. Double Trouble PR had become my entire world, and the occasional nagging sense of unfulfillment was worth it.
I pasted on a smile as I walked into the office building. “Thanks, Ron.” I waved at the elderly doorman as he held the door for me. The ride up to the twentieth floor was quick, and I winked at our receptionist as I sailed past, promising myself I’d surprise her with lunch tomorrow.
“Oh! Ms. Darling!” Mel scrambled out of her chair and chased after me.
“Hey, Mel.” I smiled and kept walking toward Amy’s corner office. “I’m just popping in to see Amy. Something is up with the business card.”
She made a squeaking noise and placed herself between me and the door. “Ms. Fields is busy!” She looked panicked, and her attention flicked over my shoulder.
I tracked her gaze and noticed a few pairs of eyes pretending not to stare from behind their keyboards. I laughed. “It’s fine, Mel. I’ll be quick.”
I eased past the receptionist, pushing open the opaqueglass door to Amy’s office, then stopped dead in my tracks. Before I looked away, all I saw was Amy bent over her desk, ass in the air, while some guy pounded into her from behind. His slacks were pooled at his feet, and his necktie was flipped over one shoulder.
“Oh!” An embarrassed giggle shot out of me as I turned away. “Shit. Sorry, Aim. I can come back.”
“Ellie.” The strangled voice caught my attention, and my head whipped back around.
“Brandt?”I shrieked, unable to make sense of the scene unfolding in front of me. My stomach caved in on itself, like the bottom had been ripped out of my entire reality.
It wasn’t just any man, butmyman.
Brandt. My boyfriend. Myeverything-was-finesafety net—currently balls deep in my best friend.
Time slowed. My stomach lurched. My brain short-circuited. I mean, sure, I knew men cheated—I had a whole PR client list that proved it—but my boyfriend? With my best friend? In our office?
I was frozen as they both stood taller. Amy tried to pull her tight pencil skirt back over her ass, but it was bunched around her waist, and the thong wrapped around her ankles restricted her movements. She fumbled against her desk as she attempted to fix her clothing.
“What the actual fuck?” I demanded, not caring that I was likely drawing an audience just beyond the frosted glass of Amy’s corner office.
Rumpled, and still fumbling to button his pants, Brandt took a step toward me. “Ellie Belly, I can explain.”
“The only thing I need you to explain is how you thought screwing my best friend in broad daylight was the best way to round out the morning.” I held up my hand and shook my head. “You know what? Never mind.”
I couldn’t evenlookat him. My empty stomach rolled.
My eyes flashed to Amy. “How could you?” Betrayal stabbed me in the chest at the realization of what they’d done. I sucked in a breath as my temper flared. “How long?” I demanded.
