My boyfriend Graham Whitaker brought another woman to the company gala.
He announced her from the stage as the company’s new director, and every head in the room swiveled toward me.
The whispers started immediately.
“What about Bennett? She’s been grinding toward that position for five years.”
“What’s she gonna do? Smile and take it. That woman up there is old money, educated abroad—the whole package. Word is she’s Graham’s ex, and she’s back because they’re getting engaged.”
The buzz hadn’t even died down when Camille Sutton walked up to me, wineglass in hand.
“Mara. So nice to finally put a face to the name.”
“Gray told me the funniest thing. That scholarship kid I flagged in a file five years ago? Turns out she’s the assistant he’s been training for me.”
Her eyes swept over me like I was a package she’d placed on backorder and forgotten about.
“Well, come on then. Let’s see what you’ve got. Drink up.”
Graham didn’t look at me, but his voice carried.
“She doesn’t drink.”
I smiled. I’d tucked our first ultrasound into my clutch tonight. It was supposed to be a surprise.
“It’s fine. I’ll drink.”
…
“Mara. Company policy prohibits pressuring people to drink at business events.”
He drummed his fingers against the table.
Not loud. Just deliberate enough to make a point.
I almost laughed.
Five years at this company. Seven ER visits. Two stomach pumps. I popped hangover pills and liver supplements like they were vitamins.
And now, in front of her, he wanted to talk about company drinking policy?
Maybe he was thinking about the baby. The Whitaker heir—the only thing he actually cared to protect. Not me.
Even so. What a joke.
Camille swatted his shoulder, pouting.
“Gray, relax. You’re scaring me.”
His tone didn’t change, but his face eased.
“She needs to stay sharp. She’s walking you through the workflow tomorrow.”
Camille’s whole face lit up.
“Of course. Always thinking ahead.”
She turned to me, chin tilted up.
“Before the meeting tomorrow, I need a full analysis of every project this company has ever done. I’m using it for my presentation.”
If she weren’t dead serious, I’d have thought she was hazing me.
“I can’t do that.”
“The company has been operating for over a decade. The older project files are archived, and I don’t have clearance to pull them.”
Her expression soured.
“Fine. Then pull together the ones you’ve handled yourself.”
“That’s not going to work either.”
She scowled. “And why not?”
I kept my voice level.
“There’s not enough time to verify the data.”
“My team and I have closed over two hundred projects. Every one used different metrics, so they don’t compare cleanly.”
“And I signed NDAs on most of them. Half that material can’t go in a public deck.”
“So, no. That’s not happening.”
Camille laughed, sharp and cold.
“So you can throw back drinks, but you can’t do your actual job?”
“A charity case from nowhere who needed loans just to cover tuition, and all you’re good for is pouring drinks?”
I’d heard worse. Years of it had made me fluent in being looked down on.
I knew exactly how to smile through a moment like this. I’d done it a hundred times.
But this time I just looked at her. No apology. No performance.
She slammed her glass down on the table. “If you can’t handle it, clear out your desk by the end of the month. I don’t carry dead weight.”