Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Delaney . . .
Apprehensively, I glide my mouse over to the trash folder and click it open. The screen populates with the missing messages. When I open the first one, I catch that I’m fine, don’t worry, I trust you to make the right decision, and I’ll be offline the rest of the weekend. The latter is something I’ve never said in my life. But if someone wanted me all to herself, she might.
Or maybe Delaney thought it best for me to rest. She was looking out for my best interest, which most people never do. Am I kidding myself? I think it’s gaslighting at this stage. I want to believe we are real so badly that I’m searching for justifications for her actions instead of demanding answers.
I look at Jocelyn. Trying to act like it was all a misunderstanding, “I found them.” Touching my head, I say, “I don’t know why I forgot—”
“You have a concussion.”
“Yes,” I say, laughing to humor her when I’m not the least bit amused. “It’s been a weird time.”
“I understand. Maybe you need more time to recover?”
“No.” I glance at the screen again, scanning the column. “It’s fine. I do have a lot of business to take care of, though, so if you’ll excuse me.”
Standing, she says, “I’ll be at my desk if you need me.”
As she makes her way to the door, I say, “Thank you for dealing with everything while I was gone.”
She stops to look back. “Of course, it’s my job, but even if it weren’t, I’m always here to help, sir.”
“I appreciate that. Will you order me a new phone to be delivered today?”
“Done.” When she walks out of the office, she closes the door behind her. The moment I’m alone, I start scrolling through emails. The dread I feel is well-founded and expands into my chest with each one I read.
Every email is another betrayal, another lie piled on a relationship built on them. She didn’t bother admitting she was the one in communication. Instead, she inserted herself. How’d she know my password?
Fire runs through my veins, heating my cheeks as I read about deals that should be handled with care. Ones she gave my assistant permission to work through. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬 𝘐 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘵𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘵 Jocelyn. She always has my back in business. But some of those decisions she doesn’t have the background or inside knowledge to make.
My hands shake as my blood pressure spikes, and I shove away from the desk. Pacing the length of my office, I grab a handful of my hair and tug, finding her gall beyond maddening. My patience wears thin, making me feel desperate to attack.
I keep thinking I can overlook these crushing setbacks to our relationship, sending us two steps back. Nothing is safe with her around, including me. But I also foolishly thought we had more time to work through it, but things are coming to a head. If it weren’t for the week’s worth of work to catch up on, I would storm back home and demand answers. I’ll have to deal with it, with her, later.
With access to the world again and information at my fingertips, I type Delaney Bayetti into the search bar. Not much comes up. Part of the Bayetti family, who owns the restaurant, and she is studying elementary education. The tidbit is so casually listed that I’m thrown off guard. She’s a teacher, or she’s a student? How does her being a teacher even make sense? Why wouldn’t she be working? Or does she have the summer off, and manipulating unsuspecting hit-and-run accident victims is her pastime to earn extra funds?
Why does this story—hers and mine—keep getting more complicated? For every one truth, five lies are revealed. It’s a damn house of cards we’re living in. House of mirrors describes it better.
Nothing of value shows up otherwise. She probably scraped the internet using her covert operative skills. Is she CIA, MI6, or part of the KGB? For all I know, my office might be bugged, and she’s listening from my apartment, cackling her sexy little ass off.
I smile. Not because I’m funny, which I am, nor because I read about the family ties to the restaurant, since I knew about that. I chuckle because this has gotten so out of hand that I’m not sure it can be reeled back in. And because that little nutball of mine is a sweet little teacher. How bad or conniving can she be if she picked such a generous profession?
Her two personalities, seemingly worlds apart, leave my mind boggled enough not to take that on. It can only be done when I’m face-to-face with her. How can I use this to my advantage? That’s my next thought, but I don’t want advantages. I want to know her, all of her. I want her truths, even if they’re not as pretty as she’d like them to be.