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G etting back to my routine was a welcome relief, my head feeling the effects of the weekend.

I hadn’t drunk a drop, and my blood sugars had been immaculately stable. The emotional toll, though, had drained me to the core, and sitting in my office felt good, normal, a nice green timeline where I didn’t have to balance too hard. Green . I snickered under my breath.

He was right: it had made us communicate in a safe, manageable way, even though I was now sitting here feeling anything but green. Yellow, massive flames of red in the background.

Well, Saturday had been interesting. Sunday, I’d pissed off like the scared brat I was and spent most of the day at Juliet’s flat packing up my stuff. She’d started on some of it and then kindly removed herself for the day so I could do my duty as the ex, the one who was being kicked out, the guilty party.

I’d sorted things out, thrown things away that were no longer mine to keep, packed everything into the boxes Juliet had organised for me and then loaded them neatly into my car.

There were still a few more to pick up—a chair and side table that were apparently mine. I didn’t remember, but she wanted them gone, so I wasn’t going to argue, but there was only so much I could cram into Jake’s hallway, and I’d already moved my bags and clothes onto the floor next to the treadmill, taking up space. His space. Perhaps I should rent a storage room, maybe I should look for a place of my own —that thought made me cold with fear, so perhaps not. No.

Juliet. Jake. Enough thinking . I shuddered.

We seemed to function, Juliet and me, avoiding spending time together as skilfully as we were at avoiding the questions none of our colleagues dared to voice. I knew they were there, whispered in hushed conversations, texted in muted group chats, words said in private behind our backs.

Things would calm down; newer tastier morsels of gossip would overtake the current drama, and soon, people would be laughing down the pub, saying, “Remember that Bash Dewaert? Shagged Juliet for years, then dumped her two weeks before the wedding?” “Yeah, heard he got off with someone else on his stag night. Served him right, the bastard. Juliet kicked him to the curb.”

I could almost hear the voices, the laughter. It stung now and always would, but eventually, it would fade, become easier on the palate .

I shuffled carefully in my seat. My backside wasn’t too bad, just sore and tender, the skin protesting if I sat down for too long, like it was trying to heal but I just couldn’t stop cracking it back open.

I’d liked it, yes. That…tingling in my groin returned every time I remembered that he’d had me over his lap, held me down, helpless and pathetic, his hands on my skin, the rush of the pain, the whoosh of his hand descending through the air, my skin feeling the impact. Then afterwards…

I hadn’t spoken to Jake at all. I’d snuck in late Sunday evening and gone straight to bed, then left this morning before he’d had the chance to stop me.

I wasn’t ready for what would inevitably come next. Things needed to be processed, and I really needed to figure out what the hell I was doing.

Fuck, he’d totally ruined me, and I’d liked it, and now I was reaping the consequences, not being able to sit down properly and looking like a twat, leaning sideways on my chair when my intern came in with my smoothie.

I hated the smoothies yet asked for them because they were good for me, stabilised my blood sugars and all that crap. Green stuff, all the nutrition my body craved.

“Thank you,” I said meekly.

She cocked her head at me. “Are you all right, Mr Dewaert?”

I smirked. Mr Dewaert was my granddad, and I still wasn’t used to being called that. I insisted on Bash, even at work, not that the intern had got that memo, and I’d already forgotten what she’d asked as I moved in my seat and winced. Everything hurt, that dull ache flaring whenever I moved. I lifted slightly off the seat and shifted onto my other side. Still hurt.

“Can I do anything? Need help?”

“Sort my life out?” I joked, trying to align my arse with the chair and sit like a normal person. “Overdid it at the gym.”

Lame, but plausible, even though her raised eyebrow told me she didn’t believe a word I was saying.

“Can I speak freely?” Closing the door behind her, she moved around the desk and motioned to the seat.

Not her place, not the done thing, but I nodded, a touch dismissively, but whatever. She had something to say. Who was I not to listen ?

She was a pretty girl, dark hair swirled into a neat bun. Curves. Well presented. The kind of intern who could easily fall prey to the sharks in this goddamn tank—they were always circling here. Kieron had form. So did Ollie. A few drinks after work and this girl would be groped in some pub, her well-meaning innocence replaced with a good dose of dick and the grief that inevitably followed.

Not that she was my problem. I had to swallow a bitter laugh.

“ Can I speak freely?” she repeated.

More nods. I was a man of few words around here too.

“I haven’t been here very long, but I’m finding things I’m not happy with. I understand office culture and all that, and people having a laugh and taking the piss, but sometimes we have to stand up for ourselves. And so far, I haven’t, but I think it’s time I do.”

“Go on?” I said and shuffled again. God, this was uncomfortable, both the chair and having her here, doing the talking thing. Double whammy. Just leave already .

“There’ve been several instances this week of colleagues openly and rudely mocking Juliet Delaware, unpleasant allegations and rumours I refuse to repeat. She’s in charge here, and that calls for a certain degree of having to deal with things like this, but from where I’m standing, Ms Delaware should be treated with professional respect, the same way I deserve not to be propositioned in the breakroom on a daily basis. And, having to hold myself back, figuratively speaking, from punching people in the face, is draining, if you see my point.”

She sighed. The girl had guts. This was the kind of thing that got interns fired on day one. Speaking up. Meddling. Not playing the game.

“What’s your name, again?” Here I was too, the idiot who processed them, one intern after the other, and never committed their names to memory.

“Faye Michaels.” She looked straight at me, head held high. “I know this isn’t the done thing,” she continued, “but I’m coming to you in confidence, because you seem like the only decent person around here, the only one who is not part of all this bullshitting. ”

“I don’t know about the bullshitting part, but I know what you mean,” I said, my head spinning a little. This was new, but admirable. I liked it. Straight talk. Honest talk.

“I realise that, keeping in mind I’ve been here for almost six weeks, and you still don’t know my name.”

Bullseye.

“Faye…can I call you Faye?”

“Absolutely.”

I wanted to say it out loud, good girl , but even thinking it made me blush.

I missed him. For fuck’s sake, Bash.

“Faye, I get what you’re saying, and I dread to think what the current gossip doing the rounds here is all about. Especially when it comes to Juliet, who is not only our boss but also a very decent person.”

“Well,” she said, “I didn’t get a first in international economics to serve some dude in a shirt green mush in a glass.” She snorted, side-eyeing said green mush in a glass. “Neither did I get it to stand around the breakroom listening to people dish the dirt on the boss. I know this company back to front. I know the business. And I also see Juliet Delaware for what she is. Smart. Strong. Fair and decent.”

I nodded, half impressed, half…terrified about what was about to come out of her mouth. Then I motioned for her to continue. Get those words out. And for a second, it hit me. She was as terrified as me, but at the same time? Back straight. Eyes on me. No fear there.

“I got that first so I could turn up here and demand an internship with Juliet Delaware. That’s why. And I got it, and here I am, and I am not going to let some oversexed twat put an end to my career or negotiate defamatory gossip. I’m here to work, and to work hard.”

“You sound like me a few years back,” I said. “Only then, this place was run by Frank Howard, who I worked under for about a week before he put himself in a hospital bed and never returned. I wanted to work for him, but he turned into Juliet, and here we are.”

“See? I know you’re solid. Straightforward and professional, and I’m more than satisfied being your green-slush provider—for now. But things have to change, or I will walk. I don’t want to walk, but at the same time, I won’t put up with this.”

“Neither will I,” I assured her. It was a lie, because I hated confrontation, but perhaps that had to change too.

She said nothing. I winced, moving in my chair.

“That gym injury needs looking at,” she said sternly.

“It’s fine.” I tried to get comfortable. “Completely self-inflicted and deserved.” For once, I believed my own words, and I also agreed with Faye. So much had to change.

“Can I bring you a paracetamol or two?”

I grinned. “You could, but I would much prefer if you could write something down for me, a proposal for how we create a better colleague environment that would make the things you mentioned unacceptable. I mean, these things have always been unacceptable, but they need to be addressed, and people reminded of the consequences. Mental health, harassment in the workplace, et cetera. You know these things, I’m sure.”

“Did my master’s dissertation on HR practices in financial institutions,” she said flatly .

“So perhaps a clause in our colleague guide, something that explicitly calls out the issues at hand—no names, no specifics, but enough that everyone will feel the bite. Also, you should have a meeting with Juliet, set one up for later. Tell her all of this. The works.”

“The works? I won’t have a job by morning.”

“You will. Trust me.”

She shook her head at me, as I tried to get up. The gym injury may all have been made up, but the way he’d held my leg in the air when he’d fucked me the other day had seriously done a number on my hip. I could still feel it, if I closed my eyes. Stupid, but it was right there, following my every movement in my head whenever I let my guard down. I had to sit back down and admit defeat, sore, uncomfortable, aching all over.

“Good weekend then?” she asked, like she could read my internal cringe fest. Musings. Sexual disasters. Oh God. Not disasters. Bone-crunching, skin-blistering, gorgeously brutally life-destroying sex.

Jake.

“Busy,” I managed to get out of my mouth. “What about you? ”

Small talk? Me?

“You don’t want to know.” She smiled, like she wanted me to know.

“Tell me,” I said, straightening up, almost without wincing. “Can’t be worse than mine.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” She rolled her eyes. “I’ve been chatting to this guy online for a couple of weeks. Nice guy. Lawyer. Decided to finally meet on Saturday night, at a wine bar on the South Bank. You know. Fancy.”

“Fancy indeed.” I had no idea why I was still going along with this conversation.

“Turned up, all dolled up, forked out on a blow-dry and everything. Guy’s sat at the table.”

“What was wrong with him?”

“What was wrong with him? Nothing at all. Looked exactly like his photo, great body, nice hair…just completely drunk.”

“Oh.” Damn , girl!

“Tried to hold a conversation, spilled his drink, slurred out a load of nonsense and then disappeared off to get another gin and tonic. I sat there in shock. I mean? He’s a highly successful, educated lawyer. I’d looked him up, read his bio, researched, all of that. He was so nice over texts, and then this? I can understand one drink to calm the nerves but… Damn. It was embarrassing. So I sit there, and the lady at the next table leans over and whispers, ‘You can leave now. Just go. We’ll cover for you.’”

She nodded. I did too. “Good call.”

“I ran. Didn’t remember to block him until I got home, but I hate all of it. The dating, the men, the whole song and dance of trying to find someone who will just treat you nicely and buy you flowers once in a while.”

“If it only were that easy,” I inserted into her sentence.

“It’s not. It’s horrible, and it makes you feel really disillusioned about yourself.”

“I know,” I admitted and cringed, because I did know. And I also knew something else.

“What about your weekend?”

“Broke up with someone recently, so staying with a friend. Trying to patch my life back up.”

“So that’s why you keep asking me to fix your life.”

“Yup. ”

“Not doing that. Can’t even fix my own.”

“You’ll be fine. You’ll just wake up one morning and realise that the person you least expected was the love of your life.”

I went quiet. No idea where that had come from.

“Let’s make a deal,” she said. “You find me the love of my life, and I’ll fix your life.”

“Oh, that sounds like a risky deal.”

“You know all about risky deals,” she teased. “I saw the Graham Bloom portfolio. Balls of steel there.”

I puffed out my chest. I was rather proud of that little venture. So was Juliet, who rapped her fingers against the door and opened it without waiting for permission.

Very her.

“Ah, just the person,” I said. “Juliet, we need to have a meeting. Faye and I have a few things to put to you. Tomorrow. Faye will make the arrangements.” I waved my hand around, tried to look in control.

“Good,” Juliet said, not missing a beat. “And I need the Johnstone files.”

“On it,” I promised.

“Paracetamol?” Faye asked, standing up .

“Please. And I’ll get on to sorting you out with a man.”

“A sober one this time.”

I smiled and nodded as Juliet disappeared down the corridor and Faye turned around in the doorway.

“Mr Dewaert?” she said, biting her bottom lip.

“Bash,” I insisted.

“The gym injury.” She winked. “I’ll get you an orthopaedic cushion from the storeroom. Helps with…” She was so close to bursting out laughing, and for some insane reason, I was too. “…those kinds of injuries.” Another wink. Then she closed the door.

My arse hurt like hell, and suddenly I felt more weirded out than I’d ever felt before.