Page 141 of Manhattan State of Mind

Breathe like the clinic taught you.

I dart into the restroom on the reception floor, my hands barely able to hold the letter steady. Should JP question me, I’ll claim I dropped something during that car ride and was going to retrieve it.

Taking a shaky breath, I tear open the letter, a silent prayer on my lips. And then I read.

Mr. Wolfe,

This letter is to formally resign from my position as Senior Graphic Designer at Quinn & Wolfe, effective immediately.

While I have thoroughly enjoyed my time at your company, working under your ‘leadership’ has become unbearable.

Your dishonesty has made your presence insufferable. For my own well-being, I need to distance myself from you and everything you stand for.

I’m done. Finished.

Lucy Walsh.

I hunch over in the bathroom stall, dizzy and disoriented. Did I really resign?

The thought rattles in my brain as my anxiety spikes. The letter clutched in my hands is harsh, biting—nothing like my usual calm, professional tone. Clearly, I intended to make a point.

Something terrible must have happened to make me snap, to shred my composure and unleash such vitriol.

I hated JP. No, more than that—I loathed him enough to abandon the job I love. What could he have done to spark such fury in me?

The bitter truth hits my gut like a punch. He lied. He hurt me. And then he covered it up. Whatever it was, it held the power to drive me away from the company, and him, forever.

My fingers trace the harsh words in the letter as I read them again, sending a shiver up my spine. A locked memory strains against its chains, shrouded in a fog of dread and trauma, desperately struggling to break free from the clutches of amnesia.

JP’s face appears, towering over me like an imposing statue at the top of the grand staircase in the Plaza. He looks every inch the polished executive in his sleek tuxedo, but I’m boiling with rage. The scene is hazy, blurred at the edges, just like those first days in the hospital.

But I can hear my voice echoing. I see the flash of pain in his eyes, the clench of his jaw. My heart shatters all over again, as if I’m reliving it in real time.

He broke me. I don’t know how, or why, but I know he made me sob for days on end.

“You’re not good for me. I can never trust you again,” I spit, the hurt and disappointment radiating in my voice. The harsh words linger in the air.

“Don’t do this, Lucy,” he growls, his polished veneer giving way to desperation.

In a final act of defiance, I push the letter into his hand, giving him a big fuck you, then turn away.

I lose my footing and tumble headfirst down the staircase.

The memory fades, leaving a bitter aftertaste. With trembling hands, I fold the letter and tuck it back into its envelope.

I need to get out of here. Now.

By now, Logan will likely have contacted JP. He probably went back into his meeting with the executive board. Maybe he didn’t answer his phone.

Yet, if that call was answered, JP would know for sure what I took, and he’ll figure out I seduced him to steal his car keys.

I can’t go back to my desk. I message Matty to get my things and bring them to me at reception, and to tell Taylor I’m not feeling well.

Navigating my way through the reception, I find a conveniently human-sized plant as the perfect ruse and pretend to be enthralled by my phone. I’ll wait here for Matty. On second thought, I should have asked someone more efficient—like Taylor. Matty’s probably turned back to his cat video already—although ever since I snapped at him, he has been trying.

His number—JP—makes my phone flash to life. Oh, fuck.

Anxiety strikes my chest. A sudden, intense shot. I want to drop the damn phone, fire it into the pot plant.