Page 113 of Meet Me In The Dark

All day, my mood is a live wire. I’m snapping at anything in reach.

Meetings blur together. Paperwork stacks up in front of me, contracts and decisions piling higher. I don’t breathe between them, and I don’t want to. The less time I spend in my own head, the better.

Men shift in their seats when my gaze lands onthem. Good. Let them feel it. Let them sweat, because I am.

Every minute away from her feels wrong, and I can’t explain it without sounding like I’ve completely lost my mind.

“The projections for quarter three look promising,” one of the execs starts, shuffling through a report. “We anticipate—”

“I don’t want anticipation,” I cut in, my voice flat but lethal. “I want guarantees. If you can’t give me that, you’re wasting my fucking time.”

Silence falls like a blade.

“I’ll have them by tomorrow,” he says.

“See that you do.”

The meeting ends in a scrape of chairs and hurried exits. Nobody lingers when I’m like this. They know better.

I pinch the bridge of my nose as Avery steps in, clutching her tablet.

“The Sinclair team is here for your three o’clock,” she says. “Ms. Morgan couldn’t make it.”

My pulse slams hard in my chest. “Why not?”

“I don’t know. I think I heard one of them say she isn’t in today.”

The dread that’s been sitting in the background all day surges forward.

I’m already on my feet, grabbing my suit jacket from the back of the chair. “Cancel it.”

She blinks. “What?”

“The meeting. Cancel it. And clear everything else I have today.”

“Julian.” She hurries after me as I move for the door. “Are you sure?”

“Cancel everything. I don’t care what it is. Move it.Reschedule it. Burn it.”

Her shoes click frantically against the floor as she tries to keep up, but I’m already halfway to the elevator.

I know I won’t breathe right again until I see Celeste.

∞∞∞

I force myself to knock gently, even though my pulse is already pushing me toward the opposite.

When the door swings open, the sharp burn of bleach hits me like a slap, but it’s not Celeste on the other side.

Vivid red hair. Piercing, critical eyes. Yellow rubber gloves.

“Ah,” she says, leaning against the frame, looking me over as if she’s measuring me for a coffin. “You.”

From Celeste’s stories, I know exactly who this is. I also know how important her friends are to her, which is the only reason I keep my tone civil.

“Madison, I assume? Nice to meet you. Is Celeste in?”

She props her free hand against the opposite side of the doorway, forming a wall with her body. “Nope. She’s out.”