Page 47 of The Secretary Volume II (The After Hours #2)

46

Lena

I started sending out résumés two days ago. Not many. Slim pickings out there at the moment. Just enough effort to pretend I have options. That way if Andra or Stewy try to coerce me into surgery again, I’ll already have one foot out the back door.

In the meantime, I still need a paycheck.

The Shergar building looks the same as always. Blue glass, spotless sidewalks, security guards that don’t blink. I badge in expecting something—resistance, awkward stares, maybe a polite escort to HR.

Instead, security calls my name like I’m a prize winner on a game show.

“Lena Blackwell?”

I glance his way, bracing.

“You’re on seventy-three now. Executive Liaison moved your access.”

“Since when?” I ask, but he’s already waving me toward an elevator I’ve never been allowed to use.

I step in. The doors close like a vault.

I don’t know what I’m expecting. Some kind of punishment? A silent demotion. Maybe back to the phones—in that row of cubicles that smelled like coffee and stress sweat. Back to scripted pitches and headset-induced migraines. That would track.

Instead, I’m met by a woman in flats and a matte black suit who doesn’t introduce herself.

“Follow me,” she says.

We bypass the shared workspaces. She leads me through two security doors and a soundproof hallway with real art on the walls and frosted-glass lighting.

She stops at an office with my name already on the door.

“Your new space,” she says. “Let us know if you need anything.”

Inside: a desk that could double as a dinner table, a chair that probably costs more than my first car, a plant in the corner that’s either fake or extremely well-cared for.

There’s a sealed envelope on the desk.

I wait until she leaves to open it.

New badge. Different color. Higher clearance.

A single line on thick white card stock:

Looking forward to seeing what you do next. —E

No job title. No instructions. Just a signature that somehow manages to smirk using a single vowel.

I head to the break room mostly because it’s empty. I need a minute to reorient. My jaw still aches, and I’m not ready to face the spreadsheet that’s already glowing on my new monitor.

The only person inside is that woman I keep seeing—the one with the faraway stare and the unnerving stillness. She stirs her tea with a slow, mechanical motion, like she’s counting the turns.

“Do you know what NHI is?” she asks, without looking up. Like maybe she’s not talking to me.

“Excuse me?”

“I think it’s neural. Architecture or indexing. Or maybe integration. But no one will tell me.”

“National Health...something?”

She shakes her head. “Not that.”

“Sorry,” I say. “I haven’t heard of it.”

Finally, she meets my eyes. Stares at me for a second too long. Then turns back to her cup and keeps stirring.

It’s like she forgot we were talking.

Just like every other encounter.

When I get back to my new office, I nearly drop my coffee.

Ellis is sitting in my chair. Waiting for me.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just spins slightly in place, hands folded, like he’s judging the lumbar support. The silence stretches. Not awkward. Intentional. I think he’s waiting for me to ask why he’s here.

“You look well,” he says, finally. “I’ve been thinking about your situation.”

“Which one?” I ask. “The illegal surgery or the dead guy?”

He smiles like I’m charming, not dangerous. Like I don’t still look a little sunken and pale. Like I’m not running on applesauce and ibuprofen, holding my jaw a half-inch tighter so it doesn’t throb when I talk. Like showing up in a skirt and mascara is enough to pass for recovery.

“I think I can help you solve it,” he says. “Your situation. We’ll have dinner. Discuss your options.”

“Great. I’ll bring my soft food menu. Hope the restaurant has a good purée section.”

He stands. Straightens a cuff. Doesn’t wait for my answer.

As he reaches the door, I say, “There’s a woman in the break room—I keep running into her. She said something about NHI. Asked me if I knew what it meant.”

His back stiffens.

“Do you?”

“No. Do you?”

“Of course. Add it to the list of things to discuss over dinner. The car will pick you up at seven.”

“That woman,” I say. “No one seems to be able to tell me her name.”

He turns fully then, looks me straight in the eye. “Have you asked her?”

It’s a reasonable question. I don’t have a reasonable answer. “No.”

“I have four thousand employees, Lena,” he says, turning back toward the door. “You think I remember every one of them?”

He’s gone before I can respond.

I sit in the chair he just vacated.

It’s still warm.

And for a second, I let myself believe this is all going to turn out fine.