Chapter 4: The Confrontation in the Hallway
The fluorescent lights in the hallway outside Marketing hummed a flat, white note. Lacy adjusted the stack of printouts in her arms, the paper corners digging into her palm. She’d spent the morning crafting a persona of eager competence, smiling until her cheeks ached, laughing a little too brightly at her new boss’s stale jokes.
The scent of cheap perfume and older coffee grounds hung in the recycled air. As she passed the recessed doorway of the supply closet, a shadow detached itself from the wall.
“Well, if it isn’t the new legend.”
Derek’s voice was smooth, a low baritone that didn’t belong in this beige space. He leaned a shoulder against the doorframe, blocking her path without seeming to. His suit jacket was draped over one arm, his shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle.
Lacy’s step hitched. A genuine, icy flicker of fear shot through her ribs, followed immediately by a warmer, more familiar thrill. She looked up, letting her blue eyes go wide and slightly confused.
“Derek, right? From the orientation meeting?”
His smile was all teeth. “Good memory.” He pushed off the frame, closing the distance just enough that she could smell his cologne, something woody and expensive that fought with the stale office air. “So. You remember my buddy Steve, right? Steve Rossi? From State?”
The name landed like a physical blow. Steve Rossi. Thick neck, linebacker shoulders, a breath that always smelled of mint masking vodka. He’d been one of the louder ones, a bragger. Her mind flashed to a darkened dorm room, the feel of coarse carpet under her knees, the ugly peony wallpaper.
She kept her expression placid, a slight frown of polite effort. “Steve… Rossi? Gosh, the name does sound familiar. There were so many people.”
“I’ll bet.” Derek’s gaze dropped to her mouth, then back up. He chuckled, a sound without warmth. “Steve had some stories. Said you were… how did he put it… a real campus treasure. A national landmark.”
Lacy felt a phantom ache in her jaw. She shifted the printouts, using the movement to take a half-step back. Her heel bumped the metal edge of the supply closet door. “College was fun,” she said, her voice pitching higher, ditzier. “Lots of parties!”
“I’m sure.” Derek’s eyes glinted. He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial murmur that vibrated in the hollow of her ear. “Anyway, a few of us are grabbing drinks this Friday at The Gilded Anchor. You should come. Help you… network.”
The invitation was a grenade, casual on the surface, primed beneath. She could see the trap. Going would be a confirmation, a tacit admission to everything Steve had said. Not going would make her seem stuck-up, suspicious.
She summoned a look of regret, pressing her lips into a pretty pout. “Oh, that sounds so nice! But I actually can’t.”
The polite refusal hung between them for only a second. Derek’s smile didn’t fade, but it hardened at the edges, becoming something fixed and assessing. He let the silence stretch, his eyes tracking the quickened pulse at the base of her throat.
“That’s a shame.” He tapped a finger against his chin, pretending to ponder. “See, that’s the funny thing. Steve always said the only reason you’d ever turn a guy down was if you were married or something. Seriously. He made a big deal about it.” He leaned closer, the woody cologne now oppressive. “So which is it, Lacy? You got a ring hidden somewhere?”
Her mind raced, scrabbling for purchase. Mark’s gentle, trusting face flashed before her, followed by the visceral memory of Steve Rossi’s heavy hands gripping her hair. If Derek connected her to Mark, the gossip would spiral, a toxic cloud engulfing Mark’s career and her own fragile new position. The rumor was bad enough; being the fiancée of a coworker would make her a perpetual target.
She could feel the cold metal of the supply closet door through her blouse. A nervous, breathy laugh escaped her, perfectly pitched. “Married? Oh my gosh, no! That’s so silly.” She waved a hand, the printouts rustling. “Steve said that? He was such a joker.”
“He was specific.” Derek’s voice had lost all its false friendliness, leaving a flat, probing tone. “So, if it’s not a husband, what’s the problem with Friday?”
The corridor felt suddenly airless, the distant keyboard clatter muffled. She saw her meticulously constructed new beginning crumbling, replaced by the old, hungry legend. Agreeing was a surrender, but refusal was a spotlight. The choice was violent and instantaneous.
“No problem!” she chirped, her smile now so wide it strained her cheeks. “It just sounded like a ‘guys thing’ before. But if it’s for networking, of course I’ll be there! The Gilded Anchor, right?”
The transformation was immediate. Derek’s posture relaxed, the predatory gleam returning to his eyes. He’d gotten what he wanted—a verification written in her sudden, eager compliance. “Eight o’clock,” he said, stepping back finally to let her pass. “Don’t be late, legend.”
She walked away on legs that felt unsteady, the smile locked on her face until she turned the corner. The cheerful façade melted, leaving a cold, calculating stillness in its wake. She leaned against a cool, painted cinderblock wall in a deserted alcove, catching her breath.
Mark would be expecting dinner Friday, some cozy plan she’d already vaguely promised. She’d need an excuse, a work function, something urgent and unmissable. Guilt prickled at her, faint and distant, but it was swiftly buried under a more immediate, buzzing anticipation. The taste of mint and vodka ghosted across her tongue.
She looked down at her left hand, at the bare finger where a ring would soon sit. Then she pushed off the wall and smoothed her skirt, her expression settling into one of focused resolve. The game had just been moved to a new, more dangerous field, and a part of her, the deepest part, was already stepping onto the turf.