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I signed a contract to go on 365 first dates. One man per day. No repeat dates. No sex. No feelings. It was supposed to save my job. Then Date Six looked at me with hazel eyes, paid for dinner, held me like he already knew where I broke. I wrote about him as “D.” The next morning, I learned his full name. Derek Blaine. My company’s investor. The man who could fire me. Chapter 01 “What do you mean you'll go on 365 first dates?” My roommate and best friend, Dani, stood across from me on the other side of our kitchen table, her arms crossed. “Are you out of your goddamn mind?” “I know,” I rubbed my face with both hands. “But maybe I am. Maybe, crazy is what I need right now.” She dropped into the chair and reached over to squeeze my wrist. “I don’t know, Maya…” she said quietly. “Your heart isn't built for this. You're an empath. You fall in love with every barista who remembers your oat milk order. What if you catch feelings for one or more than one of your dates? What happens then?” “Dani…” “Or worse… what if you end up heartbroken again?” “I won’t,” I assured her. “It’s just for work. Trust me, I can separate my feelings from my job.” She didn't look convinced and was about to drop one last point, but I'd already stood and walked off. I didn't want to listen to her accurate analysis of me. I WAS an empath. I love love. The butterflies, the first-date flirting-banter, the way it feels when someone looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. And that made this decision even worse. It was a messy game to play with my own heart… but what did they say about desperate times? ***EIGHT HOURS EARLIER*** The words came out smaller than I intended. Around the long conference table, my colleagues waited in silence to hear the final verdict on my career. Candice, my boss and Editor-in-Chief, tilted her head, like she wasn’t sure she’d heard right. “Care to repeat that?” I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I’ll go on three hundred and sixty-five dates. One date per day for a whole year.” Silence. Then, the room erupted with snorts and laughter, followed by whispers. “What the hell?!” “That’s the most fucked up thing I’ve ever heard.” “Oh, she’s lost it. She’s definitely getting fired.” Among them was Tessa Liang, Pulse LA’s golden girl and my personal bully. She flashed me that fake, sympathetic look she’d saved just for me. I clenched my fist so hard that one of my acrylics broke. But the sting from it wasn’t what really hurt. They were right. I was going to get fired today. And that pitch was probably the dumbest thing I had ever presented, but it was also my last resort to staying employed. Five years ago, I received the offer to be a junior editor and writer for my dream company, Pulse LA. A month after graduating with a major in journalism at the University of Manitoba, I packed up my life and moved to Los Angeles. I gave this place everything. Nights, weekends, holidays, even the last scrap of my relationship with my ex-fiance, Marcus. I don’t blame him though. I had canceled too many dinners and halted so many future plans until he finally snapped. I had convinced myself it was going to be worth it, but then, the layoffs started. Pulse LA was struggling financially before it was quietly bought by an anonymous investor. And just last Monday, after a meeting like this, ten people were jobless by the end of the day. Today was my turn. I ignored the whispers and focused on Candice, praying and hoping that my idea was accepted. It had to be. I couldn’t afford to lose this job. Not with Dani covering more of the rent and house bills than she should. After my breakup with Marcus a year ago, I moved in with her and had promised to pay everything back the second I got promoted. I lost that promotion. Second time in a row. By now, I was convinced I was a dead weight she was too kind to drop. Finally, Candice glanced at me. “It’s… not terrible.” Holy shit! Holy s— Tessa cut in before I could have this win. “With all due respect, Candice,” she said, her voice stupidly sugary. “that’s a huge resource drain. Something we can’t afford to do right now. When it flops—” “It won’t,” I cut her off, then turned to Candice. “You said in the last meeting we needed a story with built-in tension and high stakes, right? This is it. Readers will be hooked because they'll want to see how this crazy journey ends.” Jess from social media leaned forward. “Maya’s not wrong. First-person POV is what’s trending on TikTok. The messier the dates get, the more authentic it looks.” I couldn’t tell if she genuinely cared or secretly wanted front-row seats to my dating life crashing, but either way, it helped my case. Candice studied me for a long second. Then, she sighed. “I’ll need it to run by our investor first. You’ll get an answer by the end of today.” My stomach dropped. The investor was the reason the layoffs started in the first place. Candice explained to us that he was only interested in numbers. If any employee didn’t meet the target he set, they were fired immediately. Just like that. It didn't matter what you'd done before or how long you'd been here. If he said you were out, you were out. - - - By late afternoon, I was in Candice’s office. “Please, sit,” she said as soon as I stepped in, gesturing to the chair opposite her desk. “This won’t take long.” Great. Because that’s what they always say before you get fired. I perched on the edge and rubbed my sweaty palms against my grey pencil skirt. Candice had a very good poker face. I’ll give her that. “He approved it.” Wait…what?! For a second, I forgot how to breathe. “He…approved it?” “Yes, but on several conditions,” She reached into a slim folder and slid a black-covered document across the desk toward me. “Consider this your trial period.” A contract? The first line hit me right between the eyes: 365 FIRST DATES – CONTENT EXPERIMENT AGREEMENT. I picked it up and flipped through the pages. The numbers were ridiculous: 50k weekly unique readers by week six. 150k by the end of month three. Candice leaned back. “Your dating series will run as long as it performs well. If you don’t meet those numbers, I can’t guarantee your…” she trailed off. She didn’t need to complete it. But still… “These numbers, Candice…” “You wanted high stakes,” she said. “These are high stakes.” I dropped my gaze back to the contract. The next paragraph was worse. “Nothing off the record?” I read aloud. “At all?” “Nothing.” Candice’s tone was firm. “If it happens on the date, it’s potential content. Awkward, messy, steamy—doesn’t matter.” My cheeks burned. “So if I have, like, a horrible crying breakdown in a bathroom—” “You write it.” Her eyes softened just a fraction. “Within reason on the details, obviously.” But there was more. No mention outside Pulse LA that the series is a structured experiment. No repeat dates. No personal or romantic involvement with any date subject for the duration of the series. No sex with any date subject. What the—? I scanned the clause again. “Wow! This is… wow.” Candice tapped her nails on the table. “Listen, Maya. You’re good. I wouldn’t be fighting for this if you weren’t. But we are not in a position to run vanity projects. You know that.” She handed me a pen. My stomach tightened as I stared at the signature line: Violation of any of these terms will result in immediate termination of employment. This was it. A year of no sex, no relationships, and no real off-switch. I took the pen from her and signed my name on the line. Maya Sutherland. This was my life now. Chapter 02 Dani reluctantly helped me build my dating profile on the app. Apparently, I am fluent in sarcasm and accidental oversharing, love spontaneous road trips and trying every taco truck in LA, and looking for trouble, not a situationship. My jaw dropped. “Dani, what the fuck?! That’s not even me.” “That,” she said, smirking, “is the version of you that gets first dates. So, suck it up.” I stared at the profile again. “I don’t even like road trips that much..” “That’s the point.” I was about to give another retort when the app buzzed with a match. Ryan, 32. Date one of 365. Here goes nothing… - - - The Silverlake bar we scheduled to meet had dim light lighting, exposed bricks with shelves of different bottles. I waited on the barstool, dressed down in black jeans and a silk camisole, checking my phone every five minutes. Because my date was ten minutes late. Red flag 1. “Hey, Maya?” I looked up. Ryan was taller than he looked in his photos. Broad shoulders, strong jaw, expensive watch glinting on his wrist. “Hi.” I stood, and we did the awkward half-hug, half-handshake thing. He smelled like something fresh and expensive. At first, everything was going fine until well… it wasn’t. For the next hour, Ryan talked nonstop about what he did for work (consultant), bragging about how he closed the biggest Series B in his company. He name-dropped Elon Musk, Prince William, Jeff Bezos, and Donald Trump, talking about how he’s part of their “business circle.” Not once did he delve deep into my own life. Red flag 2. Hell, he even ordered for me without asking. What if I were allergic? Red flag 3. Each time I tried to balance out the conversation, he’d find a way to tie a situation back to himself and his life. Ryan was LinkedIn in human form. Bro talked with bullet points. By the time the check arrived, it was clear that Ryan only loved three things: His job, his gym routine, and his voice. Ugh! I was so done. “This was fun,” Ryan said as we stepped out into the cool night air. “We should do it again sometime.” Even if the contract hadn’t stated No repeat dates, I wouldn’t want to see him again. I forced a polite smile. “I’ll… let you know.” He leaned in for a hug, then a cheek kiss that landed dangerously close to my mouth. “See you, Maya.” “See you,” I watched him go before adding. “Never.” Back home, I pulled my hair up and opened my laptop. There was definitely a lot I wanted to say. Date 1: The Man Who Tried to Optimize Me. I wrote about every awful moment felt funnier on the page: the way he said “output” like it was a love language, the way he cut me off to talk about his protein shakes, the way he glanced at my chest exactly three times, thinking I didn’t notice. I wrote for an hour, laughing at each line. Finally, I was done, and the reality of what I was doing sank in. This might turn out better than I hoped… or it might just be my biggest mistake ever. I clicked the publish button. - - - My answer came in the following morning with the consistent buzzing of my phone. I squinted at the screen. Notifications stacked on top of each other; Slack messages. Email alerts. Pulse LA dashboard updates. I opened the analytics page. Your article “Date 1: The Man Who Tried to Optimize Me” has reached 5,034 reads. I blinked. “Wait…what?” I sat up so fast my head spun. I refreshed the analytics page, heart pounding. But the numbers didn’t change. What followed was a loud sound, but I didn’t realize it was me. Screaming at the top of my lungs. Dani rushed in, panicking. “WHAT? MAYA!! ARE YOU OKAY?! WHAT HAPPENED?!!” I held the phone out to her. “Oh my God!” She looked between me and the screen. “Are you for real?” I nodded vigorously. We jumped on the bed, giggling and screaming. After the adrenaline wore off, I scrolled through the comments section. “Girl, I went on this exact date last week.” “Why are men like this???” “Not the bullet point sentence, I’m SCREAMING.” “I spit out my coffee at ‘LinkedIn with a pulse,’ thanks for that.” People were tagging their friends, screen-shotting lines, arguing about whether productivity culture was a cult or a lifestyle. A warm fuzzy feeling bubbled in my chest. Maybe, this could actually work. By afternoon, after a shower, three cups of coffee, and a mild anxiety attack, the number had increased to. 10,487 reads. I was sprawled on the living room couch in an oversized T-shirt, laptop balanced on my stomach, rereading the comments like a narcissist. And that was when I saw it. A comment from an account called @TruthHurts: “If you ask me, this reads like a experimental mess.” I jolted up. “Dani…” “Yeah?” “Look…” I turned the phone toward her. She read it, then shrugged. “Trolls are always gonna troll.” I frowned. “Maybe, but how do they know it's an experiment? No one outside the office was supposed to know that.” Chapter 03 MAYA'S POV “I wouldn’t read meaning into it,” Dani said, blowing on the nail she was painting. “Everything’s a performance on the internet. So, that’s just a generic comment.” Maybe she was right. Still, something about the comment lingered in my mind. Whoever wrote it sounded strangely certain. I took a screenshot of the comment and sent it to Candice with a quick message. Me: Hey, random question—any chance someone may have leaked the ‘experiment’ angle? A few minutes later, my phone buzzed. Candice: Most likely a bot. It’s not worth derailing your focus. Just keep the numbers climbing. Got it?” Fine. I closed the dashboard and opened the dating app. Time to line up more content. The next few days turned into a blur of bad dates. Date two was at a bar in downtown LA with a guy named Trevor. He wore a beanie indoors and had a tattoo of a UFO on his forearm. “So,” he said, halfway through his IPA, squinting at me like I was a puzzle. “Be honest. Are you…AI?” I blinked. “Am I what?” “AI,” he repeated, dead serious. “Like, are you real-real, or are you, like, one of those bots that companies are using to harvest emotional data?” “I’m a person.” “That’s exactly what an AI would say,” he said. “I read this article about how dating apps are just training grounds now. They’re letting bots practice talking to us so they can replace human interaction entirely.” “Okay,” I said slowly. “But I’m sitting right here. In front of you.” “Yeah, but how do I know you’re not, like, a really advanced simulation?” He leaned in, whispering. “Blink twice if you’re trapped in the mainframe.” I took a long, long sip of my drink. Later, when he asked if I’d ever met a lizard person in real life, I mentally titled the article. Date 2: The Man Who Thought I Was AI. Date three was at a Mexican place in West Hollywood with red-checkered tablecloths and a line out the door. “Call me Luca,” he said, kissing the air near my cheek. “I’m a chef.” He was charming in that “everyone’s special to me” way. He told me about his childhood in New Jersey, “but with a Mexican soul,” and gestured a lot. Like a lot. Halfway through the main course, his phone buzzed. He frowned. “Shit. I’m so sorry, bella. Emergency at the restaurant. I have to step out and call my sous-chef. Two minutes, okay?” “Of course.” He walked out the front door and never came back. I paid my half of the bill, left, and titled that one in my notes app on the Uber ride home: Date 3: The Chef Who Ghosted Me Mid-Ravioli. Each article hit harder than the last. 15,000 views… 18,500… 22,000… The comments got louder too. Funnier. “Girl, you’re doing the Lord’s work, so we don’t have to.” “I swear these men are NPCs.” “Drop the restaurant name, I just want to talk.” Among them, one username kept popping up. @TruthHurts. “She’s optimizing for sympathy, not truth.” “This is content, not confession.” Some people agreed with them. Others defended me. “It’s good for the algorithm anyway,” I muttered one night, scrolling in bed. “Engagement is engagement.” Week one was barely over, and my total unique readers were already past 40k. But by Friday night, I was pretty sure my soul had left my body somewhere between explaining NFTs and saying, “No, I don’t want to meet your mom tonight.” I had just hit the publish button on Date 5’s article before collapsing on my bed. “That’s it,” I mumbled, face buried in my pillow. “I’m done. Tap out. Game over. Dani, tell my family I died doing what I loved.” “Okay, enough app weirdos.” Dani chuckled as she flopped onto the bed beside me. “You need a break from swiping. I’m gonna call in a favor.” I heard her tapping away. “So, there's this guy who is the friend of my friend's boss,” she said after a moment. “She says he’s nice, rich.” She paused. “Hmm…” I lifted my head. “What?” “Is it weird that she doesn’t remember his name?” she admitted, squinting at the screen. “She just calls him ‘D’.” At this point, a date was a date, a man was a man, and a story was a story. I dropped my face back into the pillow, my voice muffled. “I really don’t care. He’ll probably be as boring as Ryan.” But I had no idea that this date was about to ruin everything for me. Chapter 04 My date was anything but boring. He sat at the table by the window, ankle resting casually on his knee as he scrolled on his phone. Dark shades, a fitted navy button-down and jeans made it look like he’d just stepped out of a campaign shoot. There was a clean, quiet confidence in the way he took up space, like he was used to rooms bending around him instead of the other way around. As I approached, he slid his phone into his pocket and stood. When the shades came off, I forgot what I was about to say. He had the most beautiful hazel eyes. “Maya?” His baritone voice was low and smooth, edged with something I couldn’t place. East Coast? Money? Both? He smiled, and it softened his whole face. “I’m Derek.” D. Of course. He stepped around the table and pulled my chair out for me. A gentleman? It’d been…a long time since someone had done that for me. Not even Marcus. “Aww... thank you.” He waited until I was settled before pushing the chair in and taking his own. The place Dani had booked was an Italian restaurant called Los Feliz. Warm light spilled through the tall windows. The air smelled like something buttery. Soft music played low. It was cozy. Intimate. He cleared his throat. “So, I have a confession… I honestly thought I was being catfished.” I blinked. “Catfished?” “My friend only sent a very blurry photo of you, so it could have gone either way.” I laughed, genuinely surprised. “Yet, you showed up anyway.” “And I’m glad I did.” My cheeks turned red. “You don’t look so bad yourself.” The menu arrived, and the conversation flowed easily. He asked how long I’d been in LA, if I missed the snow in Canada, and how I was navigating the big city. “And you?” I asked, reaching for another piece of bread. “Do you like LA?” He swirled his wine. “The weather, meh. The food, definitely,” His eyes lifted to mine. And I’m warming up to the…people.” Heat climbed up my neck. We talked about everything and anything. Well, mostly me. Before long, we had spent three hours at the restaurant. I was meant to be taking notes mentally for my article. Instead, I was studying how many times he smiled, memorizing the lines when his eyes crinkled. When the check came, I offered to split the bill out of reflex. “I’ve got it,” he said, already sliding his card down. “At least let me—” “Maya.” There was a gentle finality in his tone. “I’m paying. You can get dessert next time.” The words landed like stone. Next time. “Bold of you to assume there’ll be a next time.” He leaned back. “Bold of you to assume there won’t be.” My heart did a stupid little flip. Outside, it had gotten very dark. The streets were quieter too. “Do you have to rush off?” he asked quietly. This was the part I was supposed to say goodnight, but my mouth spoke before my brain caught up. “No… not really.” His lips curved. “We could walk for a bit. I promise I’ll keep the small talk to a minimum.” “Sure.” We fell into step along the sidewalk. “So,” I said, glancing up at him. “You realize you’ve told me almost nothing about yourself, right?” He put a hand over his chest, feigning offense. “I told you about Zurich.” I laughed. “That’s one airport, Derek. It doesn’t count.” “Okay. What do you want to know?” “Where do you spend most of your time?” I asked. “Besides European layovers.” He turned back to the road, stuffing his hands into his pockets. “Honestly?” he said. “Mostly in places where we talk about potential that isn’t being fully realized. People who are terrified of losing what they’ve built and even more terrified of changing anything.” He shook his head. “It’s all boring date talk. What about you? Where do you like to spend your free time?” I stroked an invisible beard, and that made him laugh. God, I could listen to that sound all day. I blinked the thoughts away. “Well, mostly with my best friend and roommate, Dani. I’m an introvert, so you’d barely hear my voice in a public setting, but Dani? That girl has seen my wild side.” He arched his brow. "You have a wild side?” My cheeks burned. “I mean… um…It’s not—” “I’d really love to see it though,” he cut in gently. “Maybe, one day.” “Yeah,” I said, looking down. “Maybe.” We reached my building not long after that. “Well… this is me.” He turned to face me fully. For a moment, neither of us said anything. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked. A car rolled past slowly, headlights washing over us and before fading. Then, he stepped closer. “Thank you for tonight. I had a good time.” “Me too,” I said, trying not to drown in his eyes. The silence stretched. His gaze flicked down to my mouth and slowly back up. My pulse hammered in my throat. I should have stepped back. Should have broken the moment. But I wanted… no, I needed to have body contact. Before I could overthink it, I looped my arms around his neck, pulling him down for a hug. The faint scent of his woodsy cologne sent a little spark down my spine. Derek stiffened for half a second before his arms circled around my waist, pulling me close. It felt easy. Natural. Dangerous. I pressed into him for a few more seconds before stepping back. “Goodnight, Derek.” “Goodnight, Maya.” His hands slid back into his pocket with that same smirk on his face again. I was going to miss him so much. - - - Two hours later, I was still on the couch thinking about his smirk, writing my fifth draft that somehow still felt…wrong. I slapped myself. “Focus, Maya! No repeat dates. No personal or romantic involvement. No feelings.” Frustrated, I highlighted the whole thing. Delete. Again. “What did that poor paragraph ever do to you?” I jumped. “AHH!” Dani stood in the doorway, keys dangling from her fingers. She kicked the door shut with her heel and dropped her bag. “Dani, what the hell!” I clutched my chest. “How long have you been standing there?” “Long enough to see you commit word murder,” she said, toeing off her boots. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing,” I lied. “I’m just… trying to get the article out there.” She narrowed her eyes. “Wait! Wait! Oh my God!” she gasped. “It’s him. Oh my god, you like ‘D’.” “No, I don’t,” I said quickly, turning away from her. “And it’s Derek by the way.” “Yes, you do!” she shot back. “Your face just did the thing.” “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She dropped onto the couch beside me. “Oohh, don’t you lie to me. This is your ‘I have a crush and I hate it’ face.” “No. I do not have a crush,” I said. “I had a… pleasant evening with a person I will never see again.” My voice cracked on the last word. Dani stared at me. “Wow.” I sighed and dropped my head into my hands. She patted my back. “I told you this would happen.” “Hypothetically speaking, let’s say you’re right,” I said, lifting my head. “I can’t see him again. I won’t see him again. So whatever this is…” I gestured vaguely at my chest. “...has to go away. Immediately.” “You’re saying one thing with your mouth, but your face is saying something different.” She held my hands. “Okay. Since you’re feeling like this, why not keep some things to yourself when you write about it?” I frowned. “Are you asking me to… lie about today?” “Not really. You can still call him ‘D’ or something,” she explained. “You just have to share the cute and funny stuff while leaving out the raw part.” My cheeks warmed. “You don’t think my readers will know?” I asked, still unsure. “No one really knows what happened in that restaurant except the two of you, so...” I nodded slowly, contemplating. “Okay. I’ll try it.” “That’s my girl,” she said, kissing my cheek before standing. “I’m going to go shower. Don’t stay up too late.” I started a new draft: Date 6: The Blind Date With A Man Called D. I wrote about the restaurant. The candles. His aura. About how he spent his time in boardrooms talking about “unrealized potential” and how that sounded like a line but somehow didn’t feel like one. I didn’t write about the way my heart fluttered throughout the date, how I memorized his laugh, or the fact that I thought he was going to kiss me. Those were for me. When I finished, I read it twice. Less honest, maybe. But it was safer. - - - On Sunday morning, the article had reached 35,000 reads. I rubbed my still-sleepy eyes. “Wow! Already?” The comments section was… a lot. “WHO IS D???” “I’m sorry, what??? I am soooo invested.” “We need another date with D. We need a Part two. Pleaseeee!” “Girl, you met the man of our dreams… he sounds so perfect.” People were shipping us in real time. We even got a hashtag. #TeamD. #MayaAndD. A part of me was thrilled. This was engagement. These were the numbers that would guarantee my job security. But the other half felt miserable… for my readers and for myself, knowing another date was not coming. I pushed the thoughts away and scrolled through, looking for that familiar sting from @TruthHurts. Nothing. I checked again. Maybe he changed his username? Still nothing. “That’s… weird,” I murmured. “He always had something to say.” Did he hate it? Did he like it? Did he see through it? Was it— An email notification popped up on my laptop. From Candice. “The investor wants to meet the team tomorrow. 12 p.m.” My chest tightened. I opened the analytics tab. My readership numbers were climbing steadily. It should be good, right? Right? “Oh God, please let my stats impress him.” Chapter 05 The office on Monday felt like the inside of a shaken soda can. Everyone was pretending to work while very obviously not working. Was there a black Friday discount I missed? Because everyone wore new clothes. Blazers, dresses. Even tomboy Miriam put on makeup. Even the guys who usually lived in hoodies were in shirts with actual collars. Damn! “The almighty investor is coming,” someone whispered in the cubicle next to mine. “I heard he’s a recluse,” another voice said. “Like, he hates getting photographed. It’s giving full Batman mode.” “Maybe he’s so beautiful that he’s allergic to sunlight.” “I think recluse billionaires like him usually have the body of a Greek god.” More giggles. I tried to focus on my screen, but my brain kept drifting back to Derek. His laugh. Those hazel eyes. The way his hand had felt on my waist when he pulled me close to him. His lips— “Stop it, Maya,” I muttered under my breath while typing the same sentence twice. He’s just Date 6. A blip. A very tall, very handsome blip. Ugh! How am I supposed to work now? Candice strode past my desk for the third time in thirty minutes with a tablet in hand. She kept disappearing into her office, then reappearing, then checking her watch like time personally offended her. Slack buzzed nonstop—reminders about the 12 p.m, last-minute notes, someone asking if “business casual” meant jeans were allowed or if they should dress like they were interviewing for their own jobs. Which, technically, we were. There was no way this guy, who liked numbers so much, wouldn't assess and dissect our work. I checked my dashboard for the 50th time. The D article was still climbing. That gave me some comfort. Around 11:30, an all-staff ping landed. Candice: Conference room B now, everyone. Perfume and cologne suddenly intensified as people stood, smoothed clothes, and did last-minute mirror checks in the dark reflection of their screens. I grabbed my notebook, even though I knew I wasn’t going to write anything down, and joined the slow march toward the conference room. “Enjoying your fifteen minutes of fame?” I didn’t have to look to know whose voice that was. Tessa. She walked beside me, heels clicking, her dark hair in loose waves over one shoulder. Her lipstick was a glossy, lethal red, and her neckline was…ambitious. It was a deep V neckline. Very deep. “Excuse me?” “Your little dating experiment.” She smiled, all teeth. “Must be nice, having your job security tied to how many strangers enjoy your trauma.” Narcissists like Tessa love attention. And the best way to deal with them was to ignore them. She was looking for a reaction. I wasn’t going to give it to her. Her eyes flashed. “I hope you said your prayers, Maya, because today might be your last day here.” She patted my arm like she’d just given me a helpful tip and moved ahead, her hips swaying. I watched her for a second, then felt someone else fall into step on my other side. “Don’t let her get to you,” Jess muttered. “She probably sees you as a threat.” Tessa? Threatened by me? I almost laughed out loud. “Or maybe she’s too tense,” Jess said, looking ahead at Tessa. “The bitch has touched up her face four times in the last thirty seconds. I don’t know if she’s hoping her stats impress the investor or her boobs does, but something is definitely trying very hard.” I couldn’t help the laughter that escaped. “You’ve got a terrible mouth, Jess.” She shrugged and walked off ahead of me. While everyone else is thinking about seducing the investor, all I wanted was not to get fired. We filed into the biggest conference room we had—a long glass box with a table that could seat thirty people and even had an overflow of chairs against the walls. Someone, an intern maybe, had laid out coffee and pastries across the middle section of the table in a portrait way. I slid into a seat close to the entrance door. Jess took the chair beside me, already opening the Notes app on her phone. The room buzzed with low chatter. People speculated in whispers. “Do you think he’ll be nice?” “He fired ten people in one day by email, so I’m guessing no.” Okay, Maya. No pressure. I reached for the coffee pot with shaky hands, mostly to ease the tension that made my palms sweaty. My fingers wrapped around a mug, letting the warmth seep into my skin, grounding me. Footsteps echoed outside. My heart thumped with each clink. This was it. The man who had my metrics, my job, my life in his spreadsheets was close. Please like my graphs, I prayed silently. Please think my numbers are good. The steps got clearer. And the room instantly went deathly silent. I poured coffee too fast, and it sloshed up the sides of the mug, scalding my fingers. “Shit!” I hissed under my breath. Just then, the door swung open. I looked up. Candice walked in first, in a sharp black dress and heels. Her expression was composed, but her eyes were tight. Behind her, another figure stepped into the room. Tall Broad-shouldered. Navy suit. Dark hair. Hazel eyes. My brain didn’t process it quickly. “Everyone,” Candice said, her voice carrying easily around the room, “meet our investor, Mr. Derek Blaine.” My grip on the mug loosened. For a split second, I thought maybe I could catch it. But I wasn’t fast enough. It hit the floor and shattered, spilling coffee across the polished marble floor and scattering shards in every direction. The sound cracked through the silence like a gunshot. What the actual fuck?!

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