⋆ Chapter 3

“Oh shit.”

I woke up to a skull-splitting buzz that felt like someone had jammed a jackhammer into my brain and flipped the switch. My alarm clock screeched from the nightstand, 6:30 a.m. glowing red and hateful.

I groaned, rolling over in a tangle of sheets, my mouth tasting like cheap wine. The hangover hit me like a freight train—pounding head and sour stomach.

Fan-freaking-tastic.

“Shut up,” I muttered, smacking the alarm quiet. My hand flopped back onto the mattress, and I stared at the ceiling of my shoebox apartment, debating if I could fake my own death and skip work. But Wyatt, my neurotic boss, would probably have a meltdown, and I wasn’t in the mood to deal with his “I envy your youth” spiel through a phone line.

I fumbled for my phone on the nightstand, knocking over an empty wine glass and squinted at the screen. Seventeen unread messages. All from Xavier.

My stomach twisted, and not just from the hangover. His name glowed like a taunt: Xavier Graves.

“Miss me already, huh?” I snorted, chucking the phone onto the bed like it might bite. No chance I was reading those. I had a hangover to wrestle and a job to stumble through.

I hauled myself up, feet hitting the floor, and shuffled to the bathroom. My hair looked like a bird’s nest in the mirror, and my eyes glared back, bloodshot and puffy from tears and booze.

“You’re a train wreck, Tilly Parker,” I told myself.

Morning routine was my lifeline, and step one was always the same: shower and Mom’s voicemails. I cranked the hot water, steam fogging up the tiny bathroom, and grabbed my phone.

As I stepped under the spray, I swiped to voicemail. Mom’s chipper voice bounced through.

“Tilly, honey, it’s Mom! You won’t believe this—I found the prettiest little conch shell at the beach yesterday. It’s got this pink swirl, like a sunset, and I’m adding it to the collection. You know how your dad hates the clutter, but I say, ‘Frank, this is art!’”

I snorted, scrubbing shampoo into my scalp. “Yeah, Mom, art that stinks like low tide.” The water pounded my shoulders, loosening the ache a bit, but she kept going, oblivious to my existential crisis.

“I put it next to that scallop shell you find when you’re six—remember Cape Cod? Oh, and I grabbed a tiny cowrie too, so smooth you’d think it’s fake. Should I start a new shelf, Tilly, what do you think?”

“Think I need caffeine,” I grumbled, rinsing off and stepping out to grab a towel.

I propped the phone on the sink, her voicemail still chattering as I brushed my teeth, foam dripping down my chin. The mint toothpaste clashed with the wine aftertaste, and I gagged, glaring at myself in the fogged-up mirror.

Mom’s voice droned on. “I saw this documentary about mollusks—did you know some shells can live for decades? I’m thinking of naming the conch ‘Pinky.’ Too cute, right?”

“Cute,” I mumbled through the toothbrush, spitting into the sink. “Real cute.”

I didn’t know why I kept listening—maybe it was easier than facing the silence, or Xavier’s messages, or the fact that I’d dumped my boyfriend. My chest tightened at the thought, and I shoved it down, letting Mom’s weird obsession anchor me instead.

I padded back to my bedroom, hair still damp, and yanked open my dresser. The voicemail rolled into a second one as I pulled on a fresh pair of panties and a bra.

“Oh, Tilly, I forgot to tell you—the cowrie’s got these little spots, like freckles! I’m arranging them by size now, but the conch is the star. Trish says I’m turning into a hoarder, but she’s just jealous she doesn’t have my eye for treasures.”

“Trish has a point,” I said to the empty room, tugging on a blouse and pencil skirt to make sure my ass would look professional—a company standard. Then I tamed my hair into something less feral, the hangover thudding like a bad bassline.

The third voicemail kicked in as I slipped on my flats, Mom’s tone turning naggy-sweet. “Anyway, honey, call me soon, okay? I want to hear how you’re doing. Be a good girl at work—don’t give that boss of yours a heart attack. Love you!”

“Love you too,” I muttered, more out of habit than anything.

I locked my phone, Xavier’s unread messages still glaring at me from the notifications. Nope. Not dealing with that. I grabbed my bag, a granola bar, and my keys, and headed out the door.

The morning air hit me like a slap, crisp and unforgiving, as I trudged to the subway. My apartment building loomed behind me, a squat brick thing in a sea of New York gray, and I stuffed the granola bar in my mouth, chewing through the ache in my skull.

The train rattled me toward the Valmont H2 building, a 20-storey glass-and-steel building where Valmont Internalional ran its hospitality empire - The Valmont Collection.

I leaned against the window, watching the city blur by, my reflection a tired smear in the glass. Xavier’s face kept popping into my head—those amber eyes, and the way he’d said “I love you” like it’d fix everything.

When I stepped out of the subway, I walked three more blocks before finally arriving. I stepped into the H2 lobby—an expanse of glass and marble. The lobby buzzed with early risers—suits with coffee, interns with panic attacks—and I flashed my ID at security, my shoes clicking on the polished floor. The elevator ride to the 12th floor felt like a countdown to doom, my hangover pulsing in time with the dings.

“Morning, Tilly,” Georgia called from her desk as I slunk into the office, her voice too chipper for 8 a.m. Ralph waved from his cubicle, already sketching something on a napkin.

My work friends—God bless them—didn’t know yet that I’d torched my love life last night. I’d save that story for the roof, with wine, if I didn’t pass out first.

“Morning,” I grunted, dumping my bag at my desk outside Wyatt’s office. I rubbed my temples, willing the headache to quit, when a murmur rippled through the floor. Phones pinged. Heads popped up.

I frowned, catching Georgia’s eye. “What’s up?”

She scrolled her phone, brows shooting up. “Big email. Valmont International’s CEO—major shareholder too—is coming here. To H2.”

Ralph leaned over his cubicle wall. “Wait, the CEO? Like, the top dog?”

“Yup,” Georgia said, voice hushed. “First time he’s visiting The Valmont Collection offices.”

I blinked, hangover forgotten. “We’ve never seen this guy, right?”

The three of us were newbies compared to the lifers here, but I clocked their reactions fast. Some vets paled, hands shaky on their coffee cups. Others grinned, buzzing like kids on Christmas. A few—mostly the old-timers near the corner offices—looked downright thrilled, whispering to each other with wild eyes.

“What’s with them?” I nodded at the scared ones, then the giddy ones. “Half look like they’re gonna pee themselves, half like they’re meeting a rock star.”

Georgia shrugged, still scrolling. “Dunno. He’s a ghost to us, but they’ve seen him. He’s a big deal.”

“Big deal or big nightmare,” Ralph muttered, sketching a fanged grin on his Post-it. “Heard he’s ruthless. Maybe he eats interns.”

I snorted. Who the hell was this guy? And why did the room feel like it was holding its breath?