MAISIE
The clock on my screen finally blinks to 5:00 PM. The official work day is over. I let out a long, slow breath, the tension of the last nine hours settling deep into my shoulders. I feel like I've been run over by a steamroller made of legal documents and stock tickers.
Lena appears in my doorway, leaning against the frame. She's changed out of her serious CFO blazer and is now just in her sleeveless top, looking far too energetic.
"Okay. That's it. You're done," she announces. "We are going out. You need to burn off some steam. We both do. A little treat. Morale-boosting. Non-negotiable."
I groan, leaning back in my chair and rubbing my eyes. "Lena, I can't. I'm just going to go home, order takeout, and stare at my ceiling."
She marches over to my desk and plants her hands on it, leaning forward. Then she deploys her ultimate weapon. Her eyes go wide and pleading, her bottom lip juts out just a little. The full, devastating puppy-dog eyes. I have never, not once, built up an immunity to it.
I sigh, defeated. "Where would I even go? I don't have the energy to think."
Her face instantly lights up, the fake pout replaced by a mischievous glint that tells me I've just made a terrible mistake. I know that look. That's the 'we're going dancing' look.
"I know just the place," she says, her voice bubbling with excitement. "Temple. It's this amazing lounge in SoHo. Not too grungy, great music, and they make a cocktail that will make you forget the word 'deposition'."
A club. Of course it's a club.
"Ugh, no," I protest, the mere thought exhausting me. "The hassle of going all the way back to Tribeca, changing, putting on a face, heels… it's a whole production. I can't."
"That is not an excuse and you know it," she says, her voice firm. And in one swift, practiced move, she grabs my wrist and pulls me right out of my ergonomic desk chair.
I stumble to my feet, my protest dying on my lips as she starts tugging me toward the door, her grip surprisingly strong.
"Alright, alright! Fine!" I say, a laugh breaking through my exhaustion. "I'm coming, I'm coming! Just stop manhandling your CEO."
"This is what CFOs are for," she chirps, not letting go. "Forcing the boss to have fun against her will. It's in the fine print. Now, let's go. Your ceiling can wait."
– – –
One hour bleeds into two in front of my closet. I toss dresses, jeans, and tops onto the bed in a frustrated heap. Nothing feels right. Everything feels like either a CEO or a hermit.
Finally, I settle on it. A simple, ruthlessly effective black Alexander Wang bodysuit that hugs every curve. I pair it with the shortest, tightest black leather skirt I own, sheer fishnet stockings, and my deadliest pair of Christian Louboutin heels. I slick my hair back into a low, sleek ponytail. The girl in the mirror isn't the CEO of Rory Robotics. She's someone who's about to forget that girl exists for a few hours.
I walk out into the living room, where Lena is waiting, looking incredible in a shimmering silver mini-dress.
She lets out a long, low wolf-whistle. "Well, well, well. Look at you. An hour ago you were giving me a whole speech about how you just wanted to 'stare at the ceiling.' Now you're dressed like you're the reason every red-blooded man in a five-mile radius has blood rushing to their balls. I feel lied to."
A smirk touches my lips as I grab my small clutch from the table. "It's not my fault I'm beautiful and own clothes that acknowledge it. Don't blame me for your inaccurate assumptions."
"Uh-huh," she says, grabbing her own jacket. "Sure. You driving?"
"No," I say, heading for the door. "Clubbing equals drinking. Drinking and driving equals a tragic and utterly avoidable accident. We're taking an Uber."
Lena laughs, following me out into the hallway. "Your brain is always calculating, even now. I'm the one who went to business school, not you. You're supposed to be the reckless creative genius."
"Genius is knowing when not to be reckless," I counter, pressing the elevator button.
She bumps my shoulder with hers as the doors slide open. "Yeah, yeah. Let's go, genius. Your chariot of poor life choices awaits."
– – –
The minute we push through the heavy doors of the club, the world becomes a blur. A throbbing bassline hits me in the chest. Disco balls scatter light like shattered diamonds, and red and blue lights slash through the hazy air, catching on the faces of a dancing, sweating crowd.
Lena leans in, her mouth close to my ear to be heard over the music. "I need a drink! My ears are bleeding from that finance podcast I forced myself to listen to today!"
I nod, and we weave through the bodies toward the long, glowing bar. We find two free stools and slide onto them. The bartender, a guy with impressive sleeve tattoos, raises an eyebrow.
"Two espresso martinis," I say, leaning forward. "Extra shot in each." If I'm doing this, I'm doing it properly.
Lena grins. "That's my girl."
He nods and gets to work. A few minutes later, we clink our chilled glasses together.
"To not thinking about lawsuits," Lena shouts.
"To not thinking," I correct her, and we drink. The cold, bitter-sweet caffeine kick is exactly what I need.
We sit for a while, just sipping our drinks and talking about nothing. The weird office smell from the third floor, the new sushi place she wants to try, the absolute audacity of a reality TV star we both hate. It's normal. It's easy.
Then Lena's eyes, which have been doing a casual sweep of the room, light up. She leans in again, her voice a conspiratorial shout. "Okay, don't look now, but you have a fan club. Guy by the pillar in the gray shirt. Another one near the DJ booth in the leather jacket. And a third who just walked in and is currently devouring you with his eyes from the entrance. You are the main course tonight, my friend."
I roll my eyes and take another sip of my drink. "They're just looking. Everyone looks at everyone in a place like this."
"Yeah, but they're looking at you like you're the answer to a question they forgot to ask," she retorts. Then her eyes dart over my shoulder and her expression shifts to one of pure mischief. "Okay, speaking of... Gray Shirt is on the move. He's heading this way. And he is focused."
I start to turn, but she stops me with a hand on my arm. "Nope. No warning glances. You're flying blind on this one." She grabs her clutch and slides off her stool.
"Wait, where are you going?" I ask, a sudden spike of panic mixing with the alcohol.
She gives me a brilliant, unapologetic smile. "I am removing myself from the equation. I refuse to be a cockblock on a night you desperately need to unwind. Have fun!"
And just like that, she melts into the crowd, leaving me alone at the bar with a half-finished martini and a rapidly approaching stranger.