Too Late For My CEO's Regret

Gracia was coughing. It was a wet, hacking sound that she tried to stifle in her scarf.

Her nose was red, and her skin was the color of old paper. The walk to the subway in the freezing rain had done its damage. She had a fever; she could feel the heat radiating behind her eyes.

It was 12:30 PM. The breakroom was crowded.

The air smelled of heated leftovers-curry, lasagna, popcorn.

Gracia sat at a small round table with a cup of hot water. That was her lunch. She had spent her last twenty dollars on Birdie's refill this morning.

Her stomach growled. A loud, guttural protest that silenced the conversation at the next table.

Gracia flushed crimson. She pressed her hand against her stomach, pretending to check her phone.

Tess sat down across from her. She dropped a heavy brown paper bag on the table.

"I accidentally ordered two turkey clubs," Tess said, not making eye contact. She pushed a wrapped sandwich toward Gracia. "They won't keep. Help me out?"

Gracia looked at the sandwich. It was from the gourmet deli downstairs. It cost $18.

"Tess, I can't," Gracia rasped.

"You can. Unless you want me to throw it in the trash, which is a sin against turkey."

Gracia's pride warred with her hunger. The hunger won.

"I'll pay you back on Friday," Gracia whispered.

"Shut up and eat."

Gracia unwrapped the sandwich. Her hands shook as she lifted it. The first bite was heaven.

Up above, on the glass-walled mezzanine that overlooked the breakroom, Bridger stood like a gargoyle.

He was watching her.

He saw the way she devoured the sandwich. He saw the way she held the cup of hot water like it was precious.

Where is the money? he thought. Where is the husband's money?

If she was married to a partner, why was she starving?

He felt a surge of irrational anger at the unknown man. You don't take care of her, he thought. I would have fed her.

He turned to Sloane.

"Why is the temperature in here so low?" he demanded.

Sloane checked the thermostat app. "It's 72 degrees, sir."

"It's freezing," Bridger lied. "And get someone to restock the first aid kits on the marketing floor. They're empty."

"Are they?"

"Just do it."

Bridger walked away. He couldn't watch her eat charity anymore. It made him want to break something.

Down in the breakroom, Tess leaned in.

"Hey, did you hear about Project Windfall?"

Gracia swallowed a bite of turkey. "No."

"The new gaming division. They're trying to hire Zephyr for the concept art."

Gracia choked. She coughed violently, grabbing her water. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Zephyr. The name echoed in the small, crowded space, a secret she guarded with her life.

"Zephyr?" she squeaked, forcing her voice to sound casual.

"Yeah, the digital artist. The ghost. No one knows who he is. Or she. Bridger is apparently obsessed with getting them. Says the style is the only thing that fits the vision."

Gracia's heart pounded. She took a slow sip of water, her mind racing. An opportunity. A dangerous, terrifying opportunity.

"Did they... find him?" Gracia asked carefully.

"No. They're putting out a blind bid. Massive money. Six figures for a portfolio."

Six figures.

Gracia looked at her empty sandwich wrapper. Six figures meant Birdie's surgery. It meant paying off the debt. It meant freedom.

But it meant working directly with Bridger. It meant risking exposure.

"Crazy," Gracia said, trying to sound bored.

She went back to her desk. Sitting on her keyboard was a box of DayQuil and a bottle of Vitamin C.

She looked around. "Tess?"

Tess shook her head from her own desk. "Not me."

Gracia picked up the box. It was the expensive brand.

She looked up at the glass office on the top floor. The blinds were drawn.

She popped two pills. She didn't care who sent them. She just needed to survive the day.