Chapter 3 - Unconventional OverturesThe following week defied every expectation I had built up in my head.
I had spent Sunday night bracing myself for an onslaught of unwanted attention—lavish floral arrangements delivered to my desk, aggressive dinner invitations, or the terrifying prospect of being summoned to the top floor like a favored employee.
Instead, nothing happened.
Well, almost nothing.
On Monday morning, when I arrived at my desk, there were no roses. There was, however, a thick, vintage hardbound copy of To Kill a Mockingbird sitting neatly beside my keyboard. Inside the cover, a small handwritten note in precise, elegant fountain pen read: “Your mother was right about literature and life. Thought you might need a proper edition for your shelf. — N.C.”
My breath hitched. That book had been my mother’s favorite, a detail I had mentioned to Nathan during our hour-long conversation the previous week. He hadn't bought me jewelry or designer trinkets. He had remembered a casual remark about my late mother and found a first-edition copy of her favorite novel.
By Wednesday, the subtle gestures continued.
When I went down to the building’s ground-floor coffee shop during my mid-morning break, the barista handed me my usual oat milk latte with a bright smile.
"Paid for," the barista said before I could reach for my wallet.
"By who?" I asked, looking around the crowded lobby.
"Man in a charcoal suit. Tall, silver at the temples," the barista nodded toward the exit revolving doors. "Said to make sure it was extra hot today."
I turned just in time to see a sleek black town car pulling away from the curb. Nathan hadn't stayed. He hadn't tried to trap me in a conversation or corner me in the elevator. He had simply ensured my morning started with a warm cup of coffee, maintaining a respectful, undeniable distance while still letting me know he was paying attention.
By Friday, the finance floor was buzzing with whispers.
Harper leaned over the partition of my cubicle, her eyes wide with disbelief as she tapped her smartphone screen. "Okay, Maya, you need to explain what kind of black magic you're performing, because the entire executive board is talking."
"What are you talking about?" I asked, furiously formatting an Excel spreadsheet.
"Look at the internal restructuring memo that just dropped ten minutes ago," Harper hissed, spinning her monitor toward me.
My eyes scanned the text.
“Effective immediately, the Senior Financial Analyst position for the Western Acquisitions Division is reassigned to Maya Bennett, complete with a private office on the fourteenth floor and a direct reporting line to the executive committee.”
My jaw dropped. The Senior Analyst position was the most coveted promotion in the entire department—a role typically reserved for veterans with at least five years of senior experience. I had only been with the firm for fourteen months.
"A promotion?" Harper squeaked, her voice pitching an octave higher. "To the fourteenth floor? Maya, that’s two floors below the executive penthouse! People kill for that office!"
Panic flared in my chest alongside the thrill of achievement. I stood up so fast my chair rolled back and hit the filing cabinet. "This is a mistake. I'm not qualified for the Western Division—that handles multi-billion-dollar portfolios!"
"Well, the memo bears the signature of the Chief Financial Officer and the personal sign-off of Nathan Cole himself," Harper pointed out, her expression a mix of awe and deep suspicion. "Which brings me back to my original question: Are you secretly dating the most powerful mafia—I mean, corporate titan—in Chicago, and if so, how do I get invited to the wedding?"
"I am not dating him!" I protested, my face burning crimson. "We had one meeting about a forecasting discrepancy!"
"Right," Harper deadpanned. "And billionaires routinely hand out corner offices with private balconies because they love balanced spreadsheets."
Before I could formulate a defense, the phone on my desk rang. The caller ID displayed an extension I had never seen before: Ext. 1402.
My hands trembled as I lifted the receiver.
"Hello?"
"Miss Bennett," a deep, smooth, unmistakably familiar voice murmured through the line. "Did you receive the personnel memo?"
The sound of his voice sent a warm, electric shock straight down my spine. I gripped the edge of the desk.
"Mr. Cole," I managed to steady my voice. "I received it. I... I think there's been an administrative error. I'm not ready for the Western Division."
"My administrative team does not make errors," Nathan replied, his tone laced with quiet amusement. "Especially not when it comes to talent. You earned that position, Maya. The numbers you flagged last week saved the firm four million dollars in redundant restructuring fees. You belong on the fourteenth floor."
"Is this... is this because of our conversation last week?" I blurted out, unable to filter the question before it slipped past my teeth.
A brief pause hung on the line. When Nathan spoke again, his voice had softened, losing its corporate edge entirely.
"It's because you are brilliant at what you do," he said softly. "And because I refuse to watch someone with your mind get buried in a basement cubicle. Pack your desk, Maya. Your new office is waiting for you upstairs."
The line went dead with a soft click.
May you like
I stood in the center of my tiny cubicle, holding the telephone receiver to my ear long after the dial tone began to hum. My heart was hammering a frantic, terrifying rhythm against my ribs.
He wasn't forcing me. He wasn't cornering me. He was simply clearing the obstacles out of my path, watching from a distance, and waiting to see if I had the courage to step into the light.
