I didn't sleep at all that night. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Dean's fiery glare. I felt it shred through me, burning all my organs to a crisp.

After I gave Monsieur Girard the documents, Dean had been escorted out of the room by one of the bigger-bodied board members. Still, I spent the rest of the day tiptoeing around in fear that he'd come find me and hurt me.

He'd had no idea what was in that dossier, but...he knew. When I left it with Monsieur Girard, Dean's eyebrows lurched up, and he dashed forward to grab me—but Monsieur Girard knew, too. He'd predicted Dean's volatile behavior and had it handled.

I was unsteady for the rest of the day and the night. Dean surely knew where I lived; would he come bang my door down and strangle me in my sleep? Send an assassin to off me so he could keep his hands clean? Well, clean as they could be, considering I'd denounced him to Monsieur Girard.

What would Monsieur Girard do? He didn't even seem that surprised when I gave him the documents. Did he know, all this time, what Dean had been up to? How he'd been treating others, particularly women at the company?

The next day, I was still on alert. I kept checking over my shoulder, when sitting at the bistro for my breakfast. Or walking down the street to the office. Even in the elevator, I kept picturing Dean surfacing by magic and wrapping his hands around my neck, squeezing until I choked.

His temper was astronomical, I'd seen that. How would it be now that he knew I had dirt on him? Now that I'd shared that dirt with the big boss?

How far would he go?

I was so distraught that I hardly saluted anyone I passed once on my floor. I paced to my office and locked the door behind me, panting. Shivering. Never had I let my anxiety get the best of me to this extent. I wasn't sure I'd make it through the day without knowing where Dean was at all times.

I was about to text Giselle and check on her—she hadn't answered any of my messages since yesterday's finger-fucking—when my computer pinged with an email notification.

It was another summons, but this time, sent to everyone in the company; those who worked in this building, at least. The text was in several languages, thankfully one of them English:

We've come to a decision, at last, on who will take up Monsieur Girard's long coveted position of President of LeRouge - Paris. Please join us in the 3rd floor auditorium at 13:00 - a light lunch will be provided.

"Ah," I said, accepting the invitation in Outlook. "So it's a grand affair. Like a coronation?"

I shuddered, then cringed. If Dean had won, they'd be showcasing him in front of a large portion of LeRouge employees. And a large portion of that portion was included in all the complaints I gave Monsieur Girard yesterday.

Would they still crown him victor after all that?

"Probably," I scoffed. "These are men who keep denying me because I'm not from around here, who prefer a man over a woman to lead this company."

I dreaded the meeting to come. To sit among my peers and watch the man I'd been trying so hard to dismantle, win the title I'd changed my entire life to obtain—and failed. I could already envision myself melting into my seat, hoping to hide from all the stares, dodge the embarrassment.

I didn't leave my office until it was time to head to the auditorium. I'd never seen it—it was closed for renovations during my initial tour of the company with Regina. But I knew it took up most of the fourth floor, above the storage and stock rooms of the Champs-Elysées store.

Last time I'd been in an auditorium was college. Maybe later, for a play—my ex occasionally liked attending shows, though never the kind of music I enjoyed.

There'd be lines at the elevators, so I left slightly early, wishing to avoid being cramped in with too many people.

It was twelve-forty-five when I slithered out of my office and hurried to the elevators. I frantically pressed the down button before anyone else showed up.

Somehow, I'd beaten everyone. Or they'd already gone downstairs, and I'd be the late one—but fuck it. I preferred not to share a ride with anyone, except—

As I crept into the machine and the doors were slowly closing, someone's arm weaved in, stopping said doors.

I recognized that hand; the long, slender arm attached to it. The delicate fingers, fashionable rings adorning them. The nails painted lime-green, matching her ensemble.

"Giselle," I breathed, as she joined me inside, then pressed the close door buttons eagerly.

"Lucy," she replied, just as breathless, just as quietly.

Only when the doors sealed shut did she swivel to me and take my hands in hers.

"The cameras," I hissed through my teeth, side-glaring at the square device in the upper corner of the elevator that I knew was zeroing in on us.

"I don't care." She squeezed my hands, drawing my gaze to hers. Her eyes were glazed with honey, but dark with something I couldn't decipher; pain, sorrow, fear, perhaps a mix of all three. "I'm sorry I didn't answer any of your texts. He was a monster when he came back yesterday."

I resisted the urge to pull her closer, inspect her face, her body for bruises. "Did he hurt you?"

She shook her head. "Mentally scarred, that's all. The things he said...about you, mostly. You gave Monsieur Girard the files?"

I gulped; she and I never discussed doing this. I hadn't thought of how this might implicate her, and then she'd spent the afternoon being berated by Dean...

"I did. Forgive me, it was a last resort to shut him up. He barged into that meeting, and I—"

"You were right," she said, wincing as the elevator slowed, coming close to our stop. "No forgiveness needed. But he's on a warpath now, and I worry he'll come for you."

Another gulp; this one more painful, like daggers scraping my throat. "I know. I've been restless since yesterday, anticipating he'll...well, I don't know what he'll do."

"I don't know either." The elevator stopped. "And I don't know what's going to happen today, but...Lucy..." Her lips parted, but no further sound came out. No words escaped her; nothing but shallow breaths, the whiff of her noon coffee hitting my face.

We didn't need words. Neither of us were able to put into words what we felt; I knew I couldn't. It was too hard to consider that yesterday's sexy session, and this proximity, might be our last time. If Dean took advantage of this announcement to denounce us, we'd lose everything. Or if he won the position, he'd do all in his power to destroy us, piece by piece.

We let go of each other's hands as the doors dinged and opened. The elevator let off inside the auditorium: there were no other offices or areas on the third floor.

The room was half-filled already. Many had opted to show up even earlier than we had, to get a good seat. Giselle sent me a last glance—a see-you-later or a farewell, I couldn't tell—and we spaced out, her going left, me going right.

I was lowering into my chair when one of the board-members—I recognized his neutral face, his balding head—approached me. "You're to sit up front with the other contestants," he said, voice gruff.

I paused, squinting at him. "Why? I thought I was disqualified."

He insisted I follow him down the steps to the lower part of the auditorium. Closer to the massive stage where I saw Monsieur Girard settling on a chair, in front of a microphone being worked on by an equipment tech. Lights blared down on them, showing the worn-down wooden floor, the faded background with a half-opened red curtain leading to who-knew-where.

"Need to keep up certain appearances," the board member said, gesturing me towards a spot three rows away from the stage. I didn't see Dean—thank fuck—so I slid in and got settled as best as I could.

I felt the gazes on my back; curious and prodding, wondering what my chances were of winning.

Zero, folks. I was never even in the running.

They'd been counting on me; some of them, at least. Regina, Louis, the cleaning staff, secretaries, receptionists. A good chunk of the female or nonbinary population of LeRouge - Paris.

I'd let them down. I'd let myself down. I'd given up so easily, and it was too late to pick up the fight again.

The board and Monsieur Girard allowed more time for employees to show up. Dean appeared, grunting as he took up a seat in a different row, as far from me as possible. Giselle was, unfortunately, at his side, her chin dipped.

Coop spotted me and gave me one of those can I sit here? looks. I nodded, allowing them to occupy the chair beside mine.

"I heard about yesterday," they whispered, as the lights dimmed and one of the board members tapped on the microphone, testing, testing. "Thank you."

I quirked an eyebrow, turning to them. They'd donned their bright colors again, almost back to their usual quietly exuberant self. "Thank me? For what? Endangering Giselle and I by calling him out?"

Whatever they said was muffled by the applause as Monsieur Girard came to the microphone, using a cane to help himself stand upright.

His speech was brief; not sweet, not informative. He blabbered about the company's origins, his family's pride, and how he was the last of his bloodline. It all felt very fantastical, surreal. Like we were in a book where he was about to announce the victor of a joust; not the person who'd become president of the company in his place.

"So without further ado," he said, keeping the speech in English. He explained at the beginning that a majority of employees at this branch weren't French natives, and that unfortunately, English was the business language we used. "And because I'm truly tired," a few laughs, "I'd like to announce that my replacement will be Sammy Cooper."

At first, silence fell over the audience. Crickets—a spell put over the attendees, preventing them from reacting.

But as Coop casually stood up, not an ounce of hesitation in their features, the room came alive with applause and cheers.

Monsieur Girard waved Coop up onto the stage, and under the lights, they shone. They beamed.

They were meant for this, I realized. And they'd known about it—why else would they have worn a turquoise blue suit and matching eyeshadow? Why else would they have brought back their positive energy, and thanked me for yesterday?

Because I helped them get the job, didn't I?

Denouncing Dean had given them the final advantage.

Monsieur Girard cleared his throat as Coop stood beside him. "I know this may come as a surprise. Many of you were expecting," he gazed down at someone in the audience, "a different person. But the board and I have found that Sammy has, from the beginning of their career with us, represented the brand in the best manner. By being their true, non-conforming self, refusing to fit into any one mold, they've always been the ideal candidate. Nonbinary, inclusive, caring, strong-willed, ambitious."

He patted Coop's back, and Coop's smile widened.

"We've had our eyes on dear Sammy here for years and have discussed their transition into my position often."

The truth smacked me so hard in the face, I lost consciousness for a second.

Dean and I never had a chance at this job. It was always going to be Coop. Why I'd been summoned here, why Dean had been given false hope, I wasn't sure I'd ever know.

But Coop was, from the get-go, the winner.

I wanted to be mad, to rebel against the decision; but I couldn't. Deep down, I knew it was right. Coop was the perfect fit, had proven as much during their presentation, but also outside of it. Their dedication, their knowledge of the brand, and the way they'd battled to get rid of Dean—that proved to me that they were the better option.

Even over me.

My shoulders sagged as Coop took the microphone, keeping their words brief. They thanked some of the people who worked directly with them but kept Giselle and I out—which allowed me a moment of respite. They didn't want us involved, just in case.

As the crowd emptied from the auditorium, I made to follow them. But the same board member as earlier waved at me to join him, Monsieur Girard, and other board members at the bottom of the stage.

And Dean.

Oh, he was pissed. Red-faced like yesterday, eyes on fire, his stance so sharp he could cut us all up with one move. "What?" he spat, folding his arms as he stood like a statue in front of Monsieur Girard. "You swore this job was mine, then you sweep the rug from under my feet and give it to her—to them?" He glowered at Coop who, to their credit, didn't flinch.

"I never swore," said Monsieur Girard, gaze narrowed on Dean. Dean was a head and a half taller than the old man, yet he didn't waver as he frowned up at the director of sales. "And you forfeited any chance of taking over when proof of your wrong-doings made its way to me."

I bit the insides of my cheeks. Please don't look at me, please don't look at me, please—

Monsieur Girard looked at me, and my legs shook. "Thanks to evidence brought to us by Miss Rhodes—a compilation of complaints and lawsuits and attitudes you hid from us, from me—I can officially say that your tenure as director of sales is terminated."

I gasped; Coop gawked. The board members stood behind Monsieur Girard, almost acting as bodyguards in case Dean should retaliate.

But Dean was stuck, his jaw dropping. "You...what? No. You can't fire me."

"I can, and I have, effective immediately." Monsieur Girard's voice for once didn't crackle, didn't sound brittle. He was firm; his last command as president of the company had to be fearless and feared.

"Those files were stolen from my office," Dean said, his glower moving to me. "I don't know how, but she's a thief. How can they be used against me? For all you know they're fabricated—"

"Dean King, you think I haven't noticed your behavior after all these years? That I wasn't aware of how you mistreated those around you? I'm old, but I'm not a fool." Monsieur Girard's nostrils flared. "I had no physical proof before, but now...with the files, stolen or not, I do. It's sufficient for me to terminate you. HR and legal are in agreement that it's the best course of action."

Dean's upper lip curled, and that fire in his eyes grew to molten lava. I expected him to slap the poor old man, but instead he turned away, grumbling.

"You're to clear out your desk now and leave the premises. Someone from security will be with you and escort you out. Whatever furniture belongs to you will be shipped to you." Monsieur Girard grasped the edge of the stage, catching his breath. "You're also to report back to England, where you'll be investigated for your British crimes, before the French authorities question you here."

Fists clenched at his sides, Dean swirled back around—his focus on me. "This isn't finished," he growled, stomping up the auditorium steps. In his shadow, a man I hadn't noticed surfaced—black suit, sunglasses, earpiece. Security. "Our fight isn't over, Rhodes."

Only once he was at the elevator did I crumble into the nearest seat. I blacked out, or so it felt, until a whoosh of fresh air swept over my face. Someone was fanning me.

My vision adjusted as I spun to find Giselle kneeling near me. "Hi," she said, her smile weak.

"Giselle," I whispered, my vocal cords giving out on me. All the emotion, the turmoil of the past few weeks—it all came crashing down. It took all my might not to start crying.

There were too many people around. I couldn't show weakness; even though I'd lost, there was still much to do, much to prove.

I peered at Coop, deep in discussion with a board member.

They'd better work on that promise.

They'd won double—Dean was gone, and they were the new president of LeRouge. I had to get something from all that; and that something had better be someone.

Giselle.

"We're safe now," I said to her, gazing at her hands, wishing I could hold them. Hold her.

She cringed, straightening up to her full height. Something in her aura was dim; her body posture closed up. "Are we? Dean..."

"Yeah, he's gone, Giselle. Gone."

Something heavy like a freight train crashed into me, knocking me hard into the chair's back cushion.

Gone. Dean was gone. Dean...Giselle's boss.

If Dean was fired...where did that leave his executive secretary?

"Fuck."

┴