Chapter Fifteen: A Day Off in Combat Boots

For the first time in weeks, Evelyn Winterborne slept in.

No alarm. No schedule. No chaos.

Just sunbeams sneaking in through new curtains that didn't smell like old tenants and regret.

Her new apartment was small but hers. Clean lines. Secondhand furniture that didn't scream "curb rescue." A kitchen that worked. A bathroom that didn't leak. And the best part?

No peeling paint.
No angry neighbors.
No goddamn paparazzi stationed outside her front door.

The rent had made her flinch. But with her salary at Thornton Global—plus that "inconvenience bonus" after the fake engagement fallout—she'd been able to sign the lease without a second thought.

It wasn't luxury.

But it was freedom.

The best part about living just a few blocks from the office?

She could sleep in and still make it in time for the chaos, if she ever wanted to.

But not today.

Today, she had zero intentions of putting on heels or dealing with passive-aggressive HR emails.

She had sorted everything the night before—color-coded folders, updated calendar invites, printed briefing notes for the meetings. She'd even stayed an extra hour after everyone left, reorganizing Theodore's office so that nothing was out of place.

Hell, she'd even lined up his ridiculously specific protein bars by expiration date.

If anyone said she didn't take her job seriously, they could choke on a highlighter.

Now?

She was planted on the floor of her living room, cross-legged on a fuzzy rug with half a pizza in one hand and a glass of red wine in the other. No plate. No napkin. Just savage indulgence.

Combat boots still on.

Ripped jeans with holes bigger than some of the egos she'd dealt with in boardrooms.

A khaki crop top that definitely would've made Theodore's eye twitch.

She looked nothing like a high-powered assistant.

More like a grungy rebel on her day off from saving the world.

Which, honestly? Wasn't far off.

Evelyn bit into a slice of pepperoni, sighing like it was her first breath of fresh air in months.

No spreadsheets.
No barking orders.
No Theodore Thornton.

Just mozzarella and merlot and sweet, sweet silence.

She leaned back against her couch and stared at the ceiling.

How the hell had this become her life?

She was working for the most cold-blooded, sharp-suited, soul-slicing CEO in New York. Accidentally got labeled as his fiancée. Became a walking PR tornado. And somehow... was still standing.

No, more than that.

She was thriving.

Even if half the city thought she was a homewrecker or a corporate siren with fake lashes and no morals.

"Guess I finally made it," she muttered, sipping her wine. "I'm hated by the tabloids. I must be doing something right."

Her phone buzzed from the coffee table.

She ignored it.

She'd promised herself—no work today. No emails. No texts. No checking the company group chat where the interns probably still called her "Winter-burn."

She shifted, grabbing the remote and queuing up something trashy and dramatic. The kind of reality show that made her feel better about her own life. Millionaires crying over broken nail extensions? Yes, please.

She was halfway through an episode called "He Cheated in the Hot Tub!" when the buzz came again.

Then again.

Then again.

Five messages. All from Theodore.

She stared at the screen.

The last message simply said:

"Where the hell is the Winston file?"

She rolled her eyes so hard it nearly hurt.

"Check the folder labeled 'For Men Who Don't Read Labels.'" she mumbled, not bothering to reply.

Because the Winston file was exactly where it should be—printed, stapled, and sitting on his damn desk.

God, she deserved this wine.

She put the phone face-down and reached for another slice.

"Just one more bite," she muttered. "And then maybe I'll check if he's set the building on fire."

Because if there was one thing she'd learned, it was that Theodore Thornton, CEO and walking glacier, could not function without her.

Not when it came to meetings. Or meals. Or breathing.

The last time she'd taken a half-day, he'd rescheduled a conference call to the wrong time zone and ended up presenting to a bunch of groggy Australians at 3 a.m. their time.

She'd gotten an apology in the form of a coffee machine.

She hadn't hated it.

By mid-afternoon, the wine bottle was empty. The pizza was mostly crusts. Evelyn's combat boots were off, her hair was in a messy bun, and she was arguing with the TV about whether or not a fake breakup required a dramatic helicopter exit.

And honestly?

She hadn't felt this human in weeks.

This normal.

No cameras.

No pressure.

Just a girl with food, wine, and the sound of her own thoughts not being drowned out by constant crisis control.

She stood up and stretched, wandering toward her small balcony. It wasn't a fancy view, just brick walls and the occasional skyline peek. But it was hers. It was quiet.

She leaned on the railing, letting the breeze run over her arms.

For a brief second, she wondered what Theodore was doing.

Probably pacing.

Probably cursing.

Probably pretending like he didn't miss her.

And that made her smile.

Back inside, she finally grabbed her phone again.

Seven missed messages.

Two from PR.
Three from Theodore.
One from HR.
And one from someone labeled "Intern #6."

She scrolled through them lazily.

Theodore's latest read:

"Next time you plan a day off, don't forget I'm not a psychic."

She smirked and typed back:

"Next time you panic, check the damn folder."

A beat.

Then another message popped up:

"I did. It's all there."

She rolled her eyes. Of course it is.

A few seconds later:

"Enjoy your day off. But don't get used to it."

She didn't respond.

Didn't have to.

Because she knew what that meant.

He missed her.

He just didn't know how to say it without sounding like he needed a lobotomy.

By nightfall, Evelyn had cleaned up, kicked off her boots, and collapsed on the couch in a hoodie three sizes too big.

She wasn't dreading tomorrow.

She'd learned to face chaos with one eyebrow raised and a sarcastic comeback locked and loaded.

But for now?

She'd earned this break.

A little stillness.

A little pizza.

A little power in knowing that even when she didn't show up, the world still spun—but slightly off-kilter.

Because somehow... some very twisted how...

She'd become indispensable.

End of Chapter Fifteen