Unscheduled

Chapter Title: Glass and Ghosts

After leaving my parents' house yesterday, I drove through the city in silence — one hand on the wheel, the other massaging the tension at the base of my neck. The dinner had been… fine. Warm. Sweet, even. But something about being surrounded by too much love, too much comfort — it scraped at something inside me, something jagged and restless that I couldn't quite name.

The penthouse was dim and quiet when I stepped in, the scent of gardenias still clinging to the air from the last time I'd opened the windows. I kicked off my heels at the door, left my coat draped over the back of the living room chair, and walked barefoot across the marble floor, shedding layers of the day as I went — until all I had on was a silk robe that clung to my skin like water.

The city shimmered outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, glittering cold and far away. I didn't look at it.

Instead, I made my way to the kitchen and poured myself a glass of whiskey — neat, the way I always took it. It burned as it slid down my throat, smooth and familiar, like an old wound reopening just the way you expect it to.

I padded into my home office, flicking on the soft yellow lamp near the window. The light spilled over my desk, which was already cluttered with contracts and open folders and notebooks filled with deadlines I hadn't met yet.

I sat down heavily in the leather chair, crossing one leg over the other, and got to work — reviewing pitches, rewriting campaign strategies, scribbling sharp edits into the margins with red ink. My robe slid open slightly at the knee, but I didn't care. No one was here to see.

Hours passed. Maybe two. Maybe four. I lost track. All I knew was the taste of whiskey on my tongue and the scratch of my pen against paper.

Then, in a moment I wasn't expecting — during the lull between one email and the next — my eyes drifted toward the drawer. The bottom left one, half open, its edges worn soft from how often I'd tugged at it over the years.

And there it was.

The necklace.

It lay there quietly, as if it hadn't been the epicenter of my undoing. Silver chain. Simple pendant. It wasn't even beautiful — not really — but it held weight in ways that diamonds never could.

I stared at it, eyes burning, glass half-raised to my lips.

I didn't reach for it.

Didn't touch it.

Just stared.

I sipped the whiskey, slow this time, the glass cool against my lower lip. Then I poured another. My hand didn't even shake — that's how you know when the ache has become routine.

I downed it in one swallow.

It hit harder this time. The heat went straight to my gut. My jaw clenched. Something inside me itched to get out.

I stood suddenly, the chair scraping backward against the hardwood. The drawer was still open — still showing me things I didn't want to feel.

So I slammed it shut.

Hard.

The sound cracked through the quiet like a slap.

And just like that, the necklace disappeared from sight again.

Back into the dark.

Right where it belonged.

I turned on my heel, stormed out of the office, and made my way to the bedroom — breath tight in my throat, footsteps echoing too loudly in the silence.

Tonight, I needed to forget.

——-

The morning started like most of mine did: fast, sharp, and too bright for my liking. I stepped into the lobby of Hart & Co. with a black coffee in hand, sunglasses shielding my eyes from the assaulting sunlight bouncing off the glass building.

"Good morning, Ms. Hart," the receptionist greeted as I passed.

"Morning," I murmured, already mentally sorting through the things I had to handle today.

Jenna was waiting for me outside the elevator on the top floor, tablet in one hand, a protein bar in the other.

"You're late," she said without even looking up.

"It's seven forty-three."

"I know. You're usually here by seven thirty." She finally glanced at me, gave me a once-over. "Rough night?"

"I had whiskey and spreadsheets for dinner."

"Romantic."

I stepped into my office, setting down my bag and slipping off my coat. Jenna followed me in without needing an invitation, tapping her stylus against the screen.

"Alright, so today," she started, "you've got that internal strategy conference at eight, remember? You're speaking for the first half."

"Already regretting it."

"At eleven, you've got your monthly financial check-in with the accounting team. Lunch is clear—I booked you an hour to actually eat something, but feel free to pretend you'll use it."

I gave her a dry look and sipped my coffee.

"Then you've got the regional lead call at two. They're expecting updates on the West Coast rollout."

"Right. Remind me to bring up the supply delay issues."

"Got it," she said, tapping the note in. "And finally—your inbox is a mess, I flagged the top ten emails that look like small fires."

"Wonderful. Alright, let's go."

The strategy conference was already filling up by the time I made it to the boardroom. My heels echoed against the polished floors, heads turned, greetings were mumbled. I didn't stop moving until I reached the front.

I gave my usual speech—sharp, to the point, the kind that kept people both inspired and terrified of letting me down. There were questions, polite applause, a few laughs when I allowed them. The whole thing ran for almost an hour and a half.

Afterward, I filed out with the others, answering a few follow-ups while checking my phone. Jenna fell into step beside me just as I rounded the hallway toward my office.

"Oh," she said, suddenly remembering something. "Before I forget—someone's in your office."

I stopped walking. "What?"

She flipped through her notes. "Yeah, she showed up about thirty minutes ago. Had a business card with your brother's name on it—Dean. Said he sent her to meet you personally. I didn't want to let her in, so I had security call him, but he confirmed it. Said it was legit."

I raised an eyebrow. "He confirmed it?"

"Yeah, sounded pretty casual about it. Said you'd know why."

I exhaled through my nose. "And you didn't get a name?"

"She gave one," Jenna said, looking back at her tablet, "but it didn't ring any bells. Something soft…Layla, I think?"

Layla.

It took me a second to place it. And then I did. Dean. Last night. Dinner. That woman from the restaurant. The one with the daughter.

And now… she was here.

In my office.

Waiting.

I ran a hand down my face. "Alright. Fine. Thanks for the heads up."

"Want me to sit in?" Jenna asked.

"No. But stay close."

"Always do."

I kept walking, jaw set, already wondering what the hell Dean had dragged me into this time.