Page 8 of His Good Girl

Unknown Number:If you do not show, we will assume you were merely a girl looking for a handout from her godfather.

Unknown Number:This is not a casual invitation. Do not be late.

I stared at the screen while the words rearranged themselves into panic. Interview. Nine. Rowe Tower. Forty-seventh floor. Girl looking for a handout. My godfather. My future death. I looked at the time.

It was 8:15.

For several seconds, my brain refused to process the numbers in any useful order. It held them up like cards in a magic trick. Eight. Fifteen. Nine. Forty-five minutes. Forty-five minutes to shower, dress, locate my resume, travel across a city that could turn hostile at the faintest hint of urgency, pass through security in a building I had only ever seen from the sidewalk, and present myself to Callum Rowe as a serious adult woman and not as a feral raccoon who had emailed him her feelings before midnight.

I made a sound that was not a word and threw the covers off.

My feet hit the floor. A pile of clothes collapsed off the chair in judgment. My laptop sat closed on the desk, smug with evidence. For a second I wanted to crawl back under the covers, pull the quilt over my head, and let Benjamin Mercer conclude whatever he wanted about me. Girl looking for a handout. Fine. Great. Put it on my tombstone. Avery Hale: briefly employed, thoroughly cowardly. Then Jules’s voice rose in my head, like she was there and had just slapped me across the face.

Pussy.

“Oh, fuck, no,” I snarled to the empty room.

I grabbed my phone and texted her while stumbling toward the bathroom.

Me:I think Callum’s assistant just challenged me to woman-to-man combat.

She responded with the speed of someone who slept with her phone in her hand and one eye open for drama.

Jules:Explain.

Me:He texted at 7:30. I have an interview at 9:00. He said if I don’t show they’ll assume I’m just a girl looking for a handout from my godfather.

Jules:I love him.

Me:You would.

Jules:Go.

Me:I have forty-five minutes.

Jules:Then stop texting me, Cinderella. Find a blazer.

The shower I took was more an assault than basic hygiene. I washed my hair and shaved precisely one shin before realizing I did not have time to care about symmetry. Mascara betrayed me on the first attempt and stabbed me in the eye hard enough that I had to spend a full minute blinking back tears. I did not have time to be beautiful. I barely had time to be recognizable. So I settled for clean, mostly dry, and not actively unraveling.

My closet offered me three versions of myself: unemployed girl in black leggings, sad networking-event Avery, and corporate Avery, who had been purchased in pieces during better months and now hung there like a costume for a play where the lead had already been recast. I chose navy trousers because they were the only pair that did not require a negotiation with my stomach, an ivory blouse with a soft collar, and the black blazer I saved for interviews, funerals, and any situation in which I needed people to believe I understood tax forms. My hair was still damp when I twisted it into a low knot at the base of my neck. A few brunette strands escaped immediately, curling against my temples in the humidity. I considered lipstick, rejected anything red because it would seem like I was trying too hard, chose a muted rose, blotted half of it off, then stared at myself in the mirror.

I looked pale, nervous, and young.

I hated the young part most.

Twenty-five was still close enough to twenty that your mistakes had a childish shine to them, even when they had adult consequences. I did not want to look young in front of Callum. I did not want him to see the girl who had stood in his kitchen after her father’s funeral with a paper plate of untouched food inher hands. I did not want him to see braces, purple nail polish, or grief. I wanted him to see someone competent enough to deserve the chance she had asked for and proud enough not to beg for it.

My resume existed unfortunately, but only as three slightly different PDFs and two printed copies wrinkled from an interview at a commercial real estate firm that had ghosted me with the elegance of an aristocrat refusing a dance. I shoved the least offensive copy into a slim black folder, added my license, a pen, and an emergency breath mint. Then I called an Uber, slipped on a pair of heels, and tore through the apartment looking for my keys while the minutes fell away in chunks. My phone buzzed again as I was locking the door.

Unknown Number:Security has your name. I will meet you in the lobby at 8:55. Earlier would be better. Later would be revealing.

I paused in the hallway, one arm in my coat, breathing hard.

Me:Understood. I’m on my way.

The response came almost instantly.

Unknown Number:Good. One miracle down. Arrive before 8:55 and we may manage another.