"She is."

Another pause, but this time, it's comfortable. We talk a little more. Just small talk. Work. The weather. Simple topics. But it's the longest conversation we've had in years. And before we hang up, we promise to do this again. Sooner than next Christmas. I stare at my phone, my chest tight, a warmth settling there.

I turn back toward the bedroom and find Izzy standing in the doorway. She looks like she just woke up, her hair a mess, her tank top hanging loose on one shoulder, uncertainty in her eyes.

"Sorry," she murmurs, shifting slightly. "I wasn't trying to eavesdrop. I just needed some water."

I shake my head, smiling faintly. "I told you. No secrets."

The irony of that statement doesn't escape me.

She nods, rubbing her arms, and I step past her, grabbing a glass from the counter, filling it with water before handing it to her. She takes it, smiling softly. As we walk back to the bed, she murmurs, "I'm proud of you, you know?"

I glance at her.

"For calling your dad." She takes a sip, then looks at me over the rim of the glass. "I know that wasn't easy."

I don't know what to say to that. So I don't respond with words.

Instead, I kiss her.

Soft, slow.

Just a simple press of lips, a quiet acknowledgment.

When we crawl back into bed, she curls into my side, her fingers tracing patterns on my chest. As she drifts off, she mumbles, "I can't wait to meet him."

And for the first time in a long, long time...

I fall asleep.

THIS IS NOT IN THE EMPLOYEE HANDBOOK

IZZY

Back in manager mode. It clicks into place easily, familiar and steadying. The rhythm of schedules, meetings, and check-ins gives me something to hold onto, a structure that keeps everything else at bay. The week off was necessary—forced, really—but being back at the store feels right. Messy, busy, full of problems to solve. But it's mine. And I’ve missed the chaos more than I want to admit.

The familiarity of it all soothes something raw inside me. The gleam of polished marble floors under carefully positioned lighting. The subtle scent of the store's signature fragrance wafting through the air conditioning. The quiet hum of exclusive clientele browsing through racks worth more than my monthly salary. This is my domain, my carefully curated world where I know exactly who I am and what I'm worth.

At least Amanda seems to have laid the groundwork for my return. Because if people do know about what happened with Evan—the arrest, the charges, the humiliating police statements—they're not saying a word about it. There are no pitying looks when I pass by, no awkward condolences whispered as I approach, no hushed conversations that suddenly stop when I enter a room.

Just business as usual.

And for that?

I owe her a very large bottle of tequila. Possibly two.

The click of heels announces her arrival before I see her. Amanda waltzes into my office with her usual dramatic flair, her tall frame adorned in a black pencil skirt and fuchsia blouse that somehow manages to look both professional and slightly dangerous. She's holding her tablet against her chest.

"Good morning, boss lady," she says as she drops into the chair across from my desk. She settles in, crossing her legs and raising an eyebrow at me.

I smile. "Is it though?"

She grins, a flash of perfect white teeth against crimson lips. "We'll see."

I straighten in my chair, adjusting my posture from exhausted to professional in one practiced movement. I glance at the daily schedule she's pulled up on her tablet, the screen glowing with color-coded appointments, deliveries, and staff rotations.

"So what's the damage today?" I ask, bracing myself for whatever retail nightmare awaits me. In this business, catastrophe is always lurking just around the corner—a delayed shipment, a difficult client, a staff member calling in sick at the worst possible moment.

"Well, our VIP shoppers will be here soon," Amanda says, scrolling through her tablet with perfectly manicured nails. "They booked a private shopping experience for their entire group, and we're fully staffed for it." She looks up, her expression reassuring. "No major hiccups this morning—yet."

I scan the list of names attached to the booking, my eyes narrowing as I recognize a few. These aren't just any VIPs—they're the type who expect the world to bend around them, who treat retail workers like servants rather than professionals. The type who demand the manager, not because they need one, but because they can.

Just what I need on my first day back.

"Great," I mutter, setting the tablet down on my desk with a soft thud. "They're totally going to ask for me."

Amanda’s eyes twinkle with mischief. "Obviously. Who wouldn't want the Izzy Russo experience?"

I shoot her a glare that would wither most people, but Amanda just absorbs it like sunlight. "Be serious."

She shrugs, flipping her tablet shut with a decisive click. "I'm sure you can handle them." Her voice softens, takes on a teasing edge. "Cal's been giving you lessons, hasn't he?"

My body responds instinctively to his name—a subtle warmth spreading through me, a quickening of pulse that I hope isn't visible on my face. I roll my eyes, my lips twitching despite my best efforts to maintain my professional façade. "And what exactly are you implying?"

She leans forward, elbows on her knees, her entire posture a physical manifestation of gossip about to be shared. "Oh, nothing," she drawls, drawing out the word like taffy. "Just that you seem… different."

I shift in my seat, uncomfortable with how easily she reads me. "Different how?"

"More confident. More assertive. Looser."

I raise a brow, feeling heat rise to my cheeks. "Looser?"

Amanda winks, her eyes sparkling with suggestion. "You tell me."

I throw a pen cap at her, a childish gesture that betrays how off-balance she's made me feel, but she dodges effortlessly, cackling as the plastic bounces harmlessly off the wall behind her.

Before I can fire back a response that would surely be inadequate, a voice crackles through my earpiece.

“Izzy, we need you on the floor."

I push back from my desk. "Guess I'm up."

Amanda waves me off, settling more comfortably into her chair. "Go be a boss. I'll be here, holding down the fort." She picks up my discarded pen cap and places it neatly on my desk, a small gesture of order in the chaos to come.

Midday brings the store to life. Shoppers drift between carefully curated displays, their voices overlapping with the low sweep of classical music that plays just loud enough to fill the silence. The lighting is intentional, casting everything in the best possible version of itself.

I weave through the aisles with practiced ease, stopping occasionally to straighten a display or check in with a staff member. My smile is polite, professional, the right balance of friendly and distant that high-end retail demands. I make my way toward the personal shopping suites, rehearsing greetings and contingency plans in my head.

And that's when I feel him.

I don't even have to see him to know he's close. My skin prickles with awareness, every nerve ending suddenly alert, like my body is a compass and he's magnetic north.

Cal has this energy—commanding, possessive, electric. It's like he exists in my peripheral vision before I even turn my head, like the air around him is charged with something only I can feel.