Chapter 3Never His Secret Again

I reposted Sloane's story with a single martini emoji.

Within ten minutes, my DMs blew up. Colleagues, college acquaintances, and old design fellows flooded my inbox, demanding to know when on earth I had become single.

I answered them all with the same breezy line: Turns out I was in a fictional relationship. Woke up, back to reality.

Across town in his Tribeca loft, Garrett Cole sat in the dim light of his living room, his face illuminated by the harsh glow of his phone.

His features were carved from stone.

It had been an entire week. Seven whole days, and Tessa hadn't called. She hadn't sent an apologetic text. She hadn't shown up at his door with red-rimmed eyes, begging him to understand why she had overreacted, the way she had two years ago when he forgot their anniversary.

He had expected her to last three days, tops.

Instead, there she was on his screen, draped in scarlet silk, looking more radiant, more breathtakingly alive, than she ever had in the half-decade they had spent together.

That caption—officially on the market—felt like a hot needle driven straight into his pride.

Garrett slammed the phone facedown onto the marble counter, tearing at his tie. A suffocating irritation clawed at his chest. He grabbed his car keys, fully intending to drive down to her office and confront her, to demand what kind of game she thought she was playing.

But as his hand touched the doorknob, his arrogance reasserted itself.

Why should I chase her? he thought bitterly. She’s the one who threw her little fit and packed her bags. Let her burn through her savings in some cramped Brooklyn walk-up. When she realizes how brutal the city is on her own, she'll remember who gave her a life.

On Monday morning, the firm called an emergency all-hands meeting in the main boardroom.

Our department head tapped the podium. "Quiet down, everyone. As you know, the waterfront development has drawn national attention, and the parent group has decided to take no chances. Headquarters has assigned a new Managing Principal to oversee our studio and lead the delivery. Today is his first day. Please give a warm welcome to Mr. Mercer."

The heavy glass doors swung open.

A man walked in, his strides measured, quiet, and imposing.

He was striking in a way that felt almost dangerous. Chiseled, high cheekbones, dark hair cut with military precision, and a tailored charcoal three-piece suit that framed a broad-shouldered, lean frame. His gaze was slate-gray and utterly devoid of warmth, carrying the effortless weight of someone born to command rooms.

"Good morning. I’m Harrison Mercer."

He didn't offer a charming smile or waste time with pleasantries. He pulled out the chair at the head of the table, sat down, and fixed the room with a gaze that made several senior architects sit up straighter.

"I have no interest in your past awards or how you used to do things," he said evenly. "I care about precision, structural integrity, and meeting deadlines. If you can't match my pace, let HR know by the end of the week. Let’s get to work."

Brutal. Uncompromising. Efficient.

That was the office consensus on Harrison Mercer within his first two hours. By lunch, the water cooler was buzzing with terrified whispers about the corporate executioner sent from the executive suite.

I didn't care. I quietly organized my schematics and prepared for war. In my book, a demanding boss meant larger bonuses and zero politics.

Right now, my only religion was my paycheck.

To everyone's surprise, while Harrison was an exacting perfectionist who would tear a flawed blueprint to shreds in seconds, he was also entirely meritocratic. If you brought him brilliance, he backed you with the full weight of his institutional power.

And as it turned out, I was the only one in the studio who could anticipate his standards.

Having spent five years tiptoeing around Garrett's volatile moods, reading Harrison Mercer’s professional cues was child's play. Whatever revision he asked for, I delivered it within the hour, refined and airtight.

In less than three weeks, he bypassed two senior associates and appointed me as his lead project deputy, answering directly to him.

"Tessa, run the structural load simulations on the atrium again," Harrison said, pointing to the rendering on his monitor. It was ten at night, and the floor was an empty expanse of glass and shadows. "I need the deflection values before tomorrow’s nine-o'clock client sync."

"Understood, Mr. Mercer," I said, rubbing the stiff muscles at the base of my neck. "Give me two hours."