Chapter 7 - The Job I Chose|
I spent the night staring at the ceiling.
Every time a car passed beneath Madison's window, I wondered whether someone was watching. Every time the elevator stopped on our floor, my heart jumped. By dawn, I was furious—not because I was frightened, but because Vincent's world had followed me into the one place where I had hoped to be ordinary.
I called Evelyn as soon as her office opened.
She advised me to preserve the photograph and report the incident. She also contacted Vincent's legal team with a clear demand: no unauthorized surveillance, no direct contact through intermediaries, and no visits to Madison's apartment.
Vincent's attorneys replied within two hours, claiming that their client had not authorized the vehicle or the photograph.
I believed that part.
I wasn't sure whether it made me feel better.
That afternoon, I went to my interview at a small design firm on the north side. The office was above a bakery and smelled of coffee, printer ink, and warm bread. It had no marble floors, no private elevators, and no security guards standing beside the entrance.
I loved it immediately.
The owner, Daniel Brooks, was a practical man in his early forties who wore rolled-up sleeves and kept color samples pinned to a corkboard.
He examined my portfolio in silence.
“This townhouse project,” he said, pointing to a drawing, “you designed the storage around the family's actual habits instead of forcing them to live around the furniture.”
“Yes.”
“And this kitchen?”
“The owners had two children. They wanted the room to feel open, but they also needed to keep the stove and cleaning supplies away from little hands.”
He nodded.
“Who taught you to think this way?”
“My mother, originally. Then experience.”
He turned another page.
“Your work is thoughtful. Why did you stop designing?”
I could have lied. I could have said I wanted to explore other interests or had taken time off for family reasons.
Instead, I told him the truth.
“I got married young. My husband needed me to manage things at home, and I thought it would be temporary. It wasn't.”
Daniel closed the portfolio.
“Are you looking for a job or permission to return to your own life?”
The question caught me off guard.
“A job.”
“Good. I can offer you a paid trial on a residential project. Three days a week to start. We can discuss the schedule around your medical appointments.”
I stared at him.
“You're hiring me?”
“I'm offering you a chance to prove you can do the work. You don't need to tell me who your husband is, and I don't care how much money he has. I care whether you can design a room people want to live in.”
For the first time in months, I smiled without forcing it.
“I can do that.”
I left the office with a folder of project plans and a start date.
On the sidewalk, I called Madison.
“I got the job.”
She screamed so loudly that I had to hold the phone away from my ear.
We celebrated with cheap pizza and sparkling cider. I told her about the project, the clients, and the possibility of building something with my own name on it.
For a few hours, I forgot about Vincent.
Then I opened my email.
A message had arrived from an address I didn't recognize. It contained no greeting, only a scanned document: an internal Moretti security report listing the vehicle that had followed me.
The vehicle belonged to a company controlled by Vincent's cousin, Adrian Moretti.
I knew Adrian. He had attended our wedding, toasted our future, and once told me that Vincent was lucky to have a wife who understood loyalty.
The report showed that the car had been assigned to a private security operation three weeks earlier.
The authorization signature was not Adrian's.
It belonged to a man named Thomas Vale, the Moretti organization's head of internal security.
I forwarded the email to Evelyn.
Then I called Vincent.
He answered on the first ring.
“Claire?”
“Did you authorize anyone to follow me?”
“No.”
“Did Thomas Vale?”
A pause.
“Where did you get that name?”
“Answer me.”
“I don't know what you're looking at.”
“Then find out. Someone is watching me, and if it happens again, I will report it to the police and provide every document I have.”
His voice grew quiet.
“I'll handle it.”
“No. You will investigate your own people. I will handle my safety.”
I ended the call.
An hour later, Daniel sent me the address of the townhouse I would be helping redesign.
It was a beautiful old building with tall windows and a neglected garden. I studied the photographs, imagining how the rooms might feel once someone cared enough to restore them.
Then my phone rang again.
This time, it was Evelyn.
“Claire,” she said, “the document you received may be genuine. But there's something you need to know about Thomas Vale.”
“What?”
“He was fired from a previous security position after an employee accused him of stalking her.”
My hands went cold.
“Was he convicted?”
“No. The complaint was withdrawn.”
“Why?”
May you like
Evelyn hesitated.
“Because someone paid her to leave town.”
