Early in the morning, I received a notification about my application for Style Sphere. Odd, since they usually email me around 8 a.m.—not 3 a.m. But I'm not about to complain about progress, especially when it brings me one step closer to leaving Sera Elganza—especially after what happened with that boss of mine. The slap had landed hours ago, yet I could still feel the sting of it, a phantom heat burning against my skin. I even thought about personally firing Ms. Fallon for her own good. No one should be forced to endure physical harm while working for a bipolar psycho like him.
It would have been nice to bury myself in a packed schedule today, to let the chaos distract me. But because I'm halfway out the door, things are slow. All I really had to do was help Ms. Fallon with whatever she needed (if she needed help) and listen to designers chatter on about new sketches and concepts—something I didn't mind, but hardly enough to keep me grounded. My temper simmered beneath the surface, and I knew that when he decided to face me today, I couldn't promise my professional mask would hold. If Summer were in my shoes, she'd whip up a perfect cup of coffee, slip into the women's restroom, pee in it, and serve it to him with a smile. But I'm not Summer. I want a slap back in return. I'd just have to wait for Ms. Fallon to leave his side long enough for me to get my chance.
On my break, I stepped out for a walk around the block, dialing Summer to finally tell her what had happened the night before. Instead, I got lost in her latest Vegas escapades, and before I could confide in her, my break was over. I hurried back, needing to use the bathroom before returning to my desk; without the coffee cup, of course. That's when I noticed a commotion in the break room—coworkers whispering, voices tense. Ms. Fallon's entire face was as red as her hair, her arms slicing the air in frantic gestures. Curiosity won, as it always did. I stepped in.
"Is . . . everything okay?" I asked, glancing in Mr. Fabrizi's office as if whatever they were reacting to might be lurking there.
Instant silence. Heads turned, and every face split into plastic smiles.
"Oh yes, everything is perfect," Ms. Fallon said, nearly tripping as she stepped toward me.
She's a terrible liar. And though the others echoed her words, I caught Cherry's twitching hands, the way her eyes kept darting toward the windows. Cherry had always been good with words, but her body language betrayed her every time. They were definitely hiding something.
Usually, if a problem erupted—especially one involving Mr. Fabrizi—I'd be the first person called. Now, it seemed I'd slipped down the ladder of contact. Ms. Fallon exchanged a glance with Jacob. Everyone in the room looked my way—everyone except Cherry, who refused to look my way at all.
"Oh, fine. Might as well tell her before it's ruined. It's not even that big of a deal," Cherry heaved out. "Earlier, Mr. Fabrizi and Ms. Fallon went down to the archive room to retrieve . . . um . . . something important. And well, Ms. Fallon didn't realize she needed to carry the key for that room, so when she stepped out first—"
"He's stuck down there and I don't know where the spare key is!" Ms. Fallon blurted, nearly shrieking.
Despite my feelings toward him, all I could think about was how dark it was down there. Why they'd placed the archive in the basement, I'd never understand. It was the oldest part of the building and that room specifically is a maze, musty, and with only one lightbulb, a fragile glow that only worked when the door stayed open.
I bolted for my desk, snatched the spare key, and tore down the stairwell. The elevators would've been too slow compared to the adrenaline charging through my body. Between the memories of his strange relationship with darkness, I knew he was in more trouble than my coworkers upstairs could imagine. At the basement level, my hands shook as I fumbled the key against the old, rusted lock. I could hear faint screams muffled somewhere behind the metal door. The archive room was massive, twisting like a maze, easy to lose yourself in. Finally, the key clicked into place, and I wedged both my heels in the door to keep it open.
Shit. I should've brought someone down to keep watch.
Now, in nothing but my stockings, I stepped onto the cold granite floor. The single bulb lit only a few yards ahead. I moved deeper into the creep of the space, racks of files and cleaning supplies rising around me, their musty odor seeping through my blouse as I tried to shield my face.
A sound made me snap my head left.
Please, not rats. If I see one, I'm running upstairs and calling the fire department myself.
Another whimper came—this time straight ahead, somewhere to the right. I pressed forward, heart pounding, when the door behind me slammed shut.
The echo ricocheted down the corridors, making me flinch. My scream caught in my throat as my fumbling hands tossed the spare key into the darkness. I watched it skitter out of reach, swallowed by shadows.
"Shit!"
As if on cue, my phone light went out.
Panicked, I flipped it over. Not dead—thankfully. A screen message glared back at me: Thank you for updating. System will be ready in fifteen to thirty minutes. Do not turn off.
This stupid phone. I don't have fifteen to thirty minutes. Why now?
The key couldn't have gone far. I crouched, ready to grope blindly for it—when I saw it.
A faint glow. Strange, eerie. Hovering in the dark.
Footsteps shuffled near it, followed by a muffled voice:
"Is there someone there?"
I inched forward, pulse thundering. The glow brightened, trembling as if alive.
Oh fucking hell! There are spirits down here!