Too Late For My CEO's Regret

Gracia was coughing. It was a wet, hacking sound that she tried to stifle in her scarf.

Her nose was red, and her skin was the color of old paper. The walk to the subway in the freezing rain had done its damage. She had a fever; she could feel the heat radiating behind her eyes.

It was 12:30 PM. The breakroom was crowded.

The air smelled of heated leftovers-curry, lasagna, popcorn.

Gracia sat at a small round table with a cup of hot water. That was her lunch. She had spent her last twenty dollars on Birdie's refill this morning.

Her stomach growled. A loud, guttural protest that silenced the conversation at the next table.

Gracia flushed crimson. She pressed her hand against her stomach, pretending to check her phone.

Tess sat down across from her. She dropped a heavy brown paper bag on the table.

"I accidentally ordered two turkey clubs," Tess said, not making eye contact. She pushed a wrapped sandwich toward Gracia. "They won't keep. Help me out?"

Gracia looked at the sandwich. It was from the gourmet deli downstairs. It cost $18.

"Tess, I can't," Gracia rasped.

"You can. Unless you want me to throw it in the trash, which is a sin against turkey."

Gracia's pride warred with her hunger. The hunger won.

"I'll pay you back on Friday," Gracia whispered.

"Shut up and eat."

Gracia unwrapped the sandwich. Her hands shook as she lifted it. The first bite was heaven.

Up above, on the glass-walled mezzanine that overlooked the breakroom, Bridger stood like a gargoyle.

He was watching her.

He saw the way she devoured the sandwich. He saw the way she held the cup of hot water like it was precious.

Where is the money? he thought. Where is the husband's money?

If she was married to a partner, why was she starving?

He felt a surge of irrational anger at the unknown man. You don't take care of her, he thought. I would have fed her.

He turned to Sloane.

"Why is the temperature in here so low?" he demanded.

Sloane checked the thermostat app. "It's 72 degrees, sir."

"It's freezing," Bridger lied. "And get someone to restock the first aid kits on the marketing floor. They're empty."

"Are they?"

"Just do it."

Bridger walked away. He couldn't watch her eat charity anymore. It made him want to break something.

Down in the breakroom, Tess leaned in.

"Hey, did you hear about Project Windfall?"

Gracia swallowed a bite of turkey. "No."

"The new gaming division. They're trying to hire Zephyr for the concept art."

Gracia choked. She coughed violently, grabbing her water. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Zephyr. The name echoed in the small, crowded space, a secret she guarded with her life.

"Zephyr?" she squeaked, forcing her voice to sound casual.

"Yeah, the digital artist. The ghost. No one knows who he is. Or she. Bridger is apparently obsessed with getting them. Says the style is the only thing that fits the vision."

Gracia's heart pounded. She took a slow sip of water, her mind racing. An opportunity. A dangerous, terrifying opportunity.

"Did they... find him?" Gracia asked carefully.

"No. They're putting out a blind bid. Massive money. Six figures for a portfolio."

Six figures.

Gracia looked at her empty sandwich wrapper. Six figures meant Birdie's surgery. It meant paying off the debt. It meant freedom.

But it meant working directly with Bridger. It meant risking exposure.

"Crazy," Gracia said, trying to sound bored.

She went back to her desk. Sitting on her keyboard was a box of DayQuil and a bottle of Vitamin C.

She looked around. "Tess?"

Tess shook her head from her own desk. "Not me."

Gracia picked up the box. It was the expensive brand.

She looked up at the glass office on the top floor. The blinds were drawn.

She popped two pills. She didn't care who sent them. She just needed to survive the day.

The next morning was chaos. Birdie had refused to put on her shoes, and the toaster had shorted out.

In the rush, Gracia had been finishing a Zephyr commission-a digital painting of a crimson storm. She had wiped a smudge of red oil paint off her cheek but missed the spot on the side of her neck, right below her ear.

She arrived at work breathless.

At 10:00 AM, she went to the pantry. She needed caffeine to combat the drowsy side effects of the cold medicine.

The door swung open.

Bridger walked in.

He wasn't alone; the VP of Operations and the Legal Counsel were trailing him. They took one look at the tension in the room, grabbed water bottles, and miraculously remembered urgent phone calls they had to make.

They fled.

Bridger stayed.

He leaned against the marble counter, his arms crossed over his chest. His suit was a dark charcoal, tailored to perfection.

He watched Gracia fiddle with the coffee machine.

"You look better," he said. It sounded like an accusation.

"The medicine helped," Gracia said, not looking at him.

"Good. I can't have my employees infecting the whole floor."

He moved closer. He was too close. Gracia could feel the heat radiating from him.

His eyes scanned her face, then dropped to her neck.

He froze.

His gaze locked onto the red smudge.

To him, it didn't look like paint. It looked like a bruise. A love bite. A mark of possession.

Bridger felt a roar of blood in his ears. Last night. She was sick, she was broke, she was exhausted, and yet she had gone home to that man and let him mark her.

Jealousy, hot and corrosive, burned through his gut.

He stepped into her space, trapping her against the counter.

Gracia gasped, her back hitting the edge of the sink. "Mr. Jennings?"

His gaze was a physical weight on her skin, hot and heavy. He leaned in, not touching her, but so close she could feel the warmth of his body, see the fury tightening the muscles in his jaw. His eyes, dark and stormy, were fixed on the mark.

"What is this?" he growled, his voice a low vibration that seemed to shake her bones.

Gracia flinched at the sheer venom in his tone. She instinctively wanted to slap him, to push him away, but his proximity was paralyzing. "Don't," she managed to whisper, a plea and a warning.

"Rough night?" Bridger sneered. "Or did your husband just want to make sure everyone knew who you belong to?"

Gracia's hand flew to her neck. Her fingers came away with a tiny smear of red pigment.

Paint.

Relief washed over her, followed instantly by terror. If she told him it was paint, he might ask why a data entry clerk was covered in professional-grade oil pigments. He might connect the dots to Zephyr.

She couldn't risk it.

She lowered her hand, hiding the red tip of her finger.

"It's none of your business," she said, her voice shaking. "My private life is private."

Bridger's jaw clenched. A muscle ticked in his cheek. She wasn't denying it. She was protecting him.

"You're right," he said, his voice ice cold. "But your performance is my business."

He stepped back, putting distance between them.

"I want the ten-year historical sales analysis on my desk by 8 AM tomorrow."

Gracia's eyes widened. "That's... that's impossible. The archives aren't even digitized."

"Then you better start typing," Bridger said. "Unless you want to go home to your husband unemployed."

He turned on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door so hard the coffee cups rattled on the shelf.

Gracia rushed to the mirror. She saw the red mark. She scrubbed at it with a wet paper towel until her skin was raw and red.

Now it really looked like a hickey.

She stared at her reflection, tears pricking her eyes. He hated her. He hated her so much that he was imagining sins she hadn't even committed.

The private club in Midtown was dark, smelling of old leather and cigar smoke.

Bridger sat in a deep armchair, his tie undone, a glass of amber liquid in his hand. It was his third.

Bobby Kelly slid into the seat opposite him. Bobby was the kind of guy who wore loafers without socks and thought life was a joke.

"You look like hell, Bridge," Bobby grinned.

"Shut up," Bridger said. He took a drink. The whiskey burned, but not enough. "Tell me again."

"Tell you what?"

"About Gracia. About what you heard five years ago."

Bobby's smile faltered. He shifted in his seat. He remembered the phone call with Elliot, the vague sense of unease he'd felt even then. But it was ancient history, and Bridger was his friend. He'd done what he thought was best at the time.

"Man, why are we digging up fossils?" Bobby deflected.

"Did she really want to break up?" Bridger asked. His eyes were intense, desperate.

Bobby looked at his friend. He couldn't admit he might have been a pawn in someone else's game. Not now. It would only make things worse.

"Yeah," Bobby said, his voice a little too firm. "From what I heard, she met someone right after graduation. Some guy. They got married fast. Real fast."

"Fast," Bridger repeated.

"Like, whiplash fast. She moved on, Bridge. She didn't look back."

Bridger closed his eyes. The image of the red mark on her neck flashed in his mind.

"She's happy then?" Bridger asked, his voice barely a whisper.

"I guess. Why wouldn't she be?"

Bridger finished his drink in one swallow. "She's working for me. In data entry."

Bobby choked on his gin and tonic. "What? The genius artist?"

"She's not an artist anymore. She's a clerk. And she's broke."

"Maybe the husband lost his money," Bobby shrugged. "Bad investment. It happens."

"Maybe," Bridger said.

He stood up. He felt unsteady. "I'm going."

"It's 2 AM. Where are you going?"

"Work."

Bridger stumbled into his waiting car. "The office," he told the driver.

He didn't go up to the penthouse. He sat in the car, looking up at the 12th floor. There was one light on.

She was there. Doing the impossible task he had given her.

He pulled out his phone. He dialed her extension.

Upstairs, Gracia was typing furiously. Her eyes were dry, her fingers cramping.

The phone rang.

She jumped. The sound was shrill in the silent office.

"Jennings Group, Marketing," she answered, her voice hoarse.

Silence.

She could hear breathing. Heavy, rhythmic breathing.

"Hello?" Gracia whispered.

On the street below, Bridger pressed the phone to his ear. He wanted to say her name. He wanted to ask why. Why him? Why not me?

"Hello?" she asked again.

He heard the tremor in her voice. She sounded exhausted.

Bridger lowered the phone and ended the call.

He leaned his head back against the seat. "Take me home," he whispered.

Gracia held the receiver for a long time after the line went dead. She knew. She didn't know how, but she knew it was him.