CHAPTER THREE
Raina
I woke up like someone had shoved a cold fist into my chest.
No nightmare. No noise. Just this overwhelming feeling that something was wrong.
Not "forgot to set an alarm" wrong. Not "left the stove on" wrong.
Soul-level and gut-wrenching. That screaming-from-inside-your-teeth wrong.
I sat up. I was sweaty and disoriented. I was just busy swearing under my breath while the city just buzzed faintly outside the window. Early traffic, birds pretending they own the world, and the ever-judgy silence of my empty bedroom.
Then came the voice in my head.
Camille's voice.
"You're playing with fire in a building full of gas."
She wasn't wrong. She never was.
I dragged myself to the kitchen. I then stared at the espresso machine like it had betrayed me personally. The light blinked at me. So I blinked back.
"Fine. You win," I muttered, and reached for instant coffee instead. That was my own version of waving up a white flag.
I leaned against the counter and really let reality sink in as the kettle boiled. I was going to spend weeks trapped inside a luxury penthouse that was designed by the devil himself. All the while I'll be pretending that I didn't used to fall asleep to the sound of his heartbeat.
And for what?
Closure?
Revenge?
Instagram bragging rights?
This wasn't healthy. This wasn't smart. This was me. The same woman who'd sworn never to let Elias Langston near her again, signing up to breathe the same oxygen as him daily.
Camille was right. I needed out.
I was typing furiously on my tablet ten minutes later as I fired off an email to the firm.
Subject: A request for reassignment
Body:
Hi Elaine,
I hope you're well. I would like to request for a reassignment after i reviewed the emotional implications of this project.
Thanks for understanding,
—R. Morgan
Simple. Professional. No sob story.
Just before I could start second guessing myself, I hit send.
By noon, I had a reply.
Subject: Re: Reassignment Request
Body:
Hi Raina,
Thanks for your message. Unfortunately, the client hand-picked your portfolio.
This is a high-profile contract and the board has insisted on maintaining consistency in creative direction. We can't honor the reassignment request at this time.
Looking forward to seeing your pitch deck tomorrow.
Warmly,
Elaine
Warmly.
The word hit harder than a slap. There was nothing warm about being trapped in your ex's multi-million-dollar memory hole.
I stared at the email like I could melt it with my mind.
Camille called seconds later. I didn't even have time to sigh.
"Tell me you didn't chicken out." she said instead of hello.
"I tried to quit."
Her gasp was so dramatic I pulled the phone away from my ear.
"They said no?"
"Apparently, this is a top-level, golden-priority, mega-spotlight project and I'm just too irreplaceable."
"Aw, that's cute," she said dryly. "You're being emotionally blackmailed by corporate niceties."
"I hate being good at my job."
"You should've been mediocre like me. I drink iced coffee, send five emails, and get applauded for breathing."
I rubbed my eyes. "What the hell am I going to do, Cam?"
"Fake your death?"
"Too much paperwork."
"Tell them you're contagious."
"Tempting."
"You could always burn the place down. You've got the matches."
I laughed. Short and broken.
Then I dropped onto the couch like it owed me money.
"I thought I could handle this. But now I can't even back out."
Camille's tone softened. "Look, you've done hard things before. You've dated men who called Star Wars a 'cartoon.' You survived the Lemon Loaf phase. You can survive this."
"It's not the job, Cam," I said quietly. "It's him."
There was silence.
"I wanted him to remember me," I admitted. "But now I think I'm starting to forget who I even was when I loved him."
Camille was quiet for a beat.
Then she said, "Okay, pause. That was beautiful. Like...write-it-on-a-wall beautiful. But also, please don't mentally unravel just yet. You need to be emotionally stable to pitch tile colors to billionaires."
"I'm not unraveling," I said, which was exactly what someone unraveling would say.
"Rai."
"I'm just processing loudly."
"Call in sick."
"I can't."
"Fake appendicitis."
"That's oddly specific."
"I Googled it. Don't ask why."
I smiled. "Thanks for the chaos."
"Anytime. Want me to bring snacks and wine?"
"It's noon."
"Do you want me to bring snacks and wine, Raina?"
"Absolutely."
I sat in the silence after the call ended. My apartment though stylish and spotless, now felt smaller than usual.
I pulled up the original pitch documents. Mockups. Color themes. Mood boards. My name, stamped across the top.
Raina Morgan. Lead Designer.
I used to be proud of that.
Now it looked like a sentence.
I rested my head in my hands after I closed my tablet.
Why cannot I just be someone else for once? Someone who didn't feel everything like an open wound? Someone who could walk away?
Instead, I was stuck in the emotional equivalent of an escape room. With no clues, no way out, and a fire alarm about to go off in my chest.
I thought about his eyes. That moment he smiled and introduced himself like I was just another Tuesday.
I thought about the day our engagement was supposed to be announced. I remembered how I had waited. How the news never came and how his silence cracked something inside me that had never fully healed yet.
And now?
Now he was memory-wiped and emotionally neutered. And I was just supposed to act like the past never existed.
The room spun for half a second after i stood up to fast.
"Okay," I said aloud to myself,"This is fine. This is just emotional quicksand dressed in a job title. You've done worse."
But my hands were already shaking again.
I didn't know if I was angry or sad or dangerously close to crying on my own marble floors.
What I did know?
Was that I couldn't quit. Not anymore.
And somehow… I had to survive this.
And if no one was going to pull me out of this mess, I'd have to climb my way out myself. Scraped knees, cracked voice, broken heart and all.
But God help me… what if I was already sinking too deep?