Working at the pharmacy wasn't particularly busy, but company policy was strict: no phone use during shifts, even when idle. As the manager put it, it was a matter of professionalism. Not that I had much time for my phone anyway. During the quiet moments between customers, I was busy studying for the licensed pharmacist exam. In our line of work, without that certification, I’d be stuck as a sales associate forever. Not that there's anything wrong with that, but I was aiming higher, to earn more, and to move up to a management position. Without that license, those aspirations would remain out of reach.
All morning, whenever there weren't customers, I was buried in my books. So engrossed was I that I forgot about the pending friend request from Marco Griffin on WhatsApp. Meanwhile, Marco sat in his office chair, staring at his phone screen, where the pending friend request from me was a constant reminder.
It wasn't until lunchtime, when I called Joey Davis for a video chat, that I noticed Marco's request. After accepting it, I started my call with Joey. Our pharmacy operated on a two-shift system. There were just two of us clerks, overseen by one manager. But since our store was small—barely making a profit—the manager also had oversight of other locations.
Usually, I alternated shifts with another clerk: from 7 a.m. to 2:30 p.m., and then from 2:30 p.m. to 10 p.m. On morning shifts, I barely had time for lunch, often scarfing down a quick sandwich or a packed meal from home during quieter moments.
Across the screen, Joey was enjoying a hearty lunch, his plate full of meat and vegetables, while I was stuck with my sandwich. We chatted casually as I finished my meal. It wasn't until after I hung up that I noticed the flurry of messages from Marco on WhatsApp.
Marco: "So you finally decided to take me out of the waiting room, huh? Now let's talk about compensation."
Three minutes passed with no reply from me, and Marco sent another message.
Marco: "I'm not used to handling situations like this. What do you think would be fair compensation for last night's incident for you and your boyfriend?"
Another three minutes without a response, and Marco messaged again: "Am I interrupting your break?"
I quickly typed back: "No, I was just having lunch. As for compensation, I'll need to discuss it further with my boyfriend. But he's pretty happy with how you handled things last night, Mr. Griffin, so we won't ask for much."
In his office, Marco scrolled through the messages, each "boyfriend" seeming to provoke a sardonic smile. "Boyfriend? How charmingly you put it. Gwendolyn Morris, you're the one who's been getting under my skin."
He pulled a pack of cigarettes from a drawer, lit one, and took a slow drag. To be fair, Marco wasn't the type to indulge frequently. He wasn't interested in much of anything, really. Even his cigarette habit was sparse—one every few days, maybe. A pack could last him two months.
But ever since I came into his life, he'd been smoking more frequently. Like he needed the nicotine to calm some unfamiliar storm within. Realizing this, he stubbed out the cigarette and sent another message: "I'll wait for your response."
I stared at "I'll wait for your response," my brows knitting slightly. Out of context, there was nothing particularly alarming about those words, yet they left me feeling uneasy. Just then, a customer entered the pharmacy. I quickly turned off my phone screen, slipped it into my pocket, and approached with a welcoming smile. "Hello, can I help you find something today?"
...
After my shift, I headed home, stopping at the small grocery store outside my apartment complex to pick up some celery and fresh meat. I planned to make Joey some homemade pork and celery dumplings and bring them to the hospital. Joey loved dumplings, especially those with pork and celery, though I wasn't much for cooking. Usually, our meals were whatever we could throw together with the least fuss. But today, I wanted to make an exception, considering he'd injured his back.
When I arrived at the hospital, Joey opened the container, the savory aroma of celery and pork filling the air. His grin was wide and toothy. "You don't know how long I've been craving this."
Without bothering with a fork, he grabbed a dumpling with his hand and popped it into his mouth. "So good!"
The orderly, a man in his thirties, chuckled at Joey. "Hey, if you want dumplings, just let me know, and I'll get some for you."
"Mmm," Joey mumbled around a mouthful of dumpling. "But nothing beats my fiancée's cooking. You should try some; it's fantastic."
The orderly raised his hands in polite refusal. "I'm good, just ate. You two enjoy. I’ll step out for a bit."
Joey nodded, gesturing to the untouched dinner on his hospital table. "The orderly just brought that; you should have it while it's hot."
I picked up a cup of water, holding it to Joey's lips. "Drink some water, take it slow."
He sighed contentedly. "If only I had some soup to go with these dumplings, that’d be perfect."
Just as the orderly left the room, Marco appeared at the door, caught off guard by the man's brisk exit. Marco's imposing presence lingered in the air as the orderly nodded, then quickly moved on. Marco, however, remained where he stood, peering through the glass in the door at Joey and me inside the hospital room.
I was wiping a bit of sauce from Joey's lips with a napkin. Whatever Joey had said made me laugh, my hand playfully nudging his shoulder, my usually composed demeanor softened by a certain shyness in my smile.
Marco’s eyes tracked my expression, unreadable emotions swirling in their depths. He murmured to himself, “With an injured leg, can’t even look after yourself, yet here you are, cooking and bringing food from afar for him. Truly a devoted girlfriend.”
He inhaled deeply, suppressing the storm of jealousy brewing within him, exhaling slowly. Though it was a stolen glance, his gaze bore the confidence of possession.
"Sir," Boone said, ending a phone call and turning to Marco. "I've got the results from the investigation you requested on Miss Morris. I've had them sent to your email."
Marco pulled his eyes away from the window, retrieving his phone to check his email. Sure enough, a new message waited, the details about me laid out in the attachments.
My father was a university professor; my mother, a retired high school teacher. I’d been working at the pharmacy as a sales associate for two years now.
The details made Marco frown. My parents were educated professionals, yet I was working at a pharmacy? It didn’t add up to him. With such a background, surely I could do more than just sell medicine.
Something wasn’t right.
As Marco read on, he discovered I donated a third of my monthly salary to an all-girls private school. The school was well-known, the principal publicly acknowledging contributors to maintain transparency and gratitude.
A slow grin spread across Marco’s face as he digested this piece of information. Tenderness and mischievous excitement mingled in his eyes. "Here I thought she was all facade, but she’s quite the altruistic saint. But even saints need a place for their offerings."
He turned off his phone and once more peered through the glass at Joey and me, our heads bent close in laughter over dinner. His voice carried a note of anticipation, "I’m a saint myself. Care to taste the offerings I lay before you?"
