Monday morning arrived with the cruel efficiency of a slap to the face. I'd spent the weekend alternating between replaying every moment of that disastrous flight home with Matthew and trying to convince myself that our forced proximity meant nothing. Just practical, I kept telling myself. Just two people sharing a plane ticket.
But as I walked into Morrison & Associates Marketing—the firm I'd been working at for six months—clutching my coffee like a lifeline, I felt that familiar knot of anxiety in my stomach. The weekend had given me too much time to think, to remember the way Matthew's jaw had tightened when I'd insisted our arrangement was purely transactional.
"All-hands meeting in the conference room," my colleague Jessica announced, practically bouncing with excitement. "We're finally meeting the new Creative Director. Apparently, he's some hotshot from London who's supposed to revolutionize our entire approach."
London. The word hit me like ice water.
"Did they mention his name?" I asked, my voice coming out smaller than intended.
Jessica shrugged. "Morrison something? I wasn't really paying attention."
My coffee cup slipped from my suddenly numb fingers, shattering against the marble floor of the lobby. The dark liquid spread across the pristine white stone like spilled ink, and I stared at it, paralyzed by the impossibility of what was happening.
"Laura? You okay?" Jessica knelt beside me, gathering the ceramic pieces with concerned efficiency.
"I'm fine," I lied, the words automatic. "Just clumsy."
But I wasn't fine. As I walked toward the conference room on unsteady legs, my mind raced through the implications. Matthew Morrison. My Matthew—no, not mine, never mine—was about to become my boss. The universe had a twisted sense of humor.
The conference room buzzed with anticipation as I slipped inside, choosing a seat near the back where I could observe without being noticed. My hands trembled as I smoothed my black pencil skirt, suddenly hyperaware of every detail of my appearance. Had I chosen this outfit because it made me look professional, or because I remembered Matthew once saying black brought out my eyes?
"Ladies and gentlemen," our CEO, Mr. Hartwell, announced from the front of the room, "I'd like to introduce our new Creative Director, Matthew Morrison. Matthew comes to us from Blackstone Creative in London, where he spearheaded campaigns for some of Europe's most prestigious brands."
The door opened, and there he was.
Four years had been kind to Matthew in ways that made my chest ache. He wore a navy suit that emphasized his broader shoulders, and his dark hair was shorter now, more sophisticated. But it was his eyes that made my breath catch—those same deep brown eyes that had once looked at me with such tenderness, now scanning the room with cool professionalism.
Until they found mine.
For a heartbeat, something flickered across his face—surprise, recognition, maybe even pain. But it was gone so quickly I might have imagined it.
"Thank you, Richard," Matthew said, his voice carrying that new authority I'd noticed at the chapel. "I'm excited to work with such a talented team. I believe in collaborative creativity, and I look forward to getting to know each of you."
His gaze swept the room again, pausing briefly on me before moving on as if I were just another face in the crowd.
"I see we have some familiar faces," he continued, and my heart hammered against my ribs. "Laura Lynch and I are old acquaintances. I'm sure she'll be a valuable asset to our upcoming projects."
Old acquaintances. The words hit me like a physical blow. Twenty years of friendship, of shared secrets and childhood adventures, of a love confession that had changed everything—reduced to "old acquaintances."
Around me, I could feel my colleagues' curious stares. Jessica leaned over and whispered, "You know him? Lucky you—he's gorgeous."
I forced a smile that felt like it might crack my face. "We grew up together."
But even as I said it, I knew it wasn't true anymore. The boy who had built me a treehouse and taught me to ride a bike was gone, replaced by this polished stranger who looked at me like I was just another employee. The Matthew standing at the front of the room was successful, confident, untouchable—everything I'd thrown away when I'd chosen my so-called dream guy over the person who'd known me better than anyone.
As the meeting concluded and people began filing out, Matthew's voice cut through the chatter. "Laura, could I see you in my office in ten minutes? We need to discuss your current projects."
The professional tone made it clear this wasn't a reunion—it was a summons. And as I watched him stride out of the conference room without a backward glance, I realized that working for Matthew Morrison was going to be the most exquisite torture imaginable.
