By 9:00 AM the next day, the firm's Slack channel was on fire. The topic GalaShoe was trending at the top of the feed.
It started with a grainy photo someone had posted at 2 AM — a shot of Bennett Lloyd bending down on the staircase landing, a glittering high heel in his hand. The caption read: "Our new boss playing Prince Charming. But whose shoe?"
By morning, the speculation had spiraled. Phoebe Keller was leading the charge. "Someone definitely left a 'glass slipper' last night. Custom Louboutins? Who are we trying to impress?"
Isabelle sat at her desk, staring at the screen. Her hand was clamped around her mouse, the plastic creaking under the pressure of her grip.
A shadow fell over her keyboard. Eleanor walked past, her gaze dropping to Isabelle's feet. Isabelle had swapped the heels for a pair of sensible black flats. Eleanor's eyes lingered for a second too long before she moved on.
Isabelle's stomach twisted. If this didn't stop, someone would dig up the custom order. The shoe had her name on it. Literally.
She took a deep breath, trying to steady her racing pulse. She pulled out her phone and scrolled through her photos. She found a picture she had taken last night-a cheap, $40 pair of black pumps she had bought at a CVS a block from the hotel. She had worn them to get home.
She uploaded the photo to the Slack channel. "I think there's a misunderstanding. My shoes are pretty cheap. Definitely not custom."
The channel went quiet for a moment. Then Clara sent her a private message. A sigh-of-relief emoji. "Thank god. I was worried they were yours."
Phoebe, never one to let a drama die, replied in the main channel. "Oh? Then whose is the custom one?"
Isabelle's fingers hovered over the keyboard. She was about to type "No idea" when a notification popped up at the top of the screen.
Bennett Lloyd has joined the channel.
Isabelle's fingers froze. A sharp cramp seized her stomach, doubling her over for a second.
Before she could even process his presence, a message appeared.
@IsabelleDominguez: "Since your shoes are fine, Ms. Dominguez, it seems you have the capacity for more time on-site."
Isabelle stared at the words. What did that mean?
A second later, a new email chimed in her inbox. It was an official appointment letter, CC'd to Eleanor and HR.
"Effective immediately, Isabelle Dominguez is appointed as the on-site technical consultant for the capital representative."
Isabelle shot to her feet. Her chair scraped against the floor, the sound piercing the quiet office.
Eleanor stepped out of her office. Her face was grave, her eyes locking onto Isabelle. "Isabelle. The client specifically requested you. This is a major project. Don't let me down."
Isabelle opened her mouth to refuse. She wanted to say she couldn't do it. But the warning in Eleanor's eyes-the unspoken threat to her career-choked the words back down.
She looked back at the Slack channel. Bennett's avatar was a solid black square. It stared at her like a single, unblinking eye.
The realization hit her like a bucket of ice water. Her denial hadn't put out the fire. It had handed him a perfect excuse. If she had just admitted the shoe was hers, it would have been awkward. But by lying, by claiming she was available, she had given him the rope to tie her to his side.
It was a checkmate. She had walked right into it.
Isabelle grabbed the rolled-up blueprints off her desk. Her nails dug into the thick paper, leaving crescent moons in the margins.
She had to go to his office. It was company policy. It was an order.
She walked into the elevator and pressed the button for the top floor. She watched the numbers climb, each ding tightening the knot in her chest.
The doors opened. The hallway was silent, ending at a heavy oak door that looked like the mouth of a beast.
She knocked.
"Come in." That low voice. The same one from the terrace.
Isabelle pushed the door open. Bennett was sitting behind his massive desk. And in his hands, he was casually turning over a very familiar, diamond-encrusted high heel.
