A long, black gown almost identical to the one I wore the other evening comes into view. I pull the dress up by the straps and let it unfold. It is sleeveless, backless, and beaded from top to bottom. I check the label. It’s my size and the same designer. In fact, it’s part of the same runway collection.
I fish out a small envelope and pull out a handwritten note.
I’m sorry.Give me a chance to explain.
Jaden
I suck in a sharp breath,having a hard time suppressing the impulse to run the box cutter through the delicate chiffon.
I let the gown drop back into the box, slide the top back on, snatch the note, my car keys, and my phone, and storm out of the office.
* * *
I locatethe sender’s address not far from us.
It’s a new, modern building with five levels, blue glass walls, and steel frames. Several tech start-ups set up shop here.
It was one of the places I had on my list when I looked for space.
The price per square foot was attractive, and the amenities were par to none. I opted against it in the end, mainly because it’s downtown and traffic is heavy.
It was a big step to move my business out of my house, and I didn’t want to deal with the hustle and bustle of the city on top of that.
I check the address again before sliding my gaze to the rearview mirror, briefly examining my face.
Tense, I pull the car to a stop, turn off the engine, step out, and stride across the parking lot.
A woman greets me in the lobby. She points to the concierge desk, where I sign in, and then directs me to the top floor.
I ride the elevator, a ball of jitters.
Two men keep me company all the way to the last floor, their eyes dipping as I turn my back to them. The doors slide open as we reach our destination.
They let me walk out first.
A large space sprawls out in front of me.
Cushy sofas line the walls, and potted plants sit on the sills. Men and women work on their laptops, tablets, or their phones.
It all looks like an organized, creative mess.
Some of them sit on the couches, others straight on the floor.
There is no dress code–– not that my firm has one; most of them wear jeans and T-shirts, while a few women sport maxi dresses.
There’s no one running this mayhem.
A guy taking a break from fiddling with his tablet cares to ask me if I need help.
I come up with a story about a parcel needing to be returned and insist on leaving it with the person called JT, the initials posted on the shipping label.
Reluctantly, he pushes out of his chair and drags his feet to the other side of the room, where a few cubicles are carved into the wall. He motions to a girl who rises to her feet and walks around her desk, heading in my direction.
The man is quicker, making it back to me before her.
“Miss...?”
His eyebrows lift with a questioning look.