Divorced By The Boss I Slept With

Arnetta ended the call with Gillian. She dropped her phone into her bag and stared blankly at the back of the cab driver's head. The yellow cab pulled up to the curb in front of her Brooklyn apartment building. She shoved a twenty-dollar bill through the plastic divider and pushed the door open. She ran up the concrete steps, her bare foot aching against the rough surface. She fumbled with her keys, her hands still shaking from the adrenaline of the hotel room. She shoved the key into the lock, twisted it, and pushed the door open. She locked the door behind her and leaned against the wood, closing her eyes. The silence of her apartment did nothing to calm the racing of her heart. She pushed off the door and walked straight into the bathroom. She stripped off the silk dress, letting it fall to the tile floor like a discarded skin. She stepped into the shower and turned the water on as hot as she could stand it. She scrubbed her skin until it turned red, trying to wash away the scent of expensive cologne and the memory of Brennan's hands on her. Twenty minutes later, she stepped out of the bathroom. The panic was gone, replaced by a cold, hard focus. She walked to her closet and bypassed the designer clothes hidden in the back. She pulled out a drab, shapeless gray suit. It was cheap, stiff, and completely unremarkable. She put it on, buttoning the jacket all the way to her collarbone. She walked over to the mirror. She pulled her dark hair back into a tight, severe bun at the nape of her neck. She opened her top drawer and pulled out a pair of thick, black-rimmed glasses. She slid the glasses onto her face. The lenses were non-prescription, but the frames instantly changed her face. They hid the sharpness of her eyes and made her look like a tired, overworked junior employee. She grabbed her scuffed briefcase from the chair and walked out the door. The subway ride to the financial district was suffocating. Bodies pressed against her in the crowded car. The smell of damp wool and stale coffee filled the air. Arnetta stared at the scrolling LED sign, her mind already shifting into her operational persona. She walked out of the subway station and looked up. The Vanguard Capital building towered over the street. It was a massive structure of glass and steel, a monument to wealth and power. Arnetta walked through the revolving doors into the expansive lobby. The floors were polished marble. Men and women in tailored suits moved with frantic purpose. She walked up to the security desk and pulled a printed email from her briefcase. She slid it across the counter. "Arnetta Oliver," she said, keeping her voice soft and timid. "New junior analyst." The security guard checked her ID against his computer screen. He printed a temporary visitor badge and handed it to her. Arnetta clipped the badge to her gray lapel. She walked through the security turnstiles and joined the crowd waiting for the elevators. The elevator shot up to the Human Resources floor. Arnetta stepped out and walked to the front desk. Eleanor Fletcher, the HR director, looked up from her monitor. She was a stern woman with a tight smile. "Miss Oliver," Eleanor said, handing her a thick stack of paperwork. "Sign these. Non-disclosure agreements, confidentiality clauses, standard corporate policy." Arnetta took the pen. She scanned the dense legal jargon with practiced speed. She signed her name on the dotted lines, her handwriting neat and unassuming. Eleanor took the papers back and handed Arnetta a permanent plastic ID badge. "Follow me," Eleanor said. Eleanor led her down a long hallway to the junior analyst bullpen. It was a massive, open-plan room filled with rows of identical desks. The noise was deafening. Keyboards clattered, phones rang, and people shouted over each other. Eleanor pointed to a tiny desk shoved into the far corner of the room. It was next to a humming printer and stacked high with empty cardboard boxes. "This is you," Eleanor said, turning and walking away without another word. Arnetta set her briefcase down on the cheap laminate desk. She sat in the uncomfortable chair and booted up the desktop computer. She immediately opened the company intranet. She bypassed the welcome pages and started digging into the organizational charts. She was looking for one name. The Maverick. The legendary rainmaker of Vanguard. The man she was sent here to investigate. Before she could click on the executive directory, a heavy stack of manila folders slammed onto her desk. Arnetta jumped, pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose. Her department manager, a balding man named Davis, stood over her. He looked at her gray suit and tight bun with obvious disdain. "Welcome to Vanguard," Davis sneered. "Since you are at the bottom of the food chain, you get the garbage. These are rejected client files. Dead ends. Find a miracle in there, or you'll be fetching coffee by tomorrow." Arnetta kept her face blank. She nodded submissively. "Yes, Mr. Davis." Davis scoffed and walked away. Arnetta waited until he was out of sight. She reached out and pulled the top folder from the stack. It was a thick, red file. She flipped it open. The bold black letters at the top of the page read: Kirkland Industries Merger Acquisition. Below that was the client's name. Brennan Kirkland. Arnetta's breath hitched in her throat. Her stomach dropped like a stone. An image of the man in the hotel bed flashed behind her eyes. The broad shoulders. The dark, mocking eyes. The arrogant smirk. The man she had slept with. The man who had called her a corporate climber. He was not just some Wall Street executive. He was Vanguard's top-tier client. Her fingers tightened around the edge of the folder. The paper crinkled under her grip. A cold, sharp thrill shot through her veins. This was not a disaster. This was an opportunity. Brennan Kirkland was her direct ticket to the top floor. He was the key to finding The Maverick. She closed the red folder and stood up. She grabbed the red folder and a few loose printouts from the stack, then walked straight across the bullpen, ignoring the stares of the other analysts. She stopped in front of Davis's glass-walled office and knocked twice. Without waiting for an answer, she pushed the door open. Davis looked up, his face turning red with anger. "What do you think you are doing?" Arnetta dropped the red folder onto his desk. "I want this case," Arnetta said, her voice cold and precise. "Section 355(e) of the tax code—the 'anti-Morris Trust' rules. If you proceed with the current structure, Kirkland faces a thirty-five percent tax hit on the spin-off. I have the workaround." Davis’s fury froze on his face. The color drained from his cheeks. He stared at her, his mouth slightly open, the sheer audacity of her claim warring with the undeniable logic of the tax code she just quoted. "Talk is cheap," Davis sneered, recovering his composure and slamming his hand flat on the desk. "Draft a one-page memo outlining this loophole strategy. I'll give you exactly one hour. If it holds water, I'll consider it. If it's garbage, you are fired." "I can draft the preliminary model in forty-five minutes," Arnetta said, pushing her glasses up her nose. "Sign the conditional authorization now." Davis swallowed hard. He looked at the file, then back at her unwavering gaze. Intimidated by her sudden, terrifying display of sheer competence, he grabbed his pen and scribbled his signature on the transfer line, sliding it back with a scowl. "Forty-five minutes. Not a second later." Arnetta snatched the folder back. She turned and walked out of the office. She returned to her desk and pulled her personal phone from her pocket. She opened a secure, encrypted messaging app. She typed a message to Ira Gardner, her adoptive brother and the head of Aegis Ventures. I have the Kirkland file. Moving to the top floor. She hit send. She shoved the phone back into her pocket and grabbed the red folder. The private elevator banks reserved for executive access were heavily guarded by a secondary glass security baffle. Arnetta noticed a senior vice president approaching the scanner. She quickened her pace, deliberately dropping a supplementary file right at his heels. The man pause, picking it up for her with a distracted nod. "Thank you so much," she murmured submissively, seamlessly stepping through the glass partition right behind him before the sensors could close, her cheap gray suit rendering her entirely invisible to his corporate radar.