Escaping Drew's Manipulation

The crystal chandeliers of The Metropolitan Club cast a golden glow over the white tablecloths and polished silverware. I smoothed my black dress—the only formal attire I'd packed for this business trip—and tried to focus on Mr. Richardson's discussion of investment portfolios. But something in Drew's eyes made my stomach twist.

"Gracie has an incredible understanding of renewable energy markets," Drew said casually, swirling his whiskey. "She'd be the perfect person to keep you company tonight, Richardson. Help you understand the finer points of our proposal."

I nearly choked on my water. "Tonight?" I echoed, my voice barely audible.

Richardson's gaze slid to me, assessing. "Is that so? I was hoping to discuss the details over dinner at my hotel."

"Drew," I whispered, touching his arm. "I didn't realize I was supposed to—"

"Gracie." Drew's voice was low, controlled. He stood and guided me away from the table with a firm hand at my elbow. "What are you doing?"

"I don't understand," I said, confusion washing over me. "You never mentioned—"

"Business requires flexibility," he hissed, his fingers digging into my arm. "Richardson controls a fifty-million-dollar fund. This deal could change everything for us."

"But he thinks—"

"He thinks what? That you'll explain some technical details over dinner?" Drew's eyes hardened. "That's exactly what you'll do. Unless you're too paranoid to have a business dinner with a potential investor?"

The word 'paranoid' hit me like a slap. Was I overreacting? Maybe this was normal business practice. My chest tightened as doubt crept in.

"Standard networking, Gracie," Drew continued, his voice softening as he read my expression. "You're being paranoid. Let's not make a scene."

As he guided me back to the table, I caught a flash of movement from a nearby table. Everett Foster—Drew's colleague—stood suddenly, bumping into a waiter. Red wine splashed across Richardson's crisp white shirt.

"Oh my God, I'm so clumsy!" Everett exclaimed, loud enough to draw everyone's attention.

Richardson jumped up, dabbing at the stain with his napkin. "No harm done," he muttered, though frustration lined his face.

"Let me help," I offered, grateful for the distraction. "There's a restroom just around the corner."

As I led Richardson away, I caught Everett's eye. Something in his gaze—concern, maybe even anger—made me wonder if the spill had been accidental at all.

---

The boardroom felt suffocating as I slipped in through the back door. I'd come to drop off some files Drew had requested, but froze when I heard his voice.

"As you can see," Drew was saying, gesturing to the presentation screen, "my research shows that wind turbine efficiency can be increased by nearly twenty percent with this new design."

My research. Those were my calculations, my simulations, my conclusions.

I stood frozen in the doorway, watching as board members nodded appreciatively. Drew hadn't even glanced at the data when I'd shown it to him last week.

"Remarkable work, Hansen," the chairman said. "This could revolutionize our approach."

Heat flooded my cheeks as I backed out of the room. In the hallway, I pressed my forehead against the cool wall, trying to steady my breathing.

Later that evening, I confronted him in our hotel suite. "That was my research," I said quietly. "Those were my calculations."

Drew looked up from his laptop, surprise flickering across his face before settling into something smoother. "Our research, Gracie. Our success."

"But I did all the work. For months."

"And I've supported you for years," he countered, closing his laptop. "Everything you've accomplished has been because of me—because of us. Isn't that what partnership means?"

He crossed the room and took my hands in his. "Don't you want us to succeed together? Or would you rather keep your little projects separate?"

His words twisted something inside me. Was I being selfish? Shouldn't I be proud to contribute to our shared goals?

---

The candlelight flickered across my birthday cake, casting shadows on the empty chair across from me. Twenty-nine years old, and I was eating alone at Romano's—Drew's favorite restaurant.

My phone buzzed. Drew's name flashed on the screen.

"Gracie." His voice was tense, urgent. "Sylvie's having a panic attack. I need to go to her."

"Sylvie?" I repeated, my fork suspended over the untouched cake. "But we're celebrating my birthday."

"This is an emergency," he snapped. "She needs me right now."

Before I could respond, he'd hung up. I stared at the phone, then at the waiter who was approaching with a forced smile.

"Just the bill, please," I said quietly.

Two hours later, I was curled on the sofa in our apartment, still in my dress, when Drew finally returned.

"You should have seen her," he said without preamble. "She was hyperventilating, completely panicked."

I nodded, not trusting myself to speak.

"Where were you?" he demanded suddenly.

"At home. Waiting."

His expression darkened. "You could have called to check on us. Sylvie was asking about you."

Something cracked inside me. "I was waiting for you to remember it was my birthday."

"Jesus, Gracie." Drew ran his hands through his hair. "Can you be a little less selfish? She has real problems—mental health issues you couldn't possibly understand."

Guilt washed over me as I remembered Sylvie's fragile appearance, her trembling hands. "I'm sorry," I whispered. "I should have been more considerate."

As Drew pulled me into an embrace, I wondered why I always ended up apologizing for wanting him to stay.