Chapter 2: Secrets Beneath the Surface

That day, I sat at my desk, staring blankly at the pot of ivy by the window. The leaves brushed against the glass, and for once, I let myself drift—feeling the cool air, hearing the distant hum of phones and the scent of fresh coffee lingering in the office.

I rarely have time for daydreams. My calendar is packed—managing Mason Caldwell’s Outlook appointments, fielding calls, ordering lunch from the local deli, even coordinating Uber rides for last-minute meetings. I’m always on call, my phone buzzing at all hours.

Whenever Mason needs me, I drop everything and rush to his side, juggling the work of three people without complaint. My desk is littered with color-coded sticky notes and a half-eaten granola bar—evidence of my constant hustle.

Of course, Mason pays me well. Within a few years, I achieved the kind of financial freedom most people only dream about. My bank account is healthy, but my heart is a mess.

Mariah Brooks called my name three times before I snapped back, blinking at my screen.

“Autumn, Mason wants you to set up tonight’s dinner.”

Tonight’s event was to welcome Sean Bailey, fresh from his Ivy League program abroad. The guests were Mason’s usual inner circle—old money, country club members, and the kind of people whose names opened doors.

They were all from prominent families—wealthy, privileged, with standards sky-high. I’d learned to read the cues: designer watches, subtle nods to Harvard and Yale, the way they ordered their drinks.

Normally, outsiders aren’t welcome, but I’m simply too useful. I know everyone’s quirks and can smooth over any social disaster.

Someone who can handle everyone’s moods and preferences, and arrange the dinner perfectly without a single mistake, is a rare find. That’s me—the fixer.

I’d become the go-to: the one who remembered Travis’s favorite bourbon, Ethan’s gluten allergy, Sean’s obsession with Earl Grey. My mind was a catalog of details that mattered to people who rarely bothered to remember anyone else’s.

When I arrived at the venue—a sleek downtown restaurant with marble floors and velvet booths—I jumped right into action.

From dishes to drinks to desserts, and all the young men’s dietary quirks, I reminded the staff one by one. The scent of roasting meat and clinking glasses filled the air.

“Remove all the shellfish from the menu—Ethan Quinn is allergic.”

“Dim the lights a bit—Travis Hayes just had eye surgery.”

“Set out the Earl Grey for Sean Bailey.”

As night fell and the sky darkened, guests began to trickle in, laughter echoing off the glass walls.

Travis Hayes was the first to arrive. He spotted me and called out, “Hey Autumn, when’s Mason showing up?”

I checked my phone, then said, “He’s got a late meeting—should be about an hour.”

Travis slumped onto the sofa, looking exhausted, with deep circles under his eyes. I noticed his discomfort and asked the staff to lower the music, then grabbed a blanket from the closet and handed it to him.

“Autumn nights are chilly—don’t catch a cold. There’s still a while before the others arrive, so you should rest.”

He grinned, tossing the blanket over his lap. “Ever think about ditching Mason and joining my crew? I’ll pay double.”

Guys like them have people falling over themselves to get close, but I’m different. I ask for nothing, treat them straight, and somehow earn their respect.

I shot him a teasing look. “I’ll keep that in mind. If I ever get kicked to the curb, I’ll come knocking.”

He chuckled, settling deeper into the couch. “You know I mean it, Autumn. You’d run my office better than my own mother.”

I laughed, shaking my head. “That’s a dangerous offer. She’d probably fire me before lunch.”

Travis winked, his ease and warmth filling the room. For a moment, the loneliness faded, replaced by the hum of camaraderie.