"I have to go,too," I spoke up, my voice barely above a whisper. "My mom's waiting for me." It was only half the truth.
I went around the circle, giving each of my friends a tight hug, saving Ben for last. I tried desperately to keep the tears from...
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•°Corinne's POV°•
My alarm clock blared, shattering the silence. I groaned, slapping the snooze button. If I didn't get up now, I'd be late for work. I forced myself out of bed, stretching my aching limbs, and trudged to the bathroom. A quick, hot shower did little to shake the lingering fog of my strange, recurring dreams. I got dressed in a sharp, professional outfit—armor for the day ahead—and did my makeup with practiced efficiency.
In the kitchen, I scarfed down a piece of dry toast and gulped a glass of orange juice before grabbing my keys and running out the door. I slid into my car and sped down the road, my mind already racing through the day's tasks.
And, like clockwork on mornings I was late, the flash of red and blue lights appeared in my rearview mirror. Another speeding ticket. Fantastic.
Being the CEO's personal executive assistant meant my hours were slightly more flexible than the other employees', but I had one non-negotiable rule: I could not arrive after Charles. His desk needed to be a pristine landscape of prepared reports, freshly printed agendas, and steaming black coffee before he even stepped off the elevator.
Miraculously, I made it to the office with minutes to spare. The sleek, modern lobby of Verve Magazine was already buzzing with low-level activity. I offered tight, hurried smiles to the security guard and the front desk receptionist before practically sprinting to the private elevator that led to the executive floor.
Charles and I had gotten close over the five years I'd worked for him. He'd long since grown accustomed to my borderline-late arrivals and my… particular… organizational methods. He didn't give me crap about it because he knew the work would always be done, and done impeccably. Our rapport often led people to assume we were a couple. The question always made us laugh. I was simply uninterested in mixing business with pleasure, and Charles, well, he was married to his job and secretly batted for the other team—a fact he’d confided in me and begged me to keep quiet, as it could ruin both him and the magazine's reputation in certain circles.
I burst into his office just as he was hanging up his coat. His space was a testament to controlled chaos—modern art on the walls, a sprawling oak desk, and stacks of manuscripts and photo proofs that somehow only he understood the system of.
"Corinne, did you finish the editorial briefs and the financial projections for the quarterly review?" he asked, not even looking up from his phone.
"Yes, sir. Right here," I said, placing the meticulously organized folder on his desk alongside his favorite mug, now filled with pitch-black coffee, two sugars, no cream. "I've also flagged the potential scheduling conflicts you asked about and emailed the final proofs for the October issue to marketing. They confirmed receipt."
"What does the gauntlet look like today?" he asked, finally looking up and taking a grateful sip of coffee.
"It's a marathon," I said, pulling out my tablet to scroll through his digital calendar. "You have a 9:30 with the board to present the Q3 review. That's scheduled for two hours. Immediately following that, an 11:45 lunch with the new head of photography to discuss the concept for the holiday spread. At 1:30, you're expected on set for the cover shoot with the model—they're running behind, so your presence is needed to 'motivate' them. At 3:00, a conference call with the European distributors. And at 5:30, the dinner with potential investors at Le Bernardin. I've already confirmed the reservation and sent the menu choices you pre-approved to the restaurant."
He never wanted the grueling specifics this early; he’d usually ask for a reminder five minutes before each event. He just needed to know the beast he was about to wrestle.
"Okay," he sighed, standing up and grabbing his suit jacket. "Well, let's go get this day started, shall we?"
And so it began. The board meeting ran long and was fraught with tough questions, which Charles handled with razor-sharp precision. The lunch was a productive but tense negotiation of creative vision versus budget constraints. The photoshoot was pure chaos—a storm of stylists, photographers, and an irritable model, where Charles had to play both diplomat and dictator. We survived on coffee and stolen bites of a protein bar from my desk drawer, too busy for a real lunch.
By the time our driver was taking us towards the dinner, the city lights were beginning to blur into streaks of gold against the twilight sky. I was mentally and physically exhausted, my feet screaming in protest from hours spent standing on set in heels.
As the car pulled up to my apartment building, Charles turned to me. "Get some rest, Corinne. I can handle the dinner solo tonight. You've more than earned it."
The relief was instantaneous and profound. "Thank you, Charles. Really."
"Don't mention it. See you tomorrow. And try to be on time," he added with a rare, warm smile.
I practically floated upstairs. The first thing I did was run a deep, steaming bath, pouring in a generous amount of lavender-scented bubbles. I sank into the water, letting it soothe my sore muscles, especially my throbbing feet. I must have dozed off because I was jolted awake by the doorbell—my pizza had arrived.
I enjoyed the greasy, cheesy slice in blissful silence on my couch, watching a mindless romantic comedy. But the day's exhaustion finally overpowered me. I climbed into bed, barely managing to pull the covers over myself before sleep claimed me.
And, as it did most nights, it dragged me not into peace, but into another chapter of the same endless nightmare. This time, the setting was different, the terror was the same. The faceless friends, the dark place, and the overwhelming feeling of a promise I could no longer remember.
