Part 3Eight Hundred Dollars An Hour

Conrad’s hand clamped down on my wrist, his grip like iron.

"I pushed you to learn independence, Willa, not to use a menial administrative job as a weapon against me," he said, his voice dropping into that quiet, patronizing register he reserved for unruly board members. "If you actually wanted to grow, you'd take a page out of Alyssa’s book. I went to her hometown, yes, but before dinner was over, she stood up in front of her entire family and clarified that I was strictly her employer. She handled it with poise, transparency, and grace."

I didn't bother arguing.

If Alyssa had genuinely cared about boundaries, she never would have brought a married billionaire into her family’s dining room to begin with. Bringing him home to let everyone assume the worst, only to issue a dainty, public denial later—it was the oldest corporate maneuvering tactic in the book. It didn't quell the rumors; it made them ten times more tantalizing.

But I was too exhausted to dissect her game.

"I need to go," I repeated.

Conrad glanced out the glass doors at the scorching midday heat shimmering off the pavement. "I'll drive you."

Knowing that taking the train would require three transfers and take over an hour, I accepted.

In the hospital’s underground garage, I walked over to the passenger side of his Mercedes-Maybach and pulled the handle.

Alyssa was already sitting inside.

She had Conrad’s personal iPhone cradled in her lap, tapping away at the navigation app. Seeing me, she offered a startled, apologetic little smile.

"Willa! I'm so sorry. The winding mountain roads yesterday made me horribly car sick; my stomach is still churning. Would you mind terribly sitting in the back?"

I didn't utter a word. I shut the door, walked around the trunk, and climbed into the rear seat.

As the car glided out into the midday traffic, Alyssa leaned down to wake Conrad’s phone. Her manicured thumb tapped in a six-digit passcode, and the screen flashed to life.

She let out a soft, playful giggle. "Mr. Hale, you still haven't changed your passcode back?"

Conrad caught my reflection in the rearview mirror. His expression remained utterly unbothered. "Forgot to."

Alyssa turned halfway around in her seat, her eyes bright and wide with performative innocence.

"Willa, please don't be mad. He changed it during our last road trip to the regional summit. Mr. Hale was driving, and the GPS kept going to sleep, but I couldn't for the life of me remember your anniversary date. It felt so intrusive to keep asking him to unlock it every five miles, so I suggested he just set it to my birthday. I had no idea he never changed it back."

She paused, a delicate pink flush rising on her cheeks.

Conrad gave a dry, dismissive smirk. "Why bother? Changing it back and forth is a waste of time."

The two of them traded banter with an effortless, practiced rhythm that left no space for anyone else in the vehicle.

Months ago, this scene would have destroyed me. I would have demanded he pull over. I would have screamed, or worse, dissolved into humiliating tears. Once, during an argument on an interstate drive, I had wept for two straight hours at a highway rest stop while Conrad sat inside the car, calmly reviewing quarterly earnings on his tablet. In the end, it was I who had swallowed my grief, opened the door, and whispered: "I'm sorry. Please, let's just go home."

Now, I leaned back against the leather seat, completely insulated by apathy. I opened my work Slack.

A direct message popped up from Joanne, our senior account director:

"The client arrived forty minutes early. I took your brief and slide deck into the boardroom for you. Don't panic, take your time, and drive safe."

In the front, Conrad’s eyes flicked to the mirror again.

"Nothing to say about the passcode?" he prompted, his tone faintly provocative.

"No."

His jaw tightened slightly, a flicker of irritation passing over his features.

Alyssa turned back, beaming. "Willa is so much more magnanimous these days. Oh, by the way, Mr. Hale and I are scheduled to tour Stratos Creative this afternoon. We can all walk into the building together!"

I tightened my grip on my phone.

Stratos Creative was the boutique marketing subsidiary Conrad had acquired two years ago—the very company where I had secured an entry-level position under my maiden name.

And in that office, every single employee believed Alyssa was Conrad Hale’s intended partner.

And that I was an opportunistic interloper trying to wedge myself between them.