Chapter 1: The Call That Changed Everything

The kitchen smelled faintly of burnt toast, sunlight glinting off the speckled counter, and the distant whir of the neighbor’s lawnmower drifted through the open window. My little brother was wrestling with a new sweater, arms flailing, static making his hair stand on end.

“Ugh, this thing’s choking me! Did you shrink it in the dryer or something?” he groaned, yanking at the tag like he was losing a wrestling match with cotton. I could practically hear Mom’s sigh: Natalie, help your brother. As always.

I rolled my eyes. “How is that possible? I bought it in your size.” The store tag still dangled from the hem. He shot me a glare, like I’d personally sabotaged Target’s sizing charts.

“It’s stuck—be gentle, ouch, ouch, ouch.” His dramatic complaints grew louder, and I bit my lip to keep from laughing, remembering the last time he’d panicked getting his head stuck in a hoodie.

“Alright, alright, I’m helping you, aren’t I?” I grabbed the collar and gave it a gentle tug. “If you rip it, Mom’s totally blaming you, not me.” I ruffled his hair, trying to sound like one of those big sisters on TV who always had it together. He rolled his eyes but didn’t squirm away.

“Are you sure?” He tugged at the sweater, puffing out his cheeks and faking a dramatic wheeze before flopping onto the couch like he was auditioning for a daytime soap. The sleeves hung past his wrists, but he was more interested in the collar, still acting like it was a boa constrictor.

Meanwhile, I heard later that during a meeting, my boss picked up a mysterious call, his face getting darker by the second. Apparently, everyone in the boardroom could see it—the whole office buzzing later about how Mr. Reed’s expression could have curdled milk. His jaw clenched, phone pressed to his ear, the kind of cold stare that meant something was about to go down.

He didn’t say a word, just kept laying into all twenty-eight department heads until some of them were nearly in tears. Even Pam—who never cried—looked like she was reconsidering her life choices by the end. People shuffled out of the conference room like tornado survivors.

My brother pointed at my phone. His finger jabbed the screen, eyes wide. “Uh… Natalie? Your phone’s still on.”

I glanced down. The screen was still lit up: [Nathan Reed]. My stomach did a full-on Olympic gymnastics routine. I’d pocket-dialed my boss. Of all people.

I scrambled for the phone, but all I got was the busy tone—the call had already ended. I groaned, smacking my forehead. Was this the adult version of accidentally texting your crush?

Seconds later, a message popped up: [Feeling better? Get back to work. You’re not the First Lady—no skipping out.]

That was Nathan: blunt, no emojis, not even a period. I stared at the message, picturing him in his glass-walled office, expression unreadable, probably wondering if I was faking it to binge Netflix.

I quickly replied: [Received, Mr. Reed. I’ll return to work tomorrow.]

My thumbs were flying, trying to sound as professional as possible, even though my heart was pounding. No way was I letting him think I couldn’t handle myself.

The chat showed he was typing, but after a long while, nothing came through. I sat there, phone in hand, watching the three dots like they held my fate. Did he change his mind? Was he cooking up a lecture? He probably wanted to chew me out, but held back. Nathan Reed was nothing if not direct. Maybe he was feeling merciful today.

But after all, I’ve worked for him for four years and only ever taken this one sick leave. I wasn’t about to blow my spotless record over a sweater emergency and a butt-dial.