The neon sign of The Rusty Anchor flickered, casting a moody red glow over the wet pavement. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of roasted hops and the low hum of jazz. It was the kind of place where people went to disappear, which was exactly why Michael had chosen it.
He sat at a corner booth, checking his watch. It was 19:02.
She’s not coming, he thought, taking a sip of his water. She’s probably at home, hiding under a blanket with a cat plushie, cursing my name for seeing her "weakness."
Just as he was about to stand up, the heavy wooden door pushed open.
Lizbeth Jones stepped in. She had traded her charcoal suit for a soft, cream-colored turtleneck and dark jeans. Without the shoulder pads and the sharp blazer, she looked smaller—and incredibly vulnerable. She stood by the entrance, her eyes darting around the room like a cornered animal. Her hands were shoved deep into her pockets, and she was biting her lip so hard it was turning white.
Michael stood up and waved. Lizbeth jumped, nearly knocking over a bowl of pretzels on a nearby table. She hurried over to the booth, sliding into the seat opposite him with a frantic energy.
"You're late," Michael teased gently. "According to office rules, aren't you supposed to fire yourself?"
"Shut up, Smith," she whispered, her face already flushed. She grabbed the drink menu and held it up like a shield, hiding everything but her wide, panicked eyes. "I almost turned around three times. I even sat in my car for ten minutes practicing how to say 'hello' without sounding like I'm giving a performance review."
"You're doing fine," Michael said, signaling the waiter. "What can I get the Boss? Something 'Iron'?"
"A gin and tonic," she muttered behind the menu. "And make it a double. I’m currently at a level ten 'Social Panic' and I need to get down to at least a six to function."
Once the drinks arrived, Lizbeth took a long, desperate sip. She let out a breath she seemed to have been holding since 9:00 AM.
"So," Michael began, leaning back. "Why the act? You’re brilliant, you’re the youngest Chief in company history, and you clearly have a soul. Why spend every day making everyone think you’re a villain?"
Lizbeth stared into her glass, swiping a finger through the condensation. "Because 'villain' is easy, Michael. People don't try to make small talk with a villain. They don't ask a villain what they did over the weekend. If I’m the Iron Lady, I don't have to explain that my 'weekend' consisted of reading cat blogs and eating cereal for dinner because I was too nervous to call the pizza delivery place."
She looked up, and for the first time, the "glare" was gone. Her eyes were soft, filled with a deep, quiet loneliness. "My parents were both high-ranking military. They taught me that if you show a gap in your armor, people will exploit it. So I built a suit of armor that’s ten inches thick. I didn't realize until lately that I’ve built it so thick I can’t actually touch anyone through it."
Michael felt a pang in his chest. He thought of his sister, Sarah, and how she’d spend hours talking his ear off about her friends. Lizbeth had all the money and power in the world, but she didn't have a single person to tell a joke to.
"You touched a cat," Michael pointed out with a grin.
Lizbeth groaned, hiding her face in her hands again. "The cats don't care if I stumble over my words. They don't care if I turn red. Princess just wants the premium tuna treats and a scratch behind the ears. It’s the only time I feel like I can... breathe."
"Well," Michael said, raising his glass. "To breathing. And to the fact that I’m the only person in the 42nd floor who knows that the Chief of Logistics coos at calicos."
Lizbeth clinked her glass against his, a small, genuine smile flickering on her lips. It was the same smile from the cat cafe—the one that made Michael’s heart do a strange, fluttery dance.
"Smith," she said softly. "Thank you. For not... for not being afraid of me."
"I was terrified of you this morning," Michael admitted. "But now? I think I’m more worried about you accidentally firing me because you're too shy to say 'good job.'"
Lizbeth laughed—a real, uninhibited laugh that turned heads in the bar. She quickly realized people were looking and turned bright red again, pulling her turtleneck up over her nose.
"Don't get used to it," she muffled through the fabric. "Tomorrow, I’m back to being the Iron Lady. If you even look at me funny in the hallway, I’ll give you so much paperwork you’ll forget what your sister looks like."
"Understood, Boss," Michael laughed. "My lips are sealed. For the price of one more drink and a story about why that cat is named Princess."86Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡGVtOfIkF4Y
and then Add to home screen.