Instead of a promotion and a pay raise, she was out of a job.
She’d have to turn to her family for help. Once again she’d be causing her parents and her brother anxiety. And their instinct would be to protect her.
Paige felt her heart pound and instinctively lifted her palm to her chest. Through the fabric of her shirt she felt the solid shape of the little silver heart she sometimes wore hidden under her clothes.
For a moment she was back in the hospital bed, seventeen years old, surrounded by get-well cards and balloons, waiting for her operation and scared out of her mind. Her brain had been conjuring awful scenarios when the door had opened and a doctor had strolled into the room wearing a white coat and carrying a clipboard.
She’d braced herself for more tests, more pain, more bad news, and then recognized Jake.
“They wouldn’t let me in because it’s not visiting hours, so I’m flexing the rules. Call me Dr. Romano.” He’d winked at her and closed the door. “Time for your medicine, Miss Walker. No squealing or I’ll remove your brain and donate it to medical science.”
He’d always made her laugh. His presence did other things to her, too. Things that made her wish she were wearing something slinky and sexy instead of an oversize T-shirt with a cartoon on the front. “Are you doing the operation?”
“I faint at the sight of blood and I don’t know a brain from a butt, so no, I’m not. Here. I bought you something.” He’d dug his hand into the back pocket of his jeans and pulled out a small box. “Better open it quickly, before I’m arrested.”
For a crazy moment she’d thought he was giving her an engagement ring and her heart, her misbehaving heart, had missed a beat.
“What is it?” Hands shaking, she’d opened the box and there, nestled on a bed of midnight-blue silk, was a beautiful silver heart on a delicate chain. “Oh, Jake—”
Engraved on the back were three words.
A strong heart.
“I thought yours could do with a little help. Wear it, honey, and think of it as reinforcements anytime your own is in trouble.”
Maybe it wasn’t a ring, but he’d called her honey and he’d given her a necklace.
That had to mean something, surely?
She’d stopped worrying about the operation and thought of nothing but Jake.
By the time they came to collect her to take her for her operation, she’d had a whole future mapped out with him. She’d named their children.
They’d had to drag the necklace from her clenched fist in the operating room, and the moment she was able she put it on again.
A strong heart.
She always wore it when she needed courage and she was wearing it today.
She stood up, her movements automatic. She had to start looking for jobs. She couldn’t waste a moment and she wouldn’t waste time fighting the inevitable.
“You should clear your desk today,” Cynthia said. “We’ll give you a severance package of course.”
Severance.
If promotion was her favorite word, sever was her least favorite. It sounded brutal. She felt as if she was having major surgery all over again, only this time they’d taken a scalpel to her hopes and dreams. So much for climbing the ladder. So much for her plans to eventually start her own business.
Walking out of Cynthia’s office, she closed the door between them.
Reality seeped in. If she’d known what was going to happen, she wouldn’t have bought that coffee on the way in to work. She wouldn’t have treated herself to another lipstick when she already had plenty. She stood, frozen, regretting every cent she’d spent over the past few years. In the darkest part of her life she’d promised herself that she’d live every moment, but she hadn’t anticipated this.
She walked down an empty corridor into the nearest restroom, the only sound the echo of her heels.
Less than an hour ago she’d been excited about the future. Optimistic.
Now she was unemployed.
Unemployed.
Alone in the soulless room, finally she let the mask slip.
In his glass-fronted office in Downtown Manhattan, Jake Romano sat with his feet on his desk only half listening to the man at the other end of the phone.
Across from him a young, blonde reporter fidgeted and tried to check the time without him noticing. Jake rarely gave interviews but somehow this woman had managed to maneuver her way past his assistant. Because he had a certain admiration for tenacity and creativity, he hadn’t thrown her out.
It was an impulse he was regretting. He was willing to bet she was, too. So far they’d been interrupted three times and each time she grew a little more frustrated.
Given that her questions so far had bordered on the intrusive, he decided to make her wait a little longer and focused on the call. “You don’t need a content strategist for a lightweight application redesign. What you need is a smart copywriter.”
The reporter bent her head and checked over her notes. Jake wondered how many more interruptions she’d tolerate before she blew.
He swung his legs off the desk and decided to end the call. “I know you’re a busy man so I’m going to stop you there. I understand you want a beautiful design, but a beautiful design isn’t worth shit if your content is bad. And theory is great but what matters is solving real problems for real people. Talking of problems, I’m going to think about yours and get back to you. If I decide we’re the right people for the job, then I’ll talk to the team and we’ll have a face-to-face. Leave it with me.” He broke the connection. “Sorry about that,” he said, turning his attention to the reporter.
Her smile was as false as his apology. “No problem. You’re a difficult man to get hold of. I know that. I’ve been trying to set up this interview for over a year.”
“And now you’ve succeeded. So are we done here?”
“I have a couple more questions.” She paused, as if regrouping. “We’ve talked about your business, your philanthropic goals and your company ideology. I’d like to tell our readers a little about Jake, the man. You were born in the roughest part of Brooklyn and you were adopted when you were six years old.”
Jake kept his expression blank.
The reporter looked at him expectantly. “I didn’t hear your answer—?”
“I didn’t hear a question.”
She flushed. “Do you see your mother?”
“All the time. She runs the best Italian restaurant in New York. You should check it out.”
“You’re talking about your adoptive mother—” she checked the name “—Maria Romano. I was talking about your real mother.”
“Maria is my real mother.” Those who knew him would have recognized the tone and taken cover but the reporter sat oblivious, like a gazelle unaware she was being stalked by an animal right at the top of the food chain. “So you’re not in touch with your birth mother? I wonder how she feels now that you’re running a multimillion-dollar global business.”
“Feel free to ask her.” Jake stood up. “We’re out of time.”
“You don’t like talking about your past?”
“The past is history,” Jake said in a cool tone, “and I was always better at Math. Now if you’ll excuse me I have