Seven Days to Surrender

PAIGE

Caffeine.

The lifeblood currently pumping through my veins. Without this triple-shot espresso, I'd be face-down on my keyboard, another casualty of corporate America. I tap my stylus against the edge of my tablet, squinting at the marketing mock-ups I've been trying to revise since dawn broke over the city skyline.

My eyelids feel like they're weighted with lead. I glance at the stainless steel travel mug beside my monitor, the contents now lukewarm at best. I grab it anyway, unscrewing the lid and gulping down what remains. The bitter liquid hits my stomach like acid, making me wince.

I drop my head back, staring at the fluorescent lights above my desk.

I'm beyond exhausted.

Sleep has become a luxury I can't afford. Victoria dumped this entire campaign redesign on me yesterday afternoon with an impossible deadline. I worked until 3 AM at home, my dining table transformed into a war zone of digital marketing concepts and brand strategy notes.

When was the last time I ate something that wasn't delivered in a paper bag? My life has become an endless cycle of deadlines and demands. The paycheck keeps my apartment and student loans covered, but at what cost? Sometimes I fantasize about a job that pays just enough to live on but leaves me with the energy to actually enjoy living.

But who am I kidding? In this economy? Pure fantasy.

I release a heavy sigh as I finalize the last slide deck, clicking send before I can second-guess my choices.

Thank heaven that's done.

I collapse back into my ergonomic chair (the one decent thing about this office), closing my eyes for just a moment. I've barely taken two breaths when the jarring ring of my desk phone shatters my momentary peace.

I groan and snatch up the receiver.

"PAIGE!" The voice screeches through the line, and I instinctively pull the phone away from my ear. I take a deep breath, counting to three before responding.

"Yes, Victoria," I reply, keeping my tone professionally neutral. Victoria has a talent for twisting words and turning situations to her advantage faster than I can blink.

"My office. Now." The line goes dead.

I push myself up from my chair, smoothing down my pencil skirt. A wave of dizziness washes over me as I stand—probably from the combination of caffeine overload and calorie deficit.

I make my way to the elevator, jabbing the top floor button while muttering curses under my breath. When I reach her door, I knock softly on the frosted glass panel.

"Enter," comes the curt response.

I step into what I've come to think of as the Ice Queen's lair.

The temperature in Victoria's office is always frigid—a perfect match for her personality. When I first started at Pinnacle Marketing, I wondered why anyone would want to work in what felt like a walk-in freezer. Now I understand it's just another manifestation of her cold, calculated approach to everything.

Victoria's corner office is the crown jewel of Pinnacle's headquarters. The walls are painted a stark white, making the floor-to-ceiling windows on two sides seem even more dramatic as they showcase the city sprawling below. A sleek glass conference table occupies one side of the room, surrounded by six white leather chairs. Her minimalist desk dominates the other side—all chrome and glass with barely a paper out of place.

"What is this amateur hour nonsense?" she demands, her voice razor-sharp. She's standing behind her desk, tablet in hand, her crimson lips pulled into a tight line of disapproval.

I swallow hard, my eyes fixed on her imposing figure. Victoria's black designer dress hugs her tall frame perfectly, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun that accentuates her high cheekbones and intense eyes.

"I don't understand what's wrong," I say cautiously, approaching her desk.

"You don't understand?" She turns her tablet toward me, displaying my campaign slides. "The client specifically requested a minimalist aesthetic with earth tones, and you've given them a color palette that looks like a unicorn vomited on the page."

I blink in confusion, looking at the designs I've spent the last eighteen hours perfecting.

"But in yesterday's briefing, you said they wanted bold colors to stand out in a crowded market," I protest before I can stop myself.

"Excuse me?" Her voice drops to a dangerous whisper. I immediately realize my mistake.

"I apologize, Victoria," I backpedal, but it's too late.

"How dare you question my instructions?" She sets the tablet down with deliberate care. "Do you think you know better than me? Than the client?"

"No, I—"

"Do you have any idea how long I've worked to build relationships with clients like Meridian?" She cuts me off. "They're worth millions to this agency."

I stare at my nude pumps, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.

"Start over," she says flatly.

My head snaps up. "What?"

"You heard me, Ms. Weaver. Start over. I need a completely new concept by end of day." Her tone leaves no room for negotiation.

"But that's—" I stop myself from saying "impossible." "That's going to take hours."

"Then I suggest you get started." Victoria has already returned to her phone, dismissing me with a flick of her wrist. "Close the door on your way out."

I gather the printed materials from her desk and turn to leave, feeling a hot tear slide down my cheek.

"And Paige?" she calls after me. "Don't disappoint me again."

I hate this job.

---

I stare at my computer screen, the redesigned campaign finally complete. My eyes burn from staring at the monitor for six straight hours, but somehow I've managed to create something that might—just might—meet Victoria's impossible standards.

She left for a client dinner an hour ago, expecting the files in her inbox before she returns. The work is done, but I can barely summon the energy to hit send. My body feels like it's made of concrete.

"If only telekinesis were real," I mutter to myself.

My phone buzzes loudly against my desk, making me jump. I dig through my tote bag to retrieve it.

Natasha's face appears on my screen for a video call.

I roll my eyes but answer anyway.

"Hey," I grumble.

My best friend's face fills the screen, her honey-blonde hair piled on top of her head in an artfully messy topknot. Her skin glows with the results of her religious twelve-step skincare routine.

Meanwhile, I'm pretty sure I resemble something that's been dragged through a hedge backward.

"Damn, girl. You look like you've been hit by a truck," she says, her eyes widening as she takes in my appearance.

"Tell that to Victoria," I reply dryly.

"That bad today, huh?" Her perfectly shaped eyebrows draw together in concern. "Have you eaten anything?"

"I haven't left this chair since lunch, which was..." I glance at the empty protein bar wrapper on my desk, "...not substantial."

Worry creases her forehead. "Paige, you can't keep doing this to yourself."

"Did you skip work today?" I ask, changing the subject.

"Mental health day," she says with a dismissive wave. "The boutique can survive without me for twenty-four hours."

"Lucky you," I sigh, not bothering to hide my envy.

"Listen, I called with good news. Angela's flight gets in tomorrow! Her photography assignment in Thailand wrapped early." Natasha's face lights up. "Girls' night this weekend is non-negotiable."

My mood instantly lifts. I haven't seen Angela in over three months.

"God, I've missed her!" I exclaim.

"We both have. She's got stories, apparently. Something about a temple and a monkey theft incident."

"I should get some rest before then," I say, suddenly aware of how exhausted I must look.

"Yes, you absolutely should. Self-care, babe. It's not optional." Her tone turns motherly. "Go home. Sleep. Eat something that grew in the ground at some point."

"I have to go, Tash. Love you."

"Love you too, disaster woman."

I end the call and gather my things, sending the campaign files to Victoria before shutting down my computer. For once, I'm leaving at a reasonable hour—if you can call 8 PM reasonable.

---

The quiet of my neighborhood always feels like a balm after the chaos of downtown. There aren't many units in this upscale condo complex, which is exactly why I fell in love with it despite the steep rent. The privacy and tranquility make it worth every penny when I need to work from home.

I pull into my assigned parking space and collect my tote bag and the small bag of groceries I managed to grab on the way home. After punching in the security code, I step into the elevator that takes me to the fifth floor.

Inside my condo, I kick off my heels with a groan of relief and set the groceries on the kitchen island. I pull the elastic from my hair, letting my dark waves cascade down my back, and grab a bottle of water from the refrigerator.

As I'm taking a long drink, strong arms encircle my waist from behind. I smile despite my exhaustion, leaning back into the familiar embrace. Connor's lips find the sensitive spot where my neck meets my shoulder, and I tilt my head to give him better access.

"You're late," he murmurs against my skin, turning me around to face him. His chocolate brown eyes meet mine, his copper hair still damp from a shower. The scent of his cologne—expensive and woodsy—envelops me.

The fitted henley he's wearing shows off the results of his religious gym routine, clinging to his broad shoulders and defined chest.

We've been together for almost two years now, and I still feel that flutter when he looks at me like this. He's been talking about our future lately—marriage, a house in the suburbs. Sometimes I can picture it perfectly.

"Work was brutal," I explain, running my hands up his arms. "Victoria rejected an entire campaign I'd been working on. I had to start from scratch."

His expression darkens. "We've talked about this, Paige. I don't like you working these hours."

I sigh, already knowing where this conversation is heading.

"I still don't understand why you insist on keeping that job," he continues, his voice taking on an edge. "I make more than enough for both of us. You could focus on your writing, or just take care of our home. Let me provide for you."

Here we go again.

"Connor, I've told you—I don't want to quit until I have something else lined up. Maybe something part-time in publishing, like I've been looking into."

His face hardens, jaw clenching visibly. "Something else? So you can exhaust yourself for someone else instead of Victoria?"

"That's not fair—"

"Can you hear yourself right now?" he interrupts. "You sound ridiculous. Why work yourself to death when you don't have to?"

The words sting more than they should. I feel tears threatening and step back from his embrace, needing space.

"I'm too tired for this conversation," I say quietly, turning toward the bedroom.

"Paige, do not walk away from me when I'm talking to you." His voice drops to a growl that makes me freeze mid-step.

I stand still, suddenly aware of how tense the atmosphere has become.

"Come here," he says, his tone softening as he beckons me with one finger.

I hesitate, then walk back to him. He lifts me easily, setting me on the kitchen island and stepping between my legs. His hands grip my waist possessively.

He presses a kiss to my forehead, then trails his fingers along my collarbone and down to the first button of my blouse. I shiver at his touch.

"Do you know how sexy you look in this blouse?" he whispers in my ear, his breath hot against my skin. "The way it hugs your curves makes me want to take you right here on this counter."

My breath catches. "Connor..."

"I just want to touch you, baby," he says, his voice husky. "Let me make you feel good."

I exhale slowly. For reasons I can't fully articulate, I've been hesitant about taking our physical relationship further lately. Something feels off, but I can't put my finger on what.

His lips don't leave my ear as he whispers things that make heat pool low in my belly. His hands move to my thighs, pushing my skirt higher.

"Open your legs for me," he commands softly.

I bite my lip, complying with his request. His fingers trace patterns on my inner thighs, and I can feel myself responding despite my exhaustion.

"No underwear? You naughty girl," he chuckles, his fingers finding their way to my center.

"Connor!" I gasp as he slides a finger inside me.

My head falls back, the sensation overwhelming after a day of stress and tension. He captures my lips with his, swallowing my moans as he adds another finger, his thumb finding the bundle of nerves that makes my toes curl.

"Have you been thinking about this all day?" he murmurs against my lips. "Look how ready you are for me."

His free hand works at the buttons of my blouse, exposing my lace-covered breasts. He pushes the fabric aside, his fingers teasing my nipple until it hardens under his touch.

"God, Connor," I whimper, tears of pleasure springing to my eyes.

I rock against his hand, chasing the building pressure. His movements become more insistent, more demanding, and I can feel myself approaching the edge.

"That's it," he encourages, his voice commanding. "Come for me, Paige."

My body tenses, my breathing ragged as the pressure builds to an unbearable peak. I clutch at his shoulders, my nails digging into the fabric of his shirt as waves of pleasure crash over me.

"Connor!" I cry out as I shatter, my body convulsing around his fingers.

He holds me through the aftershocks, pressing gentle kisses to my forehead. "You're so beautiful when you come apart for me," he murmurs.

I rest my head against his chest, my breathing slowly returning to normal. In moments like this, it's easy to forget our arguments, easy to believe that everything is perfect.

I love this man. Completely.

He's not perfect, but he's who I want to build my life with.

Isn't he?