We Vowed to Meet Atop, but the Summit Is Cold

On awards day, someone locked me in the restroom.

I pounded on the door like a madwoman, but nothing came back from the other side.

Panic set in, and I called my boyfriend, Francis, right away.

He rejected all three calls, and my messages sank without a trace.

By the time I finally clawed my way out over the door and rushed into the ceremony,

I saw Francis onstage, holding up the trophy, smiling with all the warmth in the world.

For this award, I especially want to thank my partner, Miss Rose Swanson. From the concept to the execution, she led every step of this project.

The applause thundered below, camera shutters clicking in wave after wave.

Rose, in a white dress, leaned bashfully closer to Francis, took the mic, and said in a soft voice:

Its all thanks to Francis for guiding me. Without him, there wouldnt be this work.

Someone in the crowd immediately called out:

A perfect match! When are you two getting together?

In the laughter, Francis didnt deny it. He just smiled and slid an arm around her shoulders.

I gripped my staff badge, my fingertips going white.

This underground office romance seemed to have reached its end.

The spotlight onstage was blinding.

I stood in the shadows backstage, cold sinking through me like ice.

This design that had just won the industrys gold award was the one Id built over forty all-nighters, reworked through seventeen drafts.

And Rose couldnt even use the design software.

On the final draft, shed changed the color of two throw pillows.

And only because that was the way to save the file as a new version.

Francis had told me before:

Rose is new to the field. She needs a design award to polish her name. Youre a veteran, you dont need the empty glory, and the prize money goes straight into your account.

I believed him.

I thought it just meant not accepting the award publicly, that at least people would know privately whose work it was.

But now, in front of the whole industry, hed put my lifes work under his childhood friends name.

After the ceremony, I waited for him at the backstage exit.

Francis and Rose came out side by side, talking and laughing.

When he saw me, the smile on his face faded.

Why are you here?

He frowned, his tone carrying a reproach he didnt bother to hide:

Didnt I tell you to go back to the studio first and rework the drawings?

Rose shrank timidly behind him and called out in a small voice:

Hello, Abby.

I hadnt said a single word yet, and she was acting as if I were some monster that ate people.

I stared at the trophy in Franciss hand, my throat tight:

Its my award. Why is her name on it publicly? Werent we agreed Id accept it anonymously?

Abigail.

Franciss voice dropped low. He pulled me a couple of steps to the side, away from the crowd:

What did I tell you before? Cant you be a little more understanding?

Rose is my mentors daughter. Shes just entered this field, and with no reputation she cant get a foothold at all. You already have so many works. Whats the harm in giving her this one?

Besides, were a couple. Whats mine is yours, whats yours is mine. Why draw such a clear line? Isnt it enough that I know how good you are?

Hed clearly planned all of this out in advance.

Which meant locking me in the restroom was probably his doing too.

I looked at his face, so certain he was in the right, and suddenly it all struck me as absurd.

Fine. I can let all of that go.

But its been three years. The whole industry knows Francis Harding has a gold-award partner named Rose Swanson. Nobody knows who Abigail Pruitt is.

He rubbed the space between his brows, impatient:

Didnt I already tell you? Once we land the landmark project, well go public. Right now is the critical stage, so we have to avoid any appearance of it. If word gets out that were a couple, clients will think were a mom-and-pop shop, unprofessional.

That line again.

Three years, and every time I asked when wed go public, it was this same line.

Rose called to him from a distance:

Francis, the client, Mr. Lambert, is over there waiting for us!

Francis answered at once, then turned and patted my shoulder, his tone softening a little:

Be good, go back and wait for me. Ill bring you something nice tonight.

With that, he turned and walked off, without a shred of hesitation.

Rose took his arm, and the two of them headed toward the banquet hall side by side.

Handsome man, pretty woman, a match so perfect it stung the eyes.

I stood where I was, still gripping the stomach medicine Id picked up for him that morning.

Now it seemed it had all been for nothing.

On the way back to the studio, memory kept surging up.

The last time we drove to the neighboring city to meet an important client, it was a three-hour trip.

He put Rose in the passenger seat and made me squeeze into the back.

He said,

"Rosie gets carsick, she'll be more comfortable up front. You've got a strong constitution, just make do."

That day I'd started my period, and the cramps were bad enough to break me out in a cold sweat.

I stayed curled up in the back seat, shivering the whole way, and he never once asked how I was.

When we arrived, he went around to the passenger side first and opened Rose's door.

Fussed over her, asked if she felt all right.

Then he turned, saw how pale I was, and said, impatient,

"Why are you so delicate? If I'd known, I wouldn't have bothered bringing you."

Last year the whole studio went to a training retreat.

He drove Rose out a day early.

Said they needed to set up the venue and coordinate with the hotel.

The rest of us employees were left to take the bus.

I'd worked until two in the morning the night before.

The next day I dragged my suitcase to catch the bus with no time to eat, and got carsick and threw up the whole way.

By the time I reached the training hotel, there was still no sign of him or Rose.

Then Rose's post showed up in my feed.

A grid of nine photos.

Half were ocean views, half were shots of her and Francis together.

Francis standing beside her, smiling, handing her an ice cream, with the caption:

"A day scouting spots with Francis~"

Underneath, all comments from studio coworkers:

"So cute together!"

"When's it official?"

Francis replied with a smiley face and didn't explain.

That night, alone in my hotel room, running a fever, I called him.

He picked up. The background was loud, all crashing waves and laughter.

"Rosie and I are having dinner with the client. Drink lots of hot water, and if it's really bad, just order yourself some delivery."

He hung up fast.

I sat there in the dark room all night, holding a phone that was burning hot in my hand.

I told myself he was just driven, that he was doing it for our future.

After all, when we first opened the studio, we'd pooled the startup money together.

I brought the skills, he brought the resources.

We'd agreed to build something out of nothing, to meet each other at the top someday.

Those words, I believed them for three whole years.

Back at the studio, I'd barely sat down when accounting sent over this month's commission breakdown for the staff.

I opened it.

The two-hundred-thousand project commission that should have gone to me was there, the note in the memo column reading "employee bonus."

But the name on the payment was Rose's.

My head buzzed. I took the breakdown and went to find Francis.

He was in his office, peeling an orange for Rose.

When he saw me come in, he asked, offhand,

"What's wrong?"

I slapped my phone down on his desk.

"My commission. Why was it paid to her?"

Rose flinched so hard the orange segment dropped to the floor.

Francis's face went dark at once.

"What are you doing? You scared her."

He picked up the fallen segment, tossed it in the trash, and said it as flatly as if he were talking about the weather,

"Oh, that. I had accounting send the money to Rosie. She just graduated, and cramming onto the subway to and from work is a hassle, so I'm buying her a car."

"That's my commission."

I stared into his eyes, my voice shaking.

"I grinded for three months, went through more than a dozen versions of that design, worked myself to the bone for that money. Who gave you the right to just hand it to her?"

Francis frowned, his tone full of reproach.

"Yours, mine, what's the difference? Isn't all the studio's money ours?"

"Rosie's just a girl, all alone out here with no one to lean on. What's wrong with me looking after her a little more?"

"Besides, what do you need that much money for? Once we're married, isn't everything mine yours anyway?"

"Once we're married" again.

All at once I didn't have the strength to argue.

Just then, Rose's phone rang.

She glanced at it, her face flustered, and silenced it.

Francis looked up at her.

"Who is it? Why aren't you answering?"

Rose bit her lip and said, quietly,

"It's my friend... she's asking if I won the bet with you. You know... the one about whether Abby would get mad."

The air went silent in an instant.

I turned to look at Francis.

Something unnatural flickered across his face, and then he put on a stern act and snapped at her,

"What are you talking about? Don't go making jokes at other people's expense."

"No, Francis, that's not it."

Rose acted like she hadn't caught the look in his eyes, explaining in a panic,

"Did you forget? Last week you said Abby definitely wouldn't throw a fit, and you bet me that Patek Philippe watch..."

"Enough."

Francis cut her off, his face darkening.

I stood where I was, every drop of blood in me turning cold.

So it wasn't just my two hundred thousand commission that went to buying her a car.

My feelings, my hurt, could be turned into a betting chip too.

Bets on whether I'd be reasonable. Bets on whether I'd swallow it.

Francis looked at me, his voice stiff, part of it curdling into humiliated anger.

"She's just a kid making an offhand joke. Don't blow it out of proportion."

I pulled at the corner of my mouth.

"A joke? Francis, what am I to you, really?"

"Your partner? Or something you keep around, a tool that only works and never makes a fuss?"

He shot to his feet, his voice going cold all at once.

"Abigail, are you done? It's just two hundred thousand. I'll transfer it back to you later, alright? Stop making a scene over nothing."

"Rose is right here. Give me a little face!"

Watching him shield Rose like that, I suddenly had nothing left to say.

Three years together, shattered into glass in that single moment.

The shards drove into my chest, and every organ inside me ached with it.

I didn't say another word. I turned and walked out of the office.

Behind me came Rose's soft, frail little voice.

"Francis, this is all my fault. Maybe I should give the money back to Abby, she is an old employee, after all..."

"It's got nothing to do with you. She's just in a mood. She'll be fine in a couple of days."

Right. Fine in a couple of days.

Three years. It had always gone like this.

I didn't wait for his transfer. I went straight back to the apartment we rented together.

While I was packing up, I came across the renovation contract for the wedding home.

We'd looked at that place together last year.

I'd put in four hundred thousand for the down payment, he'd put in six hundred thousand, and both our names were on it.

I was the one who oversaw the renovation from start to finish.

From design to picking out materials, I ran around for three months and lost eight pounds.

Francis said that once it was finished and we moved in, we'd finally have a home.

But last month, he told me Rose's lease was up.

She couldn't find anything suitable right away, so she'd move into the wedding home for a few months first.

"We're doing fine in the apartment anyway, and the wedding home's just sitting there empty. Let her use it to tide her over."

I didn't agree back then. We fought about it.

He said I was petty, that I didn't know better.

He said Rose was the daughter of his mentor, and he couldn't just leave her out in the cold.

In the end, I was the one who gave in.

I was still thinking about it when my phone rang.

It was Francis.

I answered without saying anything.

His tone had softened a good deal, with a coaxing edge to it.

"Still mad?"

"The studio's doing a team outing tonight. To save money we're holding it at the wedding home. Everyone's coming, to celebrate Rose winning the award."

"Just don't come by tonight."

I gripped the phone, my knuckles going white.

"Why?"

He sounded a little put-upon.

"Do you even have to ask? Except for Rose, nobody knows about us. If you show up out of nowhere, how awkward would that be for Rose?"

"And if the employees ask who you are and why you're in my wedding home, how am I supposed to introduce you?"

"I'll make it up to you properly once the outing's over. Be good."

To avoid any appearance of impropriety, every other employee could come to my home.

And I, the one it actually belonged to, had to keep my distance and clear out to make room for them.

I closed my eyes.

"Fine."

Francis let out a breath.

"That's my good girl. I'll transfer you the money tonight. Don't make a fuss now, okay?"

I hung up, threw the renovation contract into my bag, and dragged my suitcase out the door.

I didn't go to a hotel.

I took a car straight to the wedding home.

On the way, I came across Rose's newest post on social media.

The whole studio had taken a group photo inside my wedding home.

My eyes settled on Rose's neck, and stayed there a long time.

Standing at the base of the building, I could see the lights on the seventeenth floor, and I could just make out the sound of laughter and chatter.

I took the elevator up. The door hadn't been shut all the way, left open a crack.

The voices inside carried out clearly:

"Francis, when are you and Rosie finally tying the knot? The place is all done up. When do we get to drink at your wedding?"

It was one of the studio veterans, the one who'd been with Francis the longest.

Through a wave of laughter, Rose said with a coy little pout,

"Chad Chavez, quit talking nonsense. Francis and I are just good friends."

Someone else jumped in.

"Good friends, my foot. The whole studio knows you're the one Francis dotes on the most. The award goes to you, the car goes to you, the house goes to you. If that's just ordinary friends, I'll twist my own head off!"

Francis laughed out loud but didn't deny any of it.

"All right, enough. Stop picking on Rosie, she's shy."

Not one word about me.

Nobody knew this wasn't just Francis's home. It was mine too.

In everyone's eyes, I was the salaried drafter working behind the scenes.

And Rose was the one standing at the summit beside him.

I pushed the door open and walked in.

The lively living room went silent in an instant.

Every eye in the room landed on me.

Rose was leaning against Francis's shoulder, a glass of champagne in her hand.

The moment she saw me, the color drained from her face, and she scrambled to straighten up.

Francis's expression darkened, plain anger in his eyes.

He came toward me and lowered his voice.

"Are you done making a scene? Didn't I tell you not to come?"

"You just had to come and wreck this, didn't you? Do you know the client's people are here today?"

His first reaction wasn't to explain. It wasn't to smooth things over.

It was to blame me for ruining his good time.

I looked at him, and then I laughed.

"This is my house. Why can't I come?"

My voice wasn't loud, but it was loud enough for the whole room to hear.

The people around us started whispering.

"What does she mean? Didn't Francis buy this place for Rosie?"

"Isn't she just the one who does the drawings?"

"Right, her position's so low she doesn't even rate an invite to the outing. What do you mean, her house? Is she dreaming?"

Rose's eyes went red, the picture of someone terribly wronged.

"Abby, I think you've misunderstood something..."

I raised an eyebrow and looked at the necklace at her throat.

"That moonstone necklace. Francis bought it for me last year, for our anniversary. Why is it around your neck?"

Rose's hand went to her throat on reflex, her face flustered.

The coworkers around us erupted at once.

"Abigail, what's your problem? Have you lost your mind? You dare talk to the future boss's wife like that?"

"How could Mr. Harding possibly buy you a necklace? Doesn't your family own a mirror?"

"You'd better calm down and stop this. Make Mr. Harding angry and you can kiss your job goodbye!"

Francis's patience ran out, and his voice shot up.

"Shut your mouth! It's just a necklace. Do you really have to humiliate her in front of all these people? Get out of here right now!"

"I'm humiliating her?"

I was so angry I laughed.

"You took my things and gave them to her, put her name on my designs, used my commission to buy her a car. Did you ever once think about whether I was humiliated?"

I pulled a stack of documents from my bag and slapped it down on the table.

"These are the original design drafts. From the first version to the seventeenth. All of it, right here."

"This is proof of my investment in the studio. I put in four hundred thousand of the startup capital. Forty percent stake."

"This is the down-payment record for the wedding home. I paid four hundred thousand of that too, plus the renovation. Half the property is mine."

"And this."

I took out the last document.

"Back when you had no money and I never signed a formal employment contract with you, I filed personal copyright on the final scheme for the landmark project. The studio has no right to use it."

Dead silence in the room, and all around, the sound of people sucking in a sharp breath.

Francis's face went completely white.

"What do you mean?"

I looked at him, calm.

"It means I'm pulling my stake out of the studio, and the project scheme is something you and Rose have no right to use."

"As for this house, tomorrow I'll have my lawyer settle it with you down to the cent. What's mine, not a penny less."

"Francis, we're done."