Chapter 2 - The Envelope in the Rubbish
By mid-afternoon, the executive floor remained unnaturally subdued. Employees whispered in low murmurs near the breakrooms, darting nervous glances toward the corner office whenever Victoria walked past. Victoria noticed the tension, but she dismissed it as standard workplace friction. A CEO was not hired to be popular; she was hired to protect the bottom line and preserve order.
At 1:15 p.m., Patrick entered her office carrying a manila folder, but he wasn’t looking at the papers. His eyes were wide, his face drained of color, and his hands trembled slightly as he stood before her desk.
""Patrick, you're hovering,"" Victoria said without looking up from her tablet. ""If that’s the West Monroe appraisal, leave it by the monitor.""
""It isn't the appraisal, Victoria,"" Patrick said, his voice cracking slightly. He rarely used her first name during business hours unless something had gone catastrophically wrong.
Victoria leaned back in her high-backed leather chair, her dark eyes narrowing. ""What is it?""
Patrick reached into his suit jacket and pulled out a small, slightly crumpled envelope made of heavy, cream-colored construction paper. It was smudged with a smear of charcoal dust from the trash bin, and the jute twine that had tied it to the bouquet was still dangling from the punched hole at the top.
""I went back to the reception area after the lunch rush,"" Patrick confessed quietly, his throat bobbing. ""The cleaning crew was about to empty the bins for the two o'clock sweep. Something about the way Ellis looked when you dropped those flowers bothered me. So I pulled this out.""
""You went digging through the trash for a technician's romantic overture?"" Victoria sneered, her voice dripping with disdain. ""Patrick, I pay you to manage my executive calendar, not to play referee for maintenance staff with boundaries issues.""
""Just read the front,"" Patrick urged, placing the envelope firmly in the center of her blotter. ""Please. Just read who it was addressed to.""
Victoria scoffed, irritated by his insubordination. But curiosity got the better of her. She reached out, her manicured fingers brushing the rough paper. Drawn across the front in uneven, childish purple crayon were large, wobbly block letters:
For Mrs. Bellamy and everyone who needs a Valentine. Love, Sophie.
Victoria frowned, the sharp edge of her annoyance instantly blunting against confusion. ""Who is Mrs. Bellamy? And who is Sophie?""
""Mrs. Bellamy runs the community kitchen on St. Claire Street,"" Patrick said, his voice flat and heavy. ""And Sophie is Graham Ellis’s eight-year-old daughter. Graham’s wife died of breast cancer six years ago. Every single Valentine’s Day, Graham and his daughter buy white tulips and take them down to the community shelter for the widows and lonely seniors who have no family left to eat dinner with. Mrs. Bellamy organizes an annual memorial supper in his wife's honor.""
May you like
Victoria felt the air leave her lungs as if she had taken a physical blow to the solar plexus. ""What?"" she whispered.
""Ellis didn't bring those flowers for you, Victoria,"" Patrick said quietly, looking directly into her eyes. ""He left them at the desk because the building regulations prohibit maintenance staff from carrying personal packages into the mechanical shafts. Reception was holding them until his shift ended at four. He never intended for you to see them at all.""
