Chapter 4

The reunion continued late into the evening. I stood by the refreshment table, sipping champagne and observing the drama unfold exactly as I had anticipated. Howard's eyes kept finding me across the room, his attention visibly divided between Susan's increasingly desperate displays of affection and my deliberate indifference.

"Another drink?" Howard appeared at my side, offering a fresh glass of champagne. His cologne—the same overpowering scent I had once found attractive—now made me want to step back.

"I'm fine, thank you," I replied coolly, though I accepted the glass to maintain the illusion of civility.

"You really do look incredible tonight," he said, leaning closer than necessary. "I've never seen you like this before."

I smiled thinly. "People change, Howard."

"Some things don't change," he countered, his eyes dropping briefly to my lips. "Like chemistry."

Susan materialized beside us, her fingernails digging possessively into Howard's arm. "Babe, they're about to announce the 'Most Successful Graduate' award. We should get closer to the stage."

Howard barely acknowledged her, his attention still fixed on me. "We'll catch up more later, Marie."

As they walked away, Helena appeared at my side. "That guy cannot take his eyes off you," she observed. "Isn't he supposed to be with Susan?"

"He is," I confirmed, watching them argue in hushed tones across the room. "And that's exactly where he should stay."

---

Later that night, as I was gathering my purse to leave, Howard cornered me near the coat check.

"Let me drive you home," he insisted, his words slightly slurred from too many drinks. "Susan's getting a ride with some of her girlfriends."

"I have my own car, Howard." I stepped around him, but he blocked my path again.

"Come on, Marie. We barely got to talk tonight." His hand brushed against mine, deliberate in its intimacy. "I've missed you."

The audacity of this man—who in another timeline had pushed me to my death—now trying to seduce me while dating my supposed best friend made my skin crawl.

"I'm not feeling well," I said firmly, meeting his eyes with an icy stare. "And even if I were, Howard, nothing would happen between us. Not tonight, not ever."

His expression shifted from confusion to wounded pride. Men like Howard weren't accustomed to rejection. "You didn't always feel that way," he muttered.

"Like I said—people change." I pushed past him and walked out into the cool night air, feeling a small thrill of satisfaction at the bewildered frustration on his face.

In my previous life, I might have been flattered by his attention, might have even been tempted despite knowing he was with Susan. But now, I understood exactly what kind of man Howard was—the kind who would watch me bleed out on our bedroom floor without calling for help.

---

Monday morning at Meridian Marketing brought a renewed sense of purpose. I arrived early, reviewed the Richardson account files, and prepared detailed notes for the client presentation. When Dean walked into the conference room for our 9 AM meeting, I was already setting up the projector.

"You're an early bird," he remarked, his smile warm and genuine.

"I had some ideas for the Richardson campaign that I wanted to organize," I explained, handing him a copy of my notes. "I hope you don't mind."

Dean scanned the document, his eyebrows rising in appreciation. "Mind? Marie, these are exactly the insights we needed. The focus on sustainability messaging is brilliant."

We spent the next hour refining the presentation, our professional rhythm surprisingly seamless. Dean built upon my ideas with thoughtful additions, never once dismissing or taking credit for my contributions—a stark contrast to Howard's management style.

"We make a good team," Dean observed as we wrapped up. "Would you be interested in taking point on the client meeting next week? I think you'd knock it out of the park."

In my previous life, I would have demurred, uncomfortable with the spotlight. Now, I recognized the opportunity for what it was. "I'd love to," I agreed.

Our collaboration continued throughout the week. We worked late in the conference room, ordering takeout and refining our strategy. There was an easy comfort between us that I hadn't experienced with a colleague before—a mutual respect that made the work feel less like an obligation and more like a shared passion.

I couldn't help noticing the small details about Dean that I'd overlooked before: how he always remembered how I took my coffee, the way his eyes crinkled when he laughed, his habit of running a hand through his hair when deep in thought. In another life, I might have developed feelings for him. In this one, I reminded myself that relationships were a luxury I couldn't afford while executing my revenge.

---

By Thursday, the office grapevine was buzzing with speculation about Dean and me. I caught snippets of whispered conversations that fell silent when I approached, saw the knowing glances exchanged between colleagues.

Susan was the conductor of this rumor orchestra, I knew. I spotted her huddled with a group of assistants near the break room, her voice just loud enough to carry.

"It's so obvious what's happening," she was saying. "She's sleeping with him to get ahead. Why else would Dean Anderson suddenly take such an interest in a mid-level copywriter?"

The assistants nodded along, eager for any gossip involving the mysterious and handsome Dean Anderson. I walked past without acknowledging them, though I felt Susan's eyes burning into my back.

The rumors reached their inevitable crescendo during Friday's department meeting. Mark Collins, our supervisor and a man known for his poor judgment and susceptibility to office politics, cleared his throat pointedly after reviewing the weekly metrics.

"Before we wrap up," he said, his gaze fixing on me, "I want to address some concerns that have been brought to my attention regarding professional boundaries."

The room fell silent. I felt every eye turn toward me.

"Marie," Mark continued, his tone dripping with false concern, "your recent work has shown marked improvement, which is commendable. However, I must question whether these improvements are the result of merit or... other motivations."

The implication hung in the air, ugly and explicit. In my peripheral vision, I saw Susan's satisfied smirk.

"I'm not sure I understand your meaning, Mark," I replied evenly, though my heart hammered against my ribs. "Could you clarify?"

Mark shifted uncomfortably, clearly unprepared for direct confrontation. "There have been observations about your close working relationship with Dean Anderson. The company has policies about fraternization, especially when it involves different levels of seniority."

Before I could respond, Dean's voice cut through the tension. "I'd like to address that, if I may."