Come midnight, p.1
Come Midnight, page 1
Come Midnight
A Steamy Sapphic Workplace Romance
Alix Marren
Copyright © 2025 Alix Marren
All rights reserved
The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher.
Cover design by: Alix Marren
To mixing business with pleasure.
(highly recommended)
Contents
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Foreword
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Casey
Olivia
Epilogue - Casey
Bonus Scene
Afterword
About The Author
Books By This Author
Foreword
Thank you for coming back. Or for taking a chance on me if this is your first time here.
When I wrote Chasing Red, I had no idea what kind of reception it would get. The response has been overwhelming in the best possible way, and your enthusiasm is what pushed me to finish Casey and Olivia's story.
If you loved watching Jo and Alex navigate their messy situation, I think you'll appreciate how Casey and Olivia handle theirs - though I promise the stakes are different when your company's infrastructure is melting down and the woman fixing it is the one who also makes your brain short-circuit.
◆◆◆
As always, if you make it to the end, I'd be incredibly grateful for an honest review. Your words fuel this indie author's late-night writing sessions and make all the difference.
Casey
Vincent is droning on about innovation.
Or is it disruption? Synergy? I lost the thread three buzzwords ago, which is probably bad form considering he’s the CEO. He stands on a makeshift stage at the front of the ballroom we’ve rented for the annual Cognitex Christmas party, bouncing on the balls of his feet with unbridled enthusiasm.
I can’t focus on a single word he’s saying.
I’m smack in the middle of the crowd, beer in hand, feigning engagement. But my attention is locked on the woman to his left.
The sparkle catches my eye first. It’s aggressive. A sequined assault on the senses. The plunging neckline. The cleavage. Christ. The thigh-high slit slashing up her dress. I’m gawking. I know I am. Forty-four years old and I’m gaping like a hormone-crazed teen, but I can’t pull the ripcord.
Wait.
I inhale. Focus on my drink. Glance back.
I know her.
I drag my gaze up - past the elegant neck, the sharp jawline, the light brown hair swept up in a fancy twist - and my heart stutters to a halt.
Olivia Cooper.
She wears the corporate crown with effortless grace. We used to be colleagues ten years ago. Back then, she was sharp, focused, and always juggling three projects while the rest of us struggled with one. She started as a cloud specialist and climbed so fast she left scorch marks on the ladder.
She’s always been attractive - I’m not blind. I see her around the office, sure: pass her in hallways, half-tune into her all-hands updates, watch her field questions. But this? This is seismic.
Vincent cracks a joke at his own expense, and she pivots, flashing a genuine, unguarded grin that crinkles her nose. It’s soft. Affectionate. Utterly disarming. Her whole face lights up, and my mouth goes dry.
Clearly, I haven’t really looked until now.
Fuck.
The crowd erupts into applause, jolting me back to reality.
I clap on autopilot, bottle clutched awkwardly against my palm. Around me, nods and smiles bloom; a few whoop as if Vincent just promised eternal free beer.
And now guilt crashes in.
Vincent’s a good guy. He founded Cognitex fifteen years ago with Ryan Pressler. In those days, the company was small enough that everyone knew your coffee order. We ate cold pizza at midnight and argued about system architecture until the sun came up. Vincent hired me when I was thirty and desperate for a role better than help desk support.
I doubt he remembers that now.
The applause dies down. People disperse, fragmenting into smaller clusters as conversations resume and the bartenders brace for the rush. Vincent is stepping down from the stage, shaking hands, that smile still in place.
But Olivia…
I scan the area where she was standing.
She’s gone.
I take a long pull from my beer and try to convince myself it doesn’t matter. I need to stop wondering things I have no business wondering.
Like whether her hair is as soft as it looks.
Or what she smells like up close.
Or where the zipper on that dress ends.
“Casey!”
I tear my eyes away from the stage to find Charlie Hollow weaving through the crowd toward me, a grin already in place. My manager - somehow both a decade younger than me and the first person in that role I haven’t wanted to strangle within six months. I’d follow him into a server fire. I have, technically.
“You’re here,” he says when he reaches me, sounding genuinely pleased. “I’m shocked.”
“You guilted me into it.”
“I suggested it might be good for visibility.” He’s still grinning. “You know, show your face, network, all that corporate bullshit you hate.”
“And here I am, visible.” I gesture at myself with my beer. “I even wore the suit.”
His eyes flick down, then back up, approving. “It’s a good look.” He pauses, searching for the right word. “Sharp.”
I resist the urge to tug at the lapels. A single, long ginger hair clings to the fabric near my shoulder. Byte. I spent ten minutes with a lint roller before I left the apartment, but the cat defies the laws of physics. He haunts me.
Still, the suit is new. I bought it specifically for tonight after the old one - the polyester nightmare I wore to both my brothers’ weddings and my aunt’s funeral - finally disintegrated at the seams.
Wearing it makes me feel like a fraud and a power player in equal measure. Some stupid part of me wanted to look… I don’t know. Put together. Like I belong here.
“Thanks,” I say, taking another pull from my beer to avoid whatever Charlie’s reading on my face.
“Told you it wasn’t so bad,” he says, elbow nudging my arm. “I’m glad you’re here. You should do this more often. You’ve been with the company longer than half of the leadership team.”
And yet they still don’t know my name.
I don’t say that. He’s had a rough week - back-to-back meetings, trying to prevent the end of the world in Q4, which in this company now means keeping the board from inventing a new OKR before lunch.
“Yeah, well,” I say instead. “Mission accomplished.”
“Casey!”
Another voice, younger this time. Jordan appears at Charlie’s elbow - our newest hire, three months in and still enthusiastic about everything. They’re wearing a button-down with tiny circuit boards printed on it.
Groundbreaking.
“Hey,” I say, because I’m nothing if not articulate.
“This is wild, right?” Jordan looks around the ballroom. “I’ve never been to anything like this.”
“Give it a few years,” I mutter. “The novelty wears off. Usually around the time the open bar closes.”
“Don’t listen to the grinch,” Audrey says, sliding into our circle with Simon behind her. “Casey’s been a cynic since before I got here, and that was six years ago.”
“Seven,” I correct.
“See? Cynic.” But she’s smiling.
Simon, for his part, is as uncomfortable as I am. His tie is crooked, and he keeps tugging at his collar like it’s actively strangling him. We make eye contact. He raises his drink in silent solidarity. I return the gesture.
“We should do a team photo,” Jordan says, already pulling out their phone. “Come on, this is historic. Casey’s wearing a suit. Audrey’s in a dress. Simon’s…”
“Suffering,” Simon supplies.
“Exactly. We need to document this.”
“Absolutely not,” I say.
“Come on…”
“No.”
Charlie’s laughing. “Leave her alone, Jordan. You’ll learn. Casey doesn’t do photos.”
“Wow,” I say, my voice devoid of emotion. “Your management style inspires loyalty.”
Audrey chokes on her martini. Simon’s shoulders shake with silent laughter. Even Jordan’s grinning.
“Try to have fun, yeah? That’s an order,” Charlie says, clapping me on the shoulder.
&n bsp; “You can’t order me to have fun.”
“I’m your manager. I can order you to do anything.”
“Pretty sure HR would disagree.”
He laughs and disappears into the crowd, Jordan trailing after him like an overexcited puppy. Audrey and Simon drift toward the bar, debating the risks of Monday’s patch release.
And just like that, I’m alone again.
The music shifts - louder now, a bass line designed to get people moving. The dance floor, which had been mostly empty during Vincent’s speech, comes alive. I nurse the last of my beer, leaning back against a pillar, and scan the crowd.
No blue dress. No sparkle catching the light.
Not that I’m looking.
It’s hard to reconcile the soft, nose-scrunching smile I saw earlier with the woman I know from work. I remember when she first started. There was this guy on the team, Mark-something. He called her “Livy” during a kick-off meeting. She’d smiled, polite as anything, and said, “It’s Olivia, thank you.”
He tried again a week later, clearly thinking his charm was irresistible. This time, she didn’t smile. She looked at him across the conference table - dead-eyed and terrifying - and said, “My name is Olivia. Do you think you can manage that, or do I need to draw a diagram?”
The room went so quiet you could hear the HVAC hum. A surge of deep, vicarious satisfaction coursed through me. Mark never called her Livy again.
I look down. The bottle’s empty in my hand. My team has scattered to the winds. The room is too warm, too crowded, too much. I’ve done my time. Showed my face. Charlie can’t complain.
I need air. And maybe a smoke.
I drop the bottle on a server’s tray and head for the doors, weaving through drunk coworkers. I pat my hip; the square outline of the cigarette pack is still there.
I don’t smoke much anymore, haven’t for years, really. I keep a pack on me for emergencies, and let’s be honest: this has been one extremely long emergency.
The cold hits me instantly; a sharp, biting December chill that cuts right through my suit jacket. It’s a relief. I breathe it in, letting it clear my head.
The terrace is empty. Thank the gods.
I let the door click shut behind me, muting the bass of the music to a muffled thud, and cross to the railing. The city spreads out below, all lights and distant traffic. It’s beautiful in an impersonal way—a million lives reduced to pinpricks of light. My apartment’s out there somewhere, with two cats probably screaming at each other over who gets the warm spot on the couch.
This view costs more than I’ll ever make. Floor-to-ceiling windows, executive offices.
I’m more comfortable in the basement.
It sounds worse than it is. I like it there. I like the server racks and the steady hum of cooling fans and the smell of warm electronics. I like knowing what every cable does and where it goes. The legacy system down there - the one everyone calls outdated, the one nobody else wants to touch - I built that. Well, me and two other engineers who’ve long since moved on to shinier things.
Fourteen years later, it still runs.
I shake out a cigarette and light it, cupping my hand against the wind. The first drag burns. I exhale slowly, watching the smoke dissipate into the night air.
The plan is simple: finish this, go back inside, nurse one more beer, and then I’m out. Home to Pixel and Byte.
Tonight is an aberration. A moment of temporary insanity brought on by a blue dress, flat lager, and the realization that I apparently can’t be trusted at social events.
I take another drag, letting the smoke curl out into the cold air.
Behind me, heels click against the stone.
Olivia
Smile. Nod. Make eye contact. Shift weight to the left foot before the right one goes numb.
I run the checklist automatically, a background process humming beneath the surface of my thoughts. A habit I picked up ten years ago - somewhere between my first promotion and my first panic attack.
Beside me, Vincent is vibrating. He’s talking about the future of Cognitex, his hands chopping the air to emphasize words like momentum and disruption, and I have to fight the urge to reach out and steady him. He’s been rehearsing this speech for three days. He practiced it on me in the elevator this morning, then again over coffee, and once more before we walked into the ballroom.
He cares so much. It’s his best quality, and also the reason I’m standing on a makeshift stage in four-inch stilettos, blinded by a spotlight that leaves nowhere to hide.
Vincent hired me ten years ago when I was hungry, ambitious, and convinced I could change the world. He saw something in me I wasn’t sure I saw in myself -the ability to translate my technical skills into leadership. He’s the one who promoted me into my first management role. He’s the one who said, You’re capable of more than you think, Olivia. Don’t limit yourself.
I didn’t always listen. But I’m grateful I did often enough.
He’s the one who called me at 2 AM three years ago, spiraling because the board was pushing for a restructure. He asked, “Am I still the right person to lead this company?” I talked him down over coffee in his kitchen while his wife slept upstairs.
We’ve survived a lot together. The good quarters and the terrible ones. The product launches that soared and the ones that crashed spectacularly.
“… and I want to thank every single person in this room,” Vincent is saying now, his voice carrying that earnest warmth that makes people want to follow him. “The future we’re building isn’t just about technology or market share. It’s about the people who show up every day and make it happen. You make it happen.”
My reflection flashes in the teleprompter. The dress was a risk. The deep blue sequins, the slit that climbs up my thigh - it’s a lot. When I bought it, I told myself it was a power move. If you sparkle bright enough, I reasoned, no one will notice you’re terrified.
I have a problem with sparkly things. Earrings, decorative pillows, fairy lights, anything that glitters. If it shimmers, I own three versions of it. This dress was inevitable the moment I saw it in the store window.
Now, standing in front of these people, I feel less like a power player and more like a disco ball.
Vincent cracks a joke - something self-deprecating about how he still doesn’t know how to use the office coffee machine - and the crowd erupts in laughter. Even I can’t help the smile that breaks through.
The knot in my chest loosens. I forget the crowd. I forget the heels.
He did good.
The speech ends, the applause washes over us, and then the real work begins. Stepping off the stage is like wading into a tide as I’m swept into a current of handshakes and small talk.
I activate the protocol. Warm smile. Firm handshake. Listen to the question, validate the asker, give a concise answer.
“Olivia, wonderful to see you!” Patrick beams, his tie slightly loosened.
“Patrick, hi. Love that tie.”
I do not love that tie. It is a paisley nightmare.
“Vincent’s vision for next year is inspiring. You must be excited about the roadmap.”
“We are. The team has done incredible work.”
I extract myself, but there is no downtime. Next up is Josie, who tells me about her daughter’s college applications. Then, Conner, who wants to share “quick feedback” from a major account. It is anything but quick.
Then someone whose name I should know - David? Daniel? - but the file is missing from my brain, so I compensate with extra warmth, extra eye contact, praying they don’t notice.
My battery is flashing red.
My feet have moved past pain into a dull, throbbing resentment. The noise level in the ballroom is climbing, voices layering over the music until it becomes a wall of sound. Someone laughs too loud. The lights are too bright. And the dress - it’s gorgeous, sure, but the slit feels precarious every time I move.
I’m on my fourth conversation - fifth? - when Ryan appears at my elbow.
Ryan Pressler. Co-founder. Board member. The “business guy” to Vincent’s technical vision.
“Liv.”
My name is Olivia. He knows this. I’ve corrected him enough times over the years to know he’s doing it on purpose - some weird power play I stopped trying to understand around year three. Now I just don’t respond to it.
