Since their last conversation, he hadn't sought her out again.
He didn't need to. The message was already out.
Amina returned to her routine like nothing had happened. Cleaning. Sorting. Keeping her eyes down and her steps quiet. But she could feel the shift—how people were now watching her not because they saw a cleaner, but because they saw something out of place.
A rumor.
A threat.
In the boardroom, two senior partners stood at the window, watching the city blur beneath them.
"He's distracted," one said.
"Worse. He's sentimental."
"This could hurt the firm."
"No. She could."
By Thursday, Amina found her supply cart missing.
She checked every closet. Asked Mariam. No one knew anything.
"I'll find you another," Mariam said, uneasily. "Maybe… stay off the top floors today."
Amina understood what wasn't being said.
Later that day, as Idris prepared for a meeting, his assistant brought in a folder marked Confidential.
"These were flagged by compliance," she said, her voice too neutral. "Apparently there's concern about recent personnel interactions."
He flipped through the pages. A list of flagged staff reports. A few notes about inappropriate proximity, scheduling irregularities.
Amina's name was highlighted. Twice.
His fingers tightened.
"This is absurd."
His assistant didn't flinch. "Perception is everything, sir."
He dismissed her and stared at the report. For the first time in a long while, he felt cornered. Not by competitors. Not by loss.
By control.
By people who feared disruption.
And they would never say it out loud—but he knew.
Amina's existence in his world wasn't about impropriety. It was about discomfort. She didn't fit the frame. And they wanted her gone.
That night, Amina walked home in silence, her worn shoes aching with every step. She could feel herself shrinking. Not from shame—but from exhaustion.
She had done nothing wrong.
And still, the world seemed eager to punish her for being noticed.
At the corner shop, she paused. A new dress hung in the window—simple, navy blue. Cheap, but beautiful.
She thought of the gala.
Of Idris.
Of the way her life had split, quietly, into before and after.
And she asked herself a question she hadn't dared voice until now:
If the world is already turning against me… what exactly do I have left to lose? The sky hung low and gray all day Friday, like a city holding its breath.
Inside the firm, last-minute preparations buzzed around the upcoming gala. Catering deliveries. Florists. Security checks. Executives pacing hallways with urgent whispers. Idris was everywhere and nowhere—slipping between meetings, barely pausing long enough for anyone to read him. Amina kept to the basement.
She'd taken Mariam's silent advice seriously. The less they saw her, the less they could twist.
Still, whispers reached the underground eventually.
Two admin assistants passed by the loading dock while Amina was checking inventory.
"You know she's still coming, right?" one said.
"She has no shame."
"It's sad, really. Thinking a dress can fix what she is."
Their laughter echoed down the hall like shattered glass.
Amina didn't flinch. Not visibly.
She just folded a stack of towels tighter. Slower.