The notification buzzed against my desk.
I stared at my phone like it might explode.
It didn't. Unfortunately.
I flipped it over slowly, heart doing that annoying thing where it sped up for no logical reason.
Henry:
I've made some progress. Still investigating. I'll update you when I'm certain.
I exhaled through my nose and leaned back in my chair.
Progress.
That was… something. Vague, but something.
My eyes drifted to the ceiling as my thoughts slid backward, replaying the night I'd asked Henry for help.
I hadn't gone into that conversation thinking I was some kind of villain.
That was the frustrating part.
I didn't feel like someone who would bully another person. I wasn't cruel now. I wasn't sharp for sport. I avoided conflict whenever possible and preferred my peace intact.
But Original Violet?
She'd been… unpleasant. Everyone agreed on that.
Arrogant. Self-centered. Thoughtless.
And while I didn't think she'd gone out of her way to ruin someone's life, I could absolutely believe she'd said something careless. Or dismissive. Or cutting without realizing it mattered.
Sometimes, that was worse.
Especially to someone like Marian—quiet, observant, used to being overlooked.
I pressed my lips together.
"I probably did something wrong," I murmured. "I just don't know what."
That was the part eating at me.
Marian hadn't accused me.
Hadn't demanded an apology.
Hadn't even seemed angry.
She'd just… looked tired.
And that scared me more than outright hostility ever could.
I glanced back down at my phone.
A week.
It had been a full week since I'd asked Henry to investigate my time at Nordenstern Academy.
A full week of waiting.
A full week of no concrete answers.
A full week of spiraling every time I saw Marian's name on a document or heard someone mention Stark Industries in passing.
I set my phone face-down and rubbed my temples.
"One week," I muttered. "And still nothing."
Henry wasn't incompetent. Far from it. If anything, his caution made this worse.
Which meant whatever he was uncovering wasn't straightforward.
That thought sat like a stone in my stomach.
I tried to refocus on my screen.
Contracts. Agendas. Meeting briefs.
The Stark–Hawthorne collaboration dominated everything now. Every conversation. Every hallway whisper. Every calendar invite.
My involvement was still mostly advisory, but that didn't stop my name from appearing in documents more often than I liked.
I was halfway through reviewing a proposed staffing structure when there was a knock at my office door.
Sharp. Professional.
"Miss Hawthorne?"
I looked up. A junior associate stood just outside, posture rigid, eyes darting briefly around the hallway as if afraid someone might see him talking to me.
"Yes?"
"You have a meeting in thirty minutes," he said. "Conference Room C. Investors and partner representatives."
I blinked.
Then glanced at the time.
"…Right," I said. "I almost forgot. Thanks for reminding me."
He visibly relaxed, nodded, and retreated like he'd just completed a dangerous mission.
I sighed.
"Thirty minutes," I murmured. "Plenty of time to mentally prepare."
I saved my work, closed the file, and stood.
The meeting itself would be dull but important—assignments, oversight roles, who would be attached to which phase of the project.
Which meant I needed to look composed.
Not distracted.
Definitely not like someone obsessing over childhood mysteries and unreadable CEOs.
I grabbed my blazer and slipped it on, smoothing the fabric automatically.
As I stepped out of my office, a few heads turned.
Some people looked away immediately.
Others hesitated—then stayed.
That was… new.
I noticed it more and more lately.
People weren't running quite as fast as they used to.
Some still fled the moment I entered a room, but others lingered. Watched. Whispered less.
Raising my reputation had been exhausting, slow, and deeply unrewarding—but apparently, it was working.
A little.
"At least you're not radioactive anymore," I muttered.
On my way to the conference room, I detoured toward the break room.
Water. I needed water.
If nothing else, hydration made me feel like I had my life together.
The break room was… occupied.
Several people stood near the counter, chatting quietly. The moment I stepped inside, the conversation died.
Bodies shifted.
Two people made vague excuses and left immediately.
One person stared at the coffee machine like it had personally offended them.
I stopped just inside the doorway.
"…I promise I don't bite," I said mildly.
No one laughed.
One woman cleared her throat and stayed where she was.
Progress.
I walked toward the counter, trying not to sigh too loudly.
"This is fine," I told myself. "You're doing great. People only mostly fear you."
I grabbed a paper cup and turned on the dispenser.
Water poured in, the sound loud in the tense silence.
Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed approaching the fridge at the same time I stepped back.
We collided.
Not hard—but enough.
The cup tilted.
Water sloshed.
Cold spilled over my hand, down my sleeve, and—
"Oh—!"
The cup slipped completely, water splashing everywhere—over the floor, my shoes, and the other person's front.