(Elara POV)
The office feels different the moment I step in.
I can't place it at first. Nothing obvious has changed — the same low hum of printers, the same muted conversations drifting across the floor, the familiar smell of coffee and carpet cleaner — but there's a shift in the air, subtle and uncomfortable, like walking into a room just after someone has said something they shouldn't have.
I ignore it.
That's what I've learned to do when something feels wrong. Keep moving. Keep my head down. Give no one a reason to look twice.
I sit at my desk, open my laptop, and start working through emails with deliberate focus. Numbers are safe. Numbers don't whisper. They don't look at you differently because of something you can't undo.
It's only when I stand to refill my water bottle that I notice the looks.
Not direct ones. No one stares openly. It's the sideways glances, the quick flicks of attention that vanish the moment I turn my head, the way voices dip slightly when I pass by.
My chest tightens.
You're imagining it, I tell myself. You're tired. You're overthinking.
At the water cooler, Tessa is already there.
She's leaning casually against the counter, scrolling through her phone, perfectly manicured nails tapping lazily against the screen. She doesn't look up when I step beside her, but I can feel her awareness like static in the air between us.
"Morning," I say politely.
She hums in response, still not looking at me.
I fill my bottle, screw the cap back on, and turn to leave when she finally lifts her head, her gaze sliding over me slowly, deliberately, like she's assessing something she's already decided she doesn't like.
"That dress you wore last Friday," she says lightly, as if we're discussing weather. "Bold choice."
I stop.
"I don't think I know what you mean," I reply carefully.
She smiles. Sweet. Thin. "Oh, you know. Navy. Off-shoulder. Very… confident."
My heart stutters.
She knows.
I keep my expression neutral, even though my pulse has started to race. "I don't see how that's relevant."
Tessa shrugs. "Just surprised, that's all. You don't usually seem like the type."
"The type for what?" I ask, even though something inside me is already screaming to walk away.
She tilts her phone slightly, just enough for the screen to catch the light.
I see it for half a second.
A photo.
Grainy. Taken from a distance. The angle is poor, but unmistakable — me standing too close to Alex outside the pub, his head bent toward mine, his hand near my arm.
The floor seems to tilt beneath my feet.
"I wouldn't worry," Tessa continues smoothly. "It's probably nothing. People jump to conclusions so easily."
My mouth opens, then closes again.
"Where did you get that?" I ask, my voice lower than I intend.
She laughs softly. "Relax. It's not like I'm spreading it around." Her eyes flick over me again, slow and assessing. "Yet."
Then she leans in just enough that only I can hear her.
"Nice act, by the way," she adds. "The sweet, innocent assistant thing. Guess this is the real you, huh? Dressing up, trying to seduce rich men."
Her gaze drops, deliberately, dragging over me from head to toe.
"I don't understand what he sees in you," she says quietly. "It should've been someone like me on his arm. Not… someone like you."
Not a rat like you, the unspoken insult hangs there anyway.
I don't respond.
I can't.
I turn and walk away, my legs carrying me back to my desk on instinct alone. My hands are shaking when I sit down, fingers hovering uselessly over the keyboard.
Someone took a picture.
Someone was watching.
I risk a glance across the floor toward Alex's office.
The door is closed.
Vivienne passes my desk not long after.
She doesn't stop.
She doesn't need to.
Her gaze flicks toward me briefly — sharp, impersonal, assessing — like she's noting a flaw in a design she already plans to correct. There's no warmth there, no acknowledgment beyond the professional, but something in her expression makes my stomach sink.
She knows too.
The realization settles quietly, devastating in its certainty.
By mid-morning, the whispers aren't subtle anymore.
I catch fragments as I move through the office — half-sentences that die when I get too close, laughter that feels just a little too pointed, someone murmuring the word favoritism before trailing off.
I work.
I bury myself in spreadsheets and reports, clinging to competence like a lifeline. If I'm perfect, if I give them nothing to criticize, maybe this will pass.
It doesn't.
Just before lunch, an email notification appears on my screen.
Meeting Update: Presentation Access Revised
My heart drops.
I click it open, dread pooling in my chest as I scan the message.
I've been removed from the project.
No explanation. No warning. Just a quiet administrative decision that erases weeks of work with the click of a button.
Heat floods my face, humiliation crawling up my spine as I stare at the screen.
This isn't random.
I force myself to stand, to walk toward Vivienne's office despite the way my pulse hammers with every step. She looks up when I knock, her expression perfectly composed.
"Yes?" she says coolly.
"I was removed from the presentation," I begin, forcing my voice steady. "I wanted to understand why."
She folds her hands neatly on the desk. "It was a precaution."
"A precaution against what?" I ask.
She studies me for a moment, her gaze sweeping over my face, my posture, the careful composure I'm trying desperately to maintain.
"Perception matters," she says. "And right now, perception is… delicate." Her lips curve faintly. "I don't think your I'm-so-innocent act will last much longer. People tend to see the truth eventually."
My chest tightens. "I haven't done anything inappropriate."
She tilts her head. "That depends on who you ask."
The words sting more than I expect.
"I've always done my job," I say quietly.
"And you still will," she replies. "Just with fewer complications."
Dismissed.
I return to my desk feeling smaller than I did this morning, like something essential has been stripped away without anyone raising their voice.
Daniel stops by a little later, concern etched into his face.
"You okay?" he asks gently. "You look like you're about to bolt."
"I'm fine," I lie.
He hesitates, then lowers his voice. "People are talking."
My stomach drops. "About what?"
"You," he says carefully. "About… you and Mr. Hale."
I shake my head, panic tightening my throat. "It's not like that. There's nothing going on. I don't understand what's wrong with people."
"I figured," he says quickly. "I just wanted you to know."
"Thank you," I whisper.
The kindness nearly breaks me.
By the time the day ends, exhaustion settles into my bones, heavy and dull. I pack my bag slowly, delaying the moment I have to stand up, to walk past desks that used to feel neutral and now feel hostile.
The office has changed.
Or maybe it's just finally decided I don't belong.
As I head toward the elevators, voices drift from the conference room down the hall — low, professional, careless in the way people are when they assume no one is listening.
"…can't keep her on the project now."
"…optics."
"…Mr Hale signed off on it."
I stop.
My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag.
Alex signed off on it.
The words repeat in my head, each time landing heavier. I don't know why I expected otherwise. He didn't look at me today. He didn't ask. He didn't intervene.
The elevator dings softly behind me, doors sliding open.
Before I step inside, I glance toward his office one last time.
The lights are on.
Alex stands near the window, phone pressed to his ear, posture rigid, expression unreadable even from a distance. He laughs at something — a quiet exhale of breath, brief and controlled — and the sound hits me harder than silence would have.
He doesn't look my way.
Not once.
The doors begin to close.
I step inside just before they seal shut, the mirrored walls trapping my reflection in harsh fluorescent light. I look exactly the same as I did this morning.
And yet, everything feels different.
Outside, the city is loud, impatient, indifferent. I walk home without really seeing where I'm going, my thoughts circling the same realization over and over again.
Someone took a picture.
Someone decided it meant something.
And someone with power chose not to stop it.
By the time I reach my apartment, one truth has settled deep enough that it hurts to breathe around it:
Whatever happened Friday night didn't stay outside the office.
It followed me in.
And now it's spreading — quietly, efficiently — through a place where silence has always been my only protection.