I don’t see him for the rest of the evening.Which should help.It should let me breathe, let my thoughts settle, let my heart return to something close to normal rhythm.It doesn’t.Every quiet moment becomes an echo of his voice.Every empty hallway feels like the shadow of where he stood.Every time I close my eyes, I hear the words I wasn’t ready to hear:You let me stay close.I wish he didn’t know me that well.I wish he wasn’t right.When the sun slips under the horizon and the last workers filter out of the building, I’m still at my desk—pretending productivity, failing miserably. Eventually I give up and push away from the chair, my body stiff, my mind exhausted.The air outside is cool, sharp with sea salt. The kind of air that should clear my head. Instead, the breeze just carries the ghost of his cologne, or maybe I’m imagining it. Maybe he’s under my skin now, and everything smells like him.The thought makes my stomach twist.I’m halfway across the parking lot when I see

By midday, I know the man from the parking lot has started talking.People don’t confront me directly—they’re too subtle for that—but the signs are everywhere. Conversations pause when I walk into a room. Side glances linger too long. A few people soften their tone with me, which is somehow worse, like they’ve already decided I’m fragile or compromised or both.And I know exactly whose name is being whispered beneath all the speculation.His.The weight of that hits harder than it should.I try to focus on work—on numbers, schedules, documents—but every few seconds my brain drifts, wondering where he is, who he’s speaking to, what he’s hearing. And whether he’s about to explode at someone and make everything a thousand times worse.By early afternoon, my nerves are shot.I force myself to leave my desk and walk toward the break room, thinking a cup of tea might steady me. Halfway there, voices drift around the corner—low, conspiratorial, just loud enough for my tired brain to latch on

Victor Hale doesn’t like uncertainty.He tolerates risk. He understands volatility. He even respects opposition, when it behaves predictably. But this—this quiet resistance, this refusal to fracture—irritates him in a way he hasn’t felt in years.The room overlooking the city is filled with glass, steel, and expensive restraint. Hale stands at the window, hands clasped behind his back, watching traffic bleed through the streets below like veins carrying something vital away from him.“Well?” he asks without turning.Across the table, Marcus Levin clears his throat. “No response. Not publicly. Not privately.”Hale’s jaw tightens. “That’s impossible. People always respond.”“Apparently not this time,” Marcus says. “No distancing. No visible panic. If anything…” He hesitates.“If anything, what?” Hale snaps.“If anything, Locke’s position looks firmer.”That earns him a slow turn.Hale’s eyes are cold, sharp, offended by the idea. “Explain.”“The complaint stalled,” Marcus continues. “HR