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“Ms. Hastings,” I correct, the formal title burning my throat like acid.

Something flickers in his eyes—pain? Regret? But his voice stays carefully controlled. “Yes. Ms. Hastings. Thank you for understanding the need for appropriate boundaries.”

“Boundaries.” I laugh, but it sounds wrong, brittle and sharp-edged. “Is that what we’re calling this? This morning, you walked past me like I didn’t exist. Yesterday, you rerouted through Accounting to avoid the break room when I was there. The day before—“

“The board is watching everything,” he cuts in, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “Every interaction, every decision. They’ve delayed the Project Phoenix vote because they’re concerned about... about...”

“About what?” I step closer, close enough to see the muscle jumping in his jaw. Close enough to catch the scent of his cologne, to see the shadows under his eyes that suggest he’s sleeping as poorly as I am. “About your judgment being clouded by personal feelings? About the CEO getting too close to his head analyst? About—“

A knock interrupts us. Garrett stands in the doorway, looking far too pleased at finding us in what appears to be a heated discussion.

“The Johnson team is on line one,” he announces, his tone suggesting he’s been listening longer than he should have. “Something about Brighton’s latest proposal.”

Lucas straightens, corporate mask firmly in place. “Thank you for reviewing those changes, Ms. Hastings. Please have the revised version on my desk by the end of the day.”

Dismissed. Like a junior intern. Like we didn’t spend Tuesday afternoon proving we’re unstoppable together.

“Of course, Mr. Walker.” I gather my things, my movements are deliberately precise. “I’ll be sure to remove any trace of personality or innovation. Wouldn’t want to seem unprofessional.”

I’m almost at the door when his voice stops me. Softer. More real.

“Emma—“

“Ms. Hastings,” I remind him without turning around.

The door clicks shut behind me, but not before I hear Garrett’s satisfied hum.

“Maintaining appropriate distance, I see,” he says. “Very wise. The board will be pleased to know you’re taking their concerns seriously.”

I don’t hear Lucas’s response. Don’t want to hear him agree that corporate formality is more important than whatever was growing between us.

Back at my desk, I stare at the revised proposal, which has stripped away all the personality and innovation. Everything that made our presentation powerful has been replaced with corporate buzzwords and traditional formats. Even the charts—my beautifully intuitive, color-coded visual representations of complex data—have been replaced with standard bar graphs in varying shades of blue.

It’s like watching someone dismantle your favorite creation piece by piece. Like watching them sand down all the unique edges until it’s smooth, uniform, and completely unremarkable.

“You okay?” Natalie appears next to me, concern written across her face.

“Fine.” I start implementing Lucas’s changes, each deletion feeling like losing a piece of myself. “Just being professional.”

“Emma—“

“Did you know,” I say too brightly, “that Brighton’s latest sustainability report uses exactly this shade of blue in their graphics? Such a professional color, don’t you think? Much better than my color-coding system with all its brightness and patterns. More traditional. More stable. More corporate-approved and completely lacking innovation—“

“More dead inside?”

“More professional.”

My computer pings with another email from Lucas:

Those timeline revisions look good. Very professional. The board will appreciate the traditional approach.

Below it, marked as deleted, is a comment that breaks my heart:

The gnomes really did have suspicious faces. Almost as suspicious as Brighton’s growth projections.

He’d written it, then deleted it. The real Lucas, breaking through the CEO mask for just a moment before being suppressed again. He’s still in there, still thinking about our silly jokes and shared history, even as he tries to erase them from our interactions.

Professional.