Page 44 of Babies for the Big Shot

I turn the corner. Her department is quieter than usual, tense. Someone fumbles a stapler. Another pretends to read an email with intensity no email deserves. I barely register them.

And then I see her.

She’s standing outside the break room, coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Her posture is rigid, her expression locked. Pale, still.

She’s seen it. Too late.

“Sara,” I say, voice low, steady.

She looks up slowly. Her voice is thin. “It’s me,” she says. “In the photo.”

I nod. “Come with me.”

There’s hesitation. The kind that comes when the floor shifts under you and you don’t know what to grab. I take one step closer. Not touching. Just presence. She follows.

I lead her down the hall and into the nearest office, closing the door behind us.

She turns to face me. Sets the coffee down with both hands before it slips through her fingers.

“There’s a photo,” she says, still processing. “Online. Of us. This morning.”

“I’ve seen it. It’s already circulating.”

Her breath catches. She drops into a chair, slow and mechanical, pressing the heel of her hand to her forehead.

“I don’t do this. I don’t want attention. I don’t know how to live under that kind of scrutiny.”

“I know.”

“This morning I was barefoot in an oversized shirt walking my dog, and now people are arguing over my body and your hand and calling it breaking news.” Her eyes find mine. Wide, uncertain. “What do I do?”

“I’m handling it.”

“How?”

“I’m denying it’s you.”

She blinks. “You’re what?”

“The image is dark. No clear facial ID. No statement has been made. I’ll tell the board it’s someone else. We let the ambiguity work for us.”

There’s a long pause. Then: “You’d lie for me.”

I lower myself to her level. Voice even. Expression stoic.

“Yes.”

She exhales, shaky. The panic’s still there, under the surface.

“I’ll take the speculation,” I say. “Let them assume. Let them talk. No confirmation from me. None from you. It burns out, eventually. It always does.”

She nods once, slow. Then she lifts her eyes again. This time, her voice is softer. Not afraid, just exposed.

“And what about us?”

I don’t answer immediately. The weight of the question deserves more than reflex.

“We stop,” I say. “At work. No contact. No involvement. Not until this passes.”