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Lena

E llis didn’t look at me once.

Not during the first meeting or the final one. Not on the tarmac. Not even when Stewy cracked some wildly inappropriate joke about “closing hard.”

He was perfectly polite. Perfectly efficient. He thanked the client, shook hands, nodded at me when I handed him the notes he didn’t ask for.

And that was it.

No acknowledgment. No smirk. No shift in tone.

He went right back to being the man who signs things and doesn’t look back. The one who can sit across from you for two hours, make a decision that will destroy your life, and finish his steak in the same breath.

So maybe this is just how he is.

Maybe I was stupid to expect any different.

The email hit before the plane’s wheels even fully touched down.

Effective tomorrow, please report back to Shergar HQ. Your home access credentials will be disabled at midnight.

It wasn’t from Ellis. It was from HR. Polite. Vague. Surgical.

I didn’t respond.

I didn’t need to.

Now I’m here. Back in the building with its recycled air and ceiling tiles designed to swallow time. My heels click too loudly on the polished floor, like the sound is trying to remind people I still work here.

No one says good morning.

Andra passes me by without a glance.

The desk I had before I left has been reassigned. My new office is smaller. Tucked into a row near the back of the floor, away from the glass conference rooms, away from everyone.

There’s a fresh badge waiting. A new access code. A schedule with no context. I sit. I log in. I answer emails. I pretend this is just another Thursday.

But I feel it. In the way no one asks how the trip went. In the way my inbox is already sorted, like I was never gone.

This isn’t punishment. It’s replacement.

And I let it happen.

I think about what I said. What I let slip.

Kevin.

It wasn’t breathy. It wasn’t romantic. It was just a name. My ex-husband’s . A memory. An accident.

Ellis never said a word about it. But now I’m back in the bullpen like I never left. Like I imagined the whole thing. And maybe I did. Maybe I wanted to believe I could handle him—handle this—without getting pulled under.

My hands don’t shake. That’s something. My face doesn’t show it. That’s something else.

Around noon, I make the mistake of getting up for coffee.

The break room is half-lit, as if it’s been paused between shifts. I fill my cup. Add the cream. Stir. Turn.

That’s when I see her.

I hadn’t noticed her walk in. She’s standing near the back counter, staring into the microwave.

She doesn’t speak right away. Just watches the numbers tick down.

Then, without looking at me, she says, “Does he make you guess what he already knows, or just watch to see how long it takes you to lie?”

It’s not sharp. It’s not even clear who she’s talking about. But it seems like she knows.

My head cocks. “I’m sorry?”

Our eyes meet. It’s like recognizing an old acquaintance you haven’t seen in awhile. She looks like she just woke up, like she just snapped out of it.

“I didn’t mean—” Her eyes shift to her notepad. “I thought you were someone else.”

She walks out before I can respond.

I stay there a moment longer, coffee in hand, heart kicking in my chest.

I don’t know what just happened. I don’t know if it meant anything.

But it’s the first thing all day I haven’t been able to file away.

I return to my desk and sit down. Open my inbox.

Everything looks the same.

But it’s not.