52

Gillian

E llis walks in like he just left the gym or a woman—shirt still wrinkled at the sides, sleeves half-pushed up.

No tie.

He doesn’t wear one when he’s finished. Nothing about him is unintentional, not even the wrinkles—he wants you to know he didn’t have to try.

He doesn’t look at me right away.

He doesn’t ask me to sit.

He pours a drink instead. One-handed, practiced. Two fingers of something I’m not allowed to want.

I brace for cruelty, but it doesn’t come—not at first. He’s too calm. Too pleased with himself. That’s the tell.

“I had her over last night,” he says.

He lets it hang there.

I don’t ask who. That would give him too much.

He keeps going anyway. “She said no, you know. The first time. Thought that meant something.” He smiles. “It didn’t.”

He studies me. Waiting for the flicker. The drop. The thing I can’t hide. And maybe he gets it, because he shifts—just a little—and adds, “She reminds me of you. Not this version of you. The version of you before. The one I liked.”

That gets closer.

“She loved it,” he says. “Same as you.”

There’s nothing in his tone. No pride. No cruelty. He’s just sorting the facts out loud.

“Why am I here?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Felt appropriate.”

There’s a file on the table. Red binder. The same kind they used to bring me every quarter, back when they still pretended I had a role. He doesn’t hand it to me. Just taps it once, like a bell.

“Your replacement,” he says.

I already knew, but it stings anyway.

He picks up the glass. Doesn’t drink.

“Most of them don’t make it to twenty-one days,” he says. “But who knows with this one? She’s adaptable. You were too, once.”

He says it like a compliment. Like something I should be proud of.

“You fucked her,” I say, because this is what he wants. This is what he’s waiting for.

His brow lifts—just a fraction. Then he smiles. “Of course.”

There it is.

Not rage. Not joy. Just the clean satisfaction of knowing you understand. That’s all he ever needs.

He sits. Not facing me. Angled just enough to remind me I can go. I just can’t leave.

“She knows about me,” I say.

“She thinks she does.” He drains the glass and sets it aside. “But thinking is such a slippery thing here.”

I breathe carefully. With him, even breathing too loud is a signal.

“You’ll do what with her?”

He leans back, relaxed. “Whatever works.”

Of course.

Of course that’s the answer.

He doesn’t need me to react. He just needs me to understand.

And I do.

Not everything. Not yet. But enough.

He’s not letting me go.

He’s letting me watch.

I remember the way she looked at me last week in the break room. That strange, sideways recognition. The almost.

I didn’t warn her. I should have warned her.

“You know what I hate?” he asks. “When people pretend they don’t understand how systems work. Like outcomes just… happen. Like they’re random.”

He stands and moves around the room. Not pacing. Just claiming space.

He smiles a little—not at me.

“Twenty-one days,” he says, like it’s a game. “You remember what that means.”

I nod, hating myself for it.

“She didn’t cry. Not like you.”

“I didn’t cry,” I say, knowing it won’t matter.

He looks at me. And I feel it—how useless the truth is to someone like him.

“No,” he agrees. “Not the first time.”