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Lena

I wake up expecting him.

Not hovering, not holding my hand—just somewhere nearby. Sitting in the corner maybe. Arms crossed. Waiting to make sure I’m okay. That unreadable expression he wears when he wants credit for being thoughtful.

But the room’s empty. Sterile. No Ellis. No sign he was ever here.

What I remember is this: a taste like copper, the walls tilting, someone saying, “She’s going down.”

Then the conference room floor came up too fast.

I remember everyone staring at me.

I remember trying to stand.

I remember blood.

A lot of it. Too much. Pouring down my neck, onto the floor.

And then Ellis was there. Calm. Commanding. “It’s a simple fix,” he said. After that—nothing.

Now I’m lying on a medical bed in a room with too much symmetry and no windows. The ache in my mouth has moved. It’s no longer just post-op soreness. It’s deeper than that—tugged at, pressed down, cauterized. I touch the side of my face. It’s swollen. Tender.

There’s no chart. No nurse. No explanation.

Eventually a man walks in. He doesn’t introduce himself. Just says, “Mr. Harrison sends his regrets. Something came up. But good news—you’re cleared for release.”

I don’t respond. Before the words even finish landing, a nurse appears with a wheelchair and a smile that feels forced.

I’m too groggy to argue. Walking’s out of the question.

The hallways all look the same. Blank walls, cold floors, that antiseptic smell that clings to skin like static.

Every turn feels like it leads nowhere. But eventually we reach a door that opens to daylight.

The car is waiting. Black. Tinted. Company issue.

I climb in, and we head back toward the city.

By the time I get home, the bleeding’s stopped. But the stiffness along my jaw, the dryness in my throat, the metallic tang have not. I check my messages—nothing. No check-in, no follow-up. Just the digital equivalent of a closed door.

I don’t sleep well, but that’s nothing new.

By morning, there’s one email. From Andra.

Mr. Harrison is away on business. Please route all communications through me.

No return date. No context.

Just a single sentence trying very hard not to be suspicious.

No follow-up. No concern. Just Andra, with her bullet-point detachment, sliding into his seat like it was warmed up for her.

I stare at it longer than I need to.

Two days pass. I heal.

Or at least, I stop actively leaking. The swelling fades. The pain gets boring. My jaw moves without catching.

I tell myself it’s over. That it’s behind me.

I return to the office.

By the time I come back in, I’ve convinced myself no one remembers. That the blood’s been mopped. That the carpet’s been replaced. That I’m not the punchline of the week.

And then I walk into the break room.

Stewy’s eating a banana like he’s trying to make it uncomfortable. He grins when he sees me.

“You look good for someone who bled out in a conference room,” he says with a grin.

“Thanks.”

He shrugs. “Hey, they say loyalty looks good in red.”

A beat. Then, like he’s logging an equipment failure: “Honestly? I’m surprised the boss patched you up. Usually once the body breaks, he just gets a new one.”

“Wow,” I say. “Did Legal sign off on that line?”

A slow smile creeps up. “What are they gonna do? Fire me? I am Legal.”

I open the cabinet, try to look disinterested, pick up a mug, set it down. I’m not drinking anything. My mouth still tastes like gauze and regret.

He doesn’t take the hint.

“I’m sure Ellis sends his regards.”

I pause. Glance over.

He bites into his banana, then talks around it. “From wherever he is…off-site. Private property. No signal. Company blackout zone. You know it’s serious when they cut the feed.”

“Business serious?” I ask. “Or the other kind.”

Stewy gives me a look. The kind people give toddlers trying to count to eleven on their fingers.

“You don’t know,” he says. “Oh, sweetheart.”

“Don’t call me sweetheart.”

“Too soon. Copy that.”

I stare at him—he stares back.

Then: “He’s with Gillian.”

That lands too cleanly. Like it’s been waiting. Like he’s been dying to say it since I walked in.

“I mean not with —with,” Stewy adds. “But also yeah. With.”

“They’re together? What—like a couple?”

He snorts. “Whatever you want to call it. She’s always around. You don’t get it—he doesn’t get rid of her. He shelves her. Different shelf. Same reach.”

I say nothing. That’s the safest move.

“I wouldn’t worry too much if I were you. She was the blueprint,” Stewy says, sucking banana from his thumb. “You’re the upgrade.”

I want to throw something. But I don’t.

Instead, I slam the cabinet. “Got it. Thanks for the intel.”

“Anytime. Just don’t cry in the main stairwell. That one’s already taken.” He tosses his peel into the garbage can, unconcerned. “Girl with the knee tattoo. They’re never as strong as you think…”

I walk out before he can say anything else.

Back at my desk, I open a blank document. Not for notes. Not for work.

Just something to stare into that isn’t his name in my inbox.

Ellis is with Gillian. After everything...I don’t like that.

Not in the way Stewy thinks. It’s not jealousy. It’s not heartbreak.

It’s something else.

Something worse.