No one picks it up.
***
By evening, everyone has gone home. I'm still at my desk, staring at the same email I've been trying to write for three hours.
My assistant knocked earlier, asked if I was okay. I snapped at her for a typo in a report. She left quickly, eyes wide.
I've become someone people are afraid of. Someone who destroys things.
My father.
The thought makes me physically ill.
I need air. Need to move. Need to get out of this office that still smells faintly like her perfume.
The supply room is on my way to the elevator. I pass it, then stop. Something makes me backtrack.
The lights are off. I flip them on, scan the shelves for—I don't even know what.
Then I see it.
On the floor, partially hidden under a shelf. Bailey's sketch. The paper girl, wind-torn and brave, reaching for something just out of frame.
I pick it up with shaking hands. It's crumpled, stained with coffee someone spilled. Ruined.
She showed me this in a rare quiet moment between meetings. Shy, vulnerable, hopeful. "This is what I want to do someday. Animation. Real art."
I'd told her it was beautiful. Meant it.
Now it's in the trash because I fired her.
My legs give out. I sink to the floor of the supply room, back against the cold wall, sketch clutched in my hands.
What have I done?
The question echoes in the silence. No answer comes.
I sit there—I don't know how long. Minutes. Hours. Time loses meaning when you're sitting in a supply room holding the shattered dreams of the woman you destroyed.
My phone buzzes. I ignore it. It buzzes again. And again.
Finally, I look.
Three missed calls from an unknown number. One voicemail.
I almost delete it without listening. But something makes me press play.
A woman's voice, clipped and furious: "This is Gretchen Park. Bailey's friend. I'll be in your building lobby at 10 PM. If you're not a complete coward, you'll meet me there."
The message ends.
I check the time: 9:47 PM.
***
Gretchen is waiting exactly where she said she'd be.
She's small but fierce, arms crossed, eyes burning with the kind of rage that would make most men run. When she sees me, her expression hardens into something colder.
