My throat feels tight, but I nod.
"Wonderful." Vivian's smile brightens, as if we've just discussed quarterly projections instead of my professional execution. "I knew I could count on your discretion. Your loyalty to this organization has always been exemplary."
The way she saysloyaltymakes it soundlike a leash.
"Was there anything specific about the Northstar timeline you wanted to discuss?" I ask, grasping for some semblance of normal business conversation.
"Oh, we'll have plenty of time for that. I just wanted to make sure we were on the same page about priorities." She glances at her Rolex. "You should get to your office. I'm sure you have a busy day ahead."
I stand on unsteady legs, the dismissal clear.
"Sloane?" Her voice stops me at the door. "I do hope you'll keep our little chat confidential. These types of conversations can be so easily misunderstood."
"Of course."
"Have a productive day."
The door closes behind me with a soft click that sounds like a cell door slamming shut.
The cursor blinks mockingly at me from my computer screen, a steady pulse against the budget spreadsheet I've been staring at for the past twenty minutes without comprehending a single number.
The familiar hum of the Mammoth Center's corporate wing—phones ringing, keyboards clicking, the distant whir of the copy machine—feels amplified today, like my nerves are tuned to a frequency that makes every sound sharp and accusatory.
Any hint of impropriety would be catastrophic.
Vivian's words loop through my mind on endless repeat, each syllable a tiny blade cutting at my composure. The meeting wasn't a firing—it was something worse. A warning.A promise. She knows about Garrett and me, and she's given me a choice: end it, or watch her destroy us both.
I force myself to focus on the Q3 projections, but the numbers blur together like watercolors in rain.
Some risks simply aren't worth taking.
My hands shake slightly as I reach for my coffee mug—empty again, though I don't remember finishing it. The ceramic feels too light in my grip, another reminder that I'm operating on nothing but adrenaline and terror.
No ammunition for gossip podcasts.
A burst of laughter from the hallway makes me flinch. The paranoia tastes metallic on my tongue, sharper now because I understand exactly what I'm paranoid about. This isn't vague anxiety about rumors anymore. This is the specific, targeted fear of a predator who's already chosen her prey.
Vivian didn't just threaten my job. She threatened Garrett's reputation, the team's brand, the entire Northstar deal. She's made me the potential architect of everyone's destruction, and she's given me just enough rope to hang myself.
Your conduct reflects directly on the organization.
Every whispered conversation in the hallway now feels loaded with purpose. Every sideways glance carries the weight of Vivian's strategy. She's positioning me as a liability, and I can feel the narrative taking shape around me like a net.
I've built my career on being invisible until the moment I choose to be seen, on controlling every narrative and managing every perception. Now I'm the subject of a campaign I can't manage, targeted by someone who's better at this game than I am.
The powerlessness is suffocating.
My coffee mug sits empty on my desk like an accusation. I need caffeine. Need something to anchor me before my 2p.m. meeting with Garrett—a routine check-in about playoff media coverage that now feels like walking through a minefield in heels.
The breakroom is mercifully empty when I push through the door, the scent of burnt coffee and microwaved lunches a familiar comfort. I'm reaching for the coffee pot when voices drift through the thin wall that separates the breakroom from the marketing bullpen.
"—honestly think she's sleeping with him?"
I freeze, my hand halfway to the pot handle.
"I mean, come on. Did you see the way he looked at her during that meeting last week? Like she was speaking in a secret language only he understood."
"Jennifer, you're being dramatic."
