Finally, I set the phone face down on the table, sink into a chair.
My father's voice echoes in the silence.You want to pretend you're different from me. You're not.
I wonder if he's right.
CHAPTER 20
THE WHISPERS
EMMA
Heads turnthe moment I cross the threshold.
It's subtle at first. A pause in typing. A conversation dropping to a whisper. Then the sideways glances, tracking me as I walk toward my desk. I keep my spine straight, eyes forward.
Ignore them. Just breathe.
I reach my desk and lower myself into the chair, wrap my fingers around my coffee mug. The ceramic is cool and solid. Something to hold onto.
My workspace is a sanctuary of organized chaos. Colorful Post-its fanned across the monitor, reports arranged just so. I've spent weeks making this corner feel like mine. Today, that control feels fragile.
“Emma.”
The voice makes my stomach clench. I look up to find Miles leaning against the edge of my desk, arms crossed, smirk in place.
“Landing the ELK campaign is quite the achievement,” he says. “Especially for someone with your... particular qualifications.”
The insinuation hangs in the air. I force my expression neutral. “Thanks, Miles. I'm looking forward to the work.”
“I bet you are.” He leans closer, his cologne sour and overpowering. “Tell me, what's Rhodes's interview process like? I hear he's very... hands-on with his creative leads.”
The words land like a slap. Heat floods my face. I clench my hands under the desk, nails biting into my palms.
“I suggest you keep your comments to yourself, Miles.”
“Oh, come on.” He chuckles. “We both know how you secured that account. I'm just curious about the... negotiation tactics. Must have been quite the spread.”
I push back from my desk so hard the chair screeches against the floor. Heads snap up across the office. I don't care.
“My work speaks for itself,” I say, voice sharp and clear. “If you have a problem with my performance, take it up with Thomas. And let him know I'll be filing a formal complaint about this conversation.”
Miles steps back, smirk faltering. I don't wait for a response. I sit back down, angle my chair toward my monitor, force my eyes to focus on a spreadsheet blurred into gray.
The whispers resume. Low. Constant. They think I'm his plaything. They think I traded my body for a leg up.
Right place, right face, Emma.
James's voice echoes in my head. He used to say it with a laugh, usually after I'd landed a new client or finished a successful campaign. He had a way of diminishing every achievement, framing each victory as luck or someone wanting to do me a favor. Three years of that, and I started believing I was nothing more than a collection of fortunate accidents.
And now Kai.
I don't think he's James. I don't. He's not cruel. He doesn't enjoy cutting me down.
What bothers me is the question I can't stop asking. What about me made him think I needed saving?
Every time I opened up about Miles or the spreadsheets, I thought I was finding a safe place to land. I thought he was listening because he cared. I didn't realize I was handing him a list of problems to solve. He looked at my life and saw something broken that needed his intervention.
Maybe I did need saving. Maybe I am that pathetic.
