Mark watches me for a moment. Not invasive. Just attentive.
“This was his mess,” I say quietly. “Of course it stayed with him.”
Mark nods once. “You’re not wrong.”
I glance at him then. He isn’t placating me. He isn’t trying to make me feel better.
He’s agreeing.
“I didn’t do anything wrong,” I add. Not defensively. Just stating a fact.
“No,” he says. “You didn’t.”
I sit, straighten my monitor, and open the document I was working on Friday.
The cursor blinks patiently.
Around us, the office settles into its rhythm. Phones ring again. A meeting room door closes. Someone complains about the coffee.
Life continues.
Mark lingers for a second longer. “If you need anything?—”
“I know,” I say. And I do.
He nods and walks away.
I take a breath, then another, and begin typing.
The work comes easily.
I’m untouched.
Not because I was hidden.
Because I was never the problem.
And for the first time since Friday night, that truth feels solid enough to stand on.
Chapter Thirty-One
DEREK
The lobby feelsdifferent the moment I walk in.
Not louder. Quieter. Conversations pause just long enough to register before resuming at a lower volume.
The marble floor echoes more than usual, each step sounding deliberate, exposed.
Not louder.
Quieter.
Eyes lift. Conversations pause—not long enough to be obvious, but long enough to register. People look away a second too late, like they’ve been caught doing something impolite even though no one told them not to stare.
I keep my face neutral. My pace even.
I don’t acknowledge it.
