“And the apology,” I continue, voice rising. “An apology for what? For being human? For not being a robot? For daring to like someone without submitting a formal declaration first?”
Hadrian shifts his weight.
“Don’t,” I warn him. “If you start agreeing with the Times, I’m putting you on probation.”
I stop pacing, the rage giving way to something sharper. Cleaner.
Because this isn’t just about me. It’s about the rules. The ones nobody writes down but everyone enforces. Men get context. Women get consequences. Men get to be complex. Women get to be lessons.
I pick up my phone, put it down again.
There’s a draft apology sitting in my inbox. Carefully worded. Bloodless. Designed to make me smaller without ever saying so out loud.
I stare at it like it might blink first.
“Absolutely not,” I tell Hadrian. “I am not apologising for something I didn’t do.”
He tilts his head.
“I know,” I add, softer now. “I know it means losing everything.”
The rage comes back, hot and relentless.
“They want me to disappear quietly,” I say. “They want me grateful. Ashamed. Manageable.”
I straighten, spine stiffening.
“Well,” I say. “That’s unfortunate for them.”
Hadrian flicks his tongue.
I point at him. “Exactly.”
Outside, Carlisle goes on as if nothing has happened. People buy coffee. Buses arrive. Life remains irritatingly intact.
Inside my flat, something settles.
The decision doesn’t feel brave. It feels necessary.
My finger hovers over the mouse, poised aboveSend. Because sometimes doing the right thing is great but doesn’t pay for your roof over your head. And sometimes being forty-five means doing something you absolutely don’t want to do because you have a gecko with a serious cockroach addiction.
I don’t want to fight big battles anymore. When does life get easier?
I keep my eyes forward as I walk through the office.
I don’t need to look to know what’s happening. I can feel it. The looks that catch and slide away. The sudden fascination with keyboards and mugs and screens. The way my name has already started travelling faster than I am.
I don’t slow down.
I go straight to Marie-Louise’s office and close the door behind me before anyone can decide to be show me pity.
She looks up immediately.
“You’re cutting it very fine,” she says. “Do you have the apology?”
I don’t sit.
I stand there for a beat, feel my feet on the carpet, then reach into my bag and pull out a single sheet of paper.
