The next voice I hear is sharp. Female. Confident.
“Well, look who decided to get a personality makeover.”
Another voice, lower. Smug. Dismissive.
“Cute watch. Where’d you get it, Walmart? Or did your boyfriend spring for something a little more… knockoff?”
I frown, listening carefully.
The sharp one’s got command in her tone—boss energy. That’s got to be Stephanie Martinez. Boris flagged her as Mary’s direct supervisor. Ambitious. Cutthroat. Calls herself a team leader.
The other one—lower voice, sloppier cadence, passive-aggressive tone—that has to be Janice. The receptionist. Dave’s side piece. She was always the one covering for him. Lies easily. Probably thinks that makes her clever.
“Must be nice, playing dress-up like you’re somebody,”Stephanie whispers, her voice closer now, like she’s leaned over Mary’s desk just to say it straight into her ear.
A beat of silence.
Then I hear Mary.
Small. Controlled.
“Fake it till you make it… right?”
A nervous laugh follows. Thin. Hollow. It dies before it finishes.
She’s trying to brush it off. Trying to keep the peace. But I hear the way she exhales after. Shaky. Like it cost her something just to get those six words out.
Fucking hell.
“Please. That girl walks like her spine’s made of paper.”
My vision narrows. My pulse doesn’t spike; itfocuses. Sharp and hot behind my eyes.
I hear the voice change. Stephanie’s again.
“Anyway, since you’ve got a whole new look, can you run and grab me a coffee? No customers right now, unless you count that old guy with the fanny pack, and he only wants quarters.”
“Sure,”Mary says.“One sugar, no cream?”
“Atta girl,”Stephanie chirps.“See? Dress like a big girl, still take orders like a good little clerk.”
A customer walks up mid-sentence—bell chimes, transaction interrupts—and I hear Mary switch tones like a goddamn professional.
“Hi there, how can I help you today?”
Polite. Warm. Like she wasn’t just verbally gutted in front of her direct superior.
And she takes it.
She always fucking takes it.
I set the cup down hard enough to splash lukewarm coffee across the table. My hand curls into a fist, slow and tight.
Not because of what they said.
Because she let them say it.
Because she agreed with it.
