Rachel and her cluster are gathered near the break room, talking in those animated tones that mean they’re planning something. Sarah joins them, then Julian. Then half the department.
My jaw tightens. Marcus is gone now—fired three days after the copy room incident once HR finished their investigation. Ethan made sure the security footage was reviewed thoroughly, along with complaints from two other women who finally felt safe enough to come forward.
Good riddance.
But his absence hasn’t changed anything else for Violet.
Rachel gestures broadly, her voice carrying across the floor to me even through the glass. “Seven-thirty at Lorenzo’s. Don’t be late!”
The group disperses, everyone heading back to their desks with excited energy.
Everyone except Violet.
She doesn’t look up from her work. Doesn’t acknowledge the conversation happening twenty feet away. But I see the way her shoulders tense. The way her fingers go still on the keyboard for just a moment before resuming their steady rhythm.
She heard them. They didn’t invite her.
My heart twists in my chest.
This isn’t the first time. Over the past two weeks, I’ve watched this same scene play out repeatedly. Happy hour invitations. Lunch plans. Coffee runs that somehow never include her.
They’re not cruel about it. Not obvious. They simply forget she exists. Or they pretend to.
Because Violet keeps her head down. Eats lunch at her desk instead of joining the others in the break room. Stays silent during team discussions unless directly asked a question. She has isolatedherself. Or maybe they have isolated her. I can’t tell anymore which came first.
The afternoon drags on. Work continues. Reports get filed. Calls get made. But I can’t focus on any of it.
By five-thirty, people start packing up. The exodus begins slowly, then picks up speed as six o’clock approaches.
Rachel’s group leaves first, laughing and chattering about dinner plans. Sarah follows with a few analysts. Julian gives Violet a small wave goodbye that she returns with a polite nod.
By six-fifteen, the floor is empty. Except for Violet.
She’s still at her desk. Still typing away like she has nowhere else to be. Like sitting here alone in an empty office is preferable to going home.
To the estate. To her mother’s cold stares and my father’s awkward concern. To the isolation that waits for her there.
I lean back in my chair, studying her through the glass.
She reaches up to rub her eyes, and the gesture is so tired, so defeated, that it physically pains me to see it.
Then, she glances toward the elevator where the last of her colleagues just disappeared. Her expression shifts, just for a moment. A raw look crosses her face before she locks it down again.
Longing.
That’s what it is. Pure, unguarded longing to be included. To belong somewhere. Not to be the one left behind.
The pen splinters in my grip.
She wanted to go with them. And they didn’t even think about asking her.
I should let it go. Should respect the distance we’ve established. Should stay in my office and pretend I don’t see the isolation she’s drowning in.
But I can’t. I’m on my feet, moving toward my door when her cell phone rings.
I freeze with my hand on the knob.
Violet glances at the screen, and her entire face transforms.
