I look toward Aleksei’s office on pure instinct, but the glass is empty. He isn’t there. Because if he were, no one on this floor would dare make a sound.
Another snicker. That does it.
I grab my bag so hard it nearly topples the coffee, turn, and walk as fast as I can without running.
Then someone behind me says, “Guess she’s not denying it.”
And the last shred of control I have snaps.
I run.
Not elegantly. Not with dignity. I run straight down the aisle, past the copier, past Vivian’s desk, past Lina whispering my name, past every face I can feel but refuse to look at.
By the time I reach the elevator, I can’t breathe properly. My chest hurts. My ears are ringing. I punch the button once, twice, then don’t wait for it at all. I bolt for the stairwell instead, shoving through the heavy door and stumbling downward in heels that were a mistake and a skirt that suddenly feels too tight and too visible and wrong.
I don’t stop until I hit the lobby.
And even there, even with cool air and marble and security and the revolving doors spinning strangers in and out of the building, I still feel like every eye is on me.
My worst nightmare came true. And it didn’t just find me.
It found me at the one place I was starting to believe I might actually belong.
The revolving doors spit me out into cold air and traffic noise and a city that does not care if I’m dying in the middle of the sidewalk.
Good. At least the city is honest.
I make it half a block before I have to stop, one hand braced on the stone wall of the building next door, the other pressed hard to my mouth like I can physically force the humiliation back down my throat.
My phone is in my bag. My hands are shaking too badly to reach for it. I can still hear the snickering. The word hooker landing in the middle of the office like something sticky and impossible to scrape off.
I should have known.
Of course it would come out like this. Of course, the one thing I kept hidden because it helped me survive would be dragged into the light the second I started thinking maybe I could have something better.
A car door slams nearby. I don’t look up. I don’t need another witness.
Then a voice says, smooth and poisonous, “Well. This is embarrassing.”
I turn slowly.
Alena stands a few feet away in a cream coat and dark sunglasses despite the weather, one hand on a leather handbag that probably cost more than my yearly income from every job I’ve ever had combined. She looks immaculate. Bored. Pleased.
Which somehow makes all of this worse.
I stare at her. “What do you want?”
She smiles, slow and cruel. “Right now? Nothing. I just happened to be nearby and saw you bolt from the building like your hair was on fire. I wondered if the office finally figured out who they hired.”
My stomach turns.So she knows.
She begins to circle me in a slow, measured arc, heels clicking softly on the pavement, like a cat that’s already sure the bird can’t fly. “You really thought,” she says, “that you could go from sex recordings to Aleksei Vasiliev without anyone noticing the gap?”
I swallow hard. “Go to hell.”
“Maybe later.” She stops in front of me again, head tilted, taking me in like I’m a puzzle she solved too quickly to respect. “Tell me, did you actually think you deserved to be with him?”
The words hit harder than the snickering did.
