Elsa
The conference room is exactly what it’s supposed to be: neutral, quiet, forgettable.
Beige walls. A long table with too many chairs. A pitcher of water sweating onto a neat stack of coasters. The kind of carpet that blends into the environment instead of standing out.
Perfect.
I walk in with my tablet tucked under my arm and my phone silenced in my hand, freshly showered and back in my business armor. My suit is charcoal, tailored, conservative enough that no one can accuse me of trying to distract anyone. The blouse underneath is high-necked and clean. My hair is smoothed back, makeup minimal, a return to the version of myself that is easiest for others to respect.
The version of myself that doesn’t wake up with sore thighs and a man’s hand on her breast.
I take the chair I want—near the middle, where I can see everyone without being trapped at thehead—and set my tablet down. I align it with the edge of the table. I place my pen beside it, parallel. Small order, small control.
I’m early.
I’m always early.
I breathe in slowly, let my shoulders settle, and force my mind onto the agenda instead of… elsewhere.
Before my mind can drift off into elsewhere, thankfully, the door opens.
David Holbrook walks in with the same punctual efficiency he always carries. Suit crisp. Expression neutral. He gives me a nod that’s almost friendly.
“Morning,” he says.
“Morning,” I reply.
He takes a seat two chairs away, sets down a leather portfolio, and flips it open immediately as if he’s been waiting all night to see numbers.
We sit in silence for a minute that isn’t awkward, because David doesn’t do awkward. He does straightforward.
The door opens again.
Eleanor Pierce arrives like she’s late even when she isn’t. She’s impeccably put together—hair perfect, jewelry understated, eyes sharp. She glances at me, then the room, then chooses a seat herself.
“Elsa,” she says.
“Eleanor,” I return.
She sets a slim folder on the table, the movement precise. No wasted motion. No wasted words.
Then the door opens a third time, and Malcolm Crane steps in, phone in hand, jacket buttoned, expression smooth. CEO on autopilot. He looks up, takes in who’s here, and his face relaxes a fraction.
“Good,” he says. “We’re ready to start.
David’s mouth twitches, almost a smile. Eleanor doesn’t react. I don’t either.
He always says that. Because he always arrives last.
Malcolm takes the seat at the head of the table, sets his phone down, and looks at each of us in turn.
“Thank you for making the time this morning,” he says, and it’s the tone he uses when he doesn’t want the meeting to feel mandatory, even when we all know it is. “I know it’s not ideal.”
“It’s efficient,” I say, because that’s the only compliment I’m willing to give.
Malcolm nods as if he expected that exact answer. “I’m glad you could make it,” he says, then adds, “And I’m sorry you couldn’t make it to the gala last night.”
My stomach tightens, a reflexive pinch of memory—warm light, loud laughter, a man’smouth—
