Chris’s eyes narrow. “Who?”
Briana’s gaze darts to me. Holds for a fraction of a second. Then drops.
“Julian,” she sniffles, her voice still trembling but gaining traction. “He told me it was temporary. That no one wouldnotice. He said it was how people like him survived corporate politics. I was scared.”
I stare at her. My blood feels slushy, thick and freezing in my veins.
“You’re lying,” I rasp. “She’s lying.”
She sobs harder, shoulders shaking. “I loved him. I trusted him. He said he’d protect me.”
“That’s not true,” I snap. “That’s not what happened—”
Caleb finally cuts in. “Briana, are you stating Julian coerced you into these activities?”
Coerced.
The word turns my stomach.
She nods rapidly, tears streaking her makeup. “Yes. He had power over me. My position. My future here. I didn’t feel like I could say no.”
My vision blurs at the edges.
She is not just accusing me of theft. She is accusing me of exploiting her—of using my seniority, my authority, my position to force her into criminal activity.
“This is insane,” I say, turning to my boss. “You know me. You know my record. I would never do anything like this. I don’t need to. I make more than enough money. Why would I steal?”
My record is good. My performance reviews are excellent. I have never been written up, never been disciplined, never been accused of anything more serious than missing a deadline.
I search his face for recognition. For the man who trusted me, who promoted me, who said I had a future here. His face gives me nothing. He is not my mentor right now. He is my employer. And employers protect the company.
Briana wipes her face with the back of her hand and lets out a small, wet hiccup. It’s a revolting sound. Her hand shakes. I want to reach across the table and shake her until her teethrattle, just to see if the “coerced” mask would slip. Yet, my arms sit there, heavy and useless, like they belong to someone else.
“I-I have proof,” she says, her voice tight with strain. “I saved everything.”
My heart pounds so violently I press a hand to my chest without thinking. “What proof?” I whisper.
She pulls out her phone.
Sarah leans forward. Caleb shifts in his seat.
Briana’s thumb trembles as she taps the screen, then she turns it outward, facing my boss.
Photos.
Us.
The images are damning. Her head on my shoulder in my office after hours, her smile soft, my arm around her. I remember that night. She stayed late, brought me coffee, and asked about my day. I thought nothing of it. I’d felt a surge of dull, ego-driven warmth, even. I never considered how it would look, how someone could use it, how a photograph could transform from memory into evidence.
A selfie taken in a bathroom mirror I do not remember standing in. The photo is grainy, poorly lit, but our faces are clear. Mine. Hers. My arm around her waist. Her lips pressed to my cheek. She wears a dress I bought her for a weekend we spent together. A thin, expensive slip of silk that felt like nothing in my hands and I had paid for in cash, while my wife stayed home, cooking dinner, waiting for me to return.
Then the messages.
With every swipe of her finger, my stomach plummets. A cold, wet stone falling through the center of my body.
Late-night texts. Flirty banter. Promises I never should have made.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
