Are you okay? Don’t go online.
Too late.
I exhaled through my nose, typing back with fingers that didn’t feel steady.
Already did. Going into work.
The three dots blinked for a long moment before her next message appeared.
Elle…
I didn’t answer.
Because I didn’t know what to say.
I wasn’t okay. I wasn’t falling apart, either. I was hovering somewhere between the two—numb, but too aware.
Outside, the town was already awake. Cars moved, horns blared, life went on like the world hadn’t just labeled me the villain in a story I didn’t agree to star in.
I slipped my phone into my bag, grabbed my keys, and paused at the door. For a second, I almost turned back. I thought about leaving a note for him—something simple, something honest.
But what could I even say?
I’m sorry you’re paying for loving me?
I wish last night could’ve stayed ours?
None of it would make a difference.
So I straightened my shoulders, turned the handle, and stepped out.
The hallway light flickered as I walked past, the hum of the elevator filling the silence. My reflection in the metal doors looked like someone else entirely—someone who’d learned the hard way that even good things could turn dangerous under a headline.
As the elevator descended, my phone buzzed again in my bag. I didn’t check it.
All I could think, over and over, was that I had a foundation to run. Donors to reassure. A reputation to salvage—not for me, but for everyone who counted on me to stay standing.
I could fall apart later.
Right now, I had to look like I hadn’t already started.
The office felt different that morning.
Still dark enough that the lights flickered when I turned them on, blinds half-open to a washed-out sunrise. The air was stale—like the whole building had been holding its breath overnight.
I slipped my key from the lock and let the familiar scent of coffee grounds and printer ink wrap around me. Normally it was comforting, grounding. Today, it just reminded me that this place was supposed to be steady when I wasn’t.
The click of my heels echoed as I crossed to my desk. Everything looked the same—posters from past fundraisers, the framed photo of the first kids’ soccer team we’d sponsored—but the stillness was heavy, expectant. Like the air before a storm.
I set my bag down, exhaled, and forced myself to move. Movement meant I was still functioning.
The door creaked open again a few minutes later.
Naomi slipped in, hair half up, dark circles under her eyes. She stopped when she saw me, her mouth falling open. “You shouldn’t be here yet.”
“I couldn’t stay home.” My voice sounded calm, which was either a miracle or a lie. I grabbed the nearest stack of papers and straightened it, then another. My hands needed something to do. “If I stay home, I’ll think about him. I can’t do that right now.”
Naomi closed the door quietly, like she was afraid any sudden sound might break me. “You think coming here’s better?”
