Yesterday. After the first post. After my name started moving through mouths like it belongs to them. I’ve been in her orbit longer than she’s ever acknowledged, but I don’t hand her that.
“I’m here for a reason.”
“Good.” She doesn’t blink. Doesn’t soften. “I don’t accept them.”
I step closer. Controlled. Careful. Intentional enough that the space between us changes without either of us naming it. Close enough to see the faint smudge of graphite on her fingers. Close enough that my body registers the shape of her stillness like it’s a dare.
My hands stay at my sides anyway.
“This is about leverage,” I say.
Her eyes narrow a fraction, like she’s adjusting a lens. “Everything is about leverage with you, Rossi.”
I don’t deny it. The silence does that for me.
“That rumor,” I say. “It’s not slowing down.”
“That’s what rumors do.”
“It’s escalating.”
She leans back in her chair, crossing one booted ankle over the other. Controlled. Deliberate. A redistribution of weight that changes the room. She knows exactly what that movement does to a gaze and doesn’t pretend otherwise.
The boots are a choice. Everything about her is.
“Why are you telling me this?” she asks.
“Because it’s about to start costing people who didn’t earn it.”
Her gaze sharpens. The calculation shifts. “Meaning me.”
“Meaning anyone standing near me.”
I let the silence stretch. The lights hum overhead. Somewhere down the hall, someone laughs too loud, like the world hasn’t realized it just leaned closer to a fault line. The smell of graphite and fixative hangs in the air—sharp, chemical. Clean. A room built for focus and control.
Two things I’m not allowed to keep right now.
Outside the glass, one of the phones lifts higher. The crowd decides it doesn’t need permission.
I feel it in my shoulders first—that shift where I’m no longer choosing the terms of my own proximity.
The hallway is.
She tilts her head. “You’re assuming I plan to stand anywhere near you.”
“You already are.”
“That’s not my problem.”
“It will be.”
Her fingers tap once against the table. A warning disguised as habit. “Careful.”
“You’re visible,” I continue. “Competent. And you’re exposed. No donor shield. No legacy cushion. Just you and what you’ve earned.”
She lets out a quiet snort, sharp and unimpressed. “You think I don’t know that?”
“I think you underestimate how fast they’ll punish you for being near the wrong headline.”
