CHAPTER 9- WOMAN TO WOMAN
1562 Words
ANDREA
It had been three days since the kiss, and Ethan Vance hadn’t so much as looked at me.
Three days of heavy silence.
Three days of pretending everything was fine.
The office hadn’t changed; same crisp white walls, same quiet hum of keyboards, same air-conditioned chill that always made me wish I’d brought a sweater. But somehow, everything felt different. Like someone had taken the color out of the place.
I still knocked on his office door every evening out of habit. The same way I used to, a light tap, just enough for him to hear. And every time, there was no answer.
The first night, I thought maybe he’d fallen asleep at his desk again. The second, I told myself he was just tired.
By the third, I stopped lying to myself.
He was avoiding me.
During the day, he was polite, too polite. I’d walk in with reports or updates on Project Helios, and he’d barely glance at me before giving a short nod or a clipped “Thank you, Ms. Bennett.”
Ms. Bennett.
He hadn’t called me that in weeks.
Before… everything, he used to tease me about being too serious, too proper. He’d smile, that smooth, knowing smile, and say things like, “Lighten up, Andrea, you make the rest of us look bad.”
Now he didn’t even smile.
It was like a door had closed somewhere I couldn’t reach.
At first, I tried to tell myself that it made sense. What happened that night wasn’t supposed to happen. He was married. My boss. And I should have been the one to stop it.
But knowing that didn’t make the silence easier to live with.
Every time I walked past his office, I’d feel that hollow ache tighten in my chest, the same one that served as a constant reminder that I ruined it, I ruined whatever this was.
By the end of the week, I was barely sleeping.
My mind kept circling back to the same thoughts. The way he’d looked at me before he kissed me, the softness in his eyes, like he was seeing me for the first time.
And then the way he’d pulled away, the guilt, the apology, the walls slamming back up all at once.
Layla noticed, of course. She always did.
It was a Thursday night when she flopped down on my bed, a sheet mask sliding off her cheek, holding a bag of spicy chips like a microphone. “Okay, spill,” she said dramatically. “You’ve been walking around like someone ran over your puppy. And don’t tell me it’s the project again.”
I was sitting by the window, laptop open, not really doing anything. “It’s nothing,” I said.
Layla raised an eyebrow. “Right. And I’m the Queen of England. Come on, Andrea. I know that face. Something’s wrong. Is it work? Or, oh my God, don’t tell me it’s him.”
I froze. “Who?”
She grinned. “Your boss, obviously. You two were getting all… close.” She made air quotes, her grin widening when I glared. “Did something happen?”
“Layla,” I said, sharper than I intended.
Her smile faltered. “Whoa, okay. I was just—”
“Just what?” I snapped. “Making up stories again? Not everything has to be drama.”
The room went quiet. The sound of the air conditioner filled the gap between us. Layla blinked, caught off guard, she’d never heard me speak to her like that. For a moment, guilt rushed in, but pride kept me from apologizing.
“Right,” she said finally, getting up. “Got it. No drama.”
She tossed the half-eaten chips on the bed and walked out. The door closed with a soft click, and I was left with the kind of silence that stung.
I closed my laptop and pressed my palms against my face.
“Nice job, Andrea.” I mumbled to myself.
But I couldn’t explain it. I couldn’t even explain it to myself.
The weekend came and went without so much as a single word from Ethan. By Monday, the ache of not knowing had started to gnaw at me. I’d catch myself drafting emails in my head while on the subway or mid-meeting, then mentally deleting them before I could even write a word.
Still, that night, sitting on my bed, I opened my laptop and stared at his name in my work inbox: E. Vance. My fingers hovered over the keyboard. I knew his work email, everyone did. But this wasn’t about work, and that made it feel… wrong.
I started typing anyway.
Then deleted it.
Then started again.
By the fifth time, I sighed and hit compose one last time.
Hi, this is Andrea.
I just wanted to know if you’re okay.
I’m sorry if I overstepped that night.
Simple and short.
I read it a dozen times before pressing send. Then I shut the laptop, heart pounding like I’d just confessed something forbidden.
For the next few hours, I checked my inbox every ten minutes. Nothing. I told myself I didn’t care. That it was fine if he didn’t reply. That I just needed closure.
By morning, I’d convinced myself he wouldn’t reply. Ethan Vance wasn’t the kind of man who responded to emotional emails from his staff, especially not from the woman he shouldn’t have kissed.
But around noon, while I was stapling a stack of financial summaries, my inbox pinged.
**1 new mail.**
My breath caught.
It was from E. Vance.
My hands trembled as I clicked it open.
Let’s talk tomorrow. 7 p.m.
Café Luno.
That was all it said. No greeting. No sign-off.
Still, my pulse wouldn’t slow down.
He wanted to talk.
Maybe there was hope after all.
I arrived at Café Luno the next evening ten minutes early. My stomach was a tangled mess of butterflies and caffeine. The place was small but warm, soft lights and quiet jazz music. I picked a table by the window and sat down, clasping my hands together to keep them from fidgeting.
Every time the door opened, I looked up.
7:02.
7:05.
7:10.
By 7:15, I started worrying he wasn’t coming. Maybe he’d changed his mind. Maybe this was his polite way of telling me never to contact him again.
And then the bell above the door chimed.
I looked up, heart jumping.
But it wasn’t Ethan.
It was a woman; tall, graceful, in a fitted black coat. She moved through the café like she owned the space. Her hair was sleek, her makeup immaculate. And on her left hand, catching the light, was a diamond ring I’d seen before.
Vanessa Vance.
For a moment, I couldn’t breathe.
She spotted me almost immediately and smiled, the kind of smile that wasn’t meant to reach her eyes. Then she walked over to my table and stopped just across from me.
“Andrea Bennett,” she said smoothly. “You’re punctual. I like that.”
I swallowed hard. “Mrs. Vance?”
Her smile didn’t falter. “You were expecting my husband, weren’t you?”
I couldn’t find my voice.
She tilted her head slightly, the diamond on her finger catching the light again. “I read your email.”
The words hit me like a slap. “I—” My throat went dry. “I didn’t mean— I wasn’t—”
“Oh, don’t look so frightened.” Her tone was calm, even kind in a way that made it worse. “I’m not here to make a scene. I just thought it would be best if we talked… woman to woman.”
I stared at her, every word feeling heavier than the last. “About what?”
She leaned in just slightly, her perfume, something expensive and cold, filling the air between us.
“About boundaries,” she said. “And about knowing your place.”
My heart pounded. “Mrs. Vance, I think you’re misunderstanding—”
“I don’t think I am.” She smiled again, tighter this time. “Whatever you think is happening between you and my husband, it’s not real. You’re not important. You can never be.”
The words landed with so much ease, like she’d practiced them.
Something stung at the back of my throat, but I couldn’t let it show. “I wasn’t trying to—”
“Of course you were,” she said, still smiling. “Women like you always do. You see a man with power and think you can mean something to him. But Ethan… Ethan’s not the kind to fall for that.”
Her tone wasn’t cruel, that was the worst part. It was calm. Like she was giving me a fact, not an insult.
For a moment, I thought she might throw the coffee in my face or cause a scene, but she didn’t. She just stood up, smoothing her coat.
“I’m sure you’re a sweet girl, Andrea,” she said softly. “But this ends now.”
Then she slipped her sunglasses on and gave me one last glance. “Enjoy your evening.”
And just like that, she walked out.
I didn’t move.
I sat there, staring at the untouched coffee across from me, until the cup went cold.
- Writer
