Chapter 10: Cracks Beneath the Surface
1651 Words
The hum of lunchtime chatter drifted through the PR department, but Maya Thompson didn’t hear any of it. She was seated at her desk, motionless, eyes unfocused, hands clasped too tightly in her lap.
“Hey,” Harper’s gentle voice pulled her back. “Lunch? I found a spot nearby with killer dumplings.”
Maya forced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Thanks… but I think I’ll just stay in.”
“You sure?” Harper asked, brows furrowed.
“Yeah,” she said quickly. “Just need a breather.”
Harper nodded, lingering for a second before stepping away.
As soon as Maya was alone, she stood and quietly made her way to the staircase at the far end of the hallway—her escape route.
Ten flights up. Two heavy doors.
And then—
Silence.
The rooftop was her sanctuary. She’d discovered it on her first day during orientation. A hidden terrace above the chaos, shielded by thick glass panels and greenery. No one came here.
Maya leaned against the metal railing, blinking at the skyline. But it was blurry. Her eyes burned, and she finally let herself fall apart.
She tried to hold it in. She did.
But everything was catching up with her. The sleepless nights, Jamie’s prescriptions piling up, the clinic visit tomorrow she wasn’t sure she could afford. The tip jar at the coffee shop was practically empty last weekend, and now she’d missed an entire week’s worth of pay to commit to this internship—this dream, this risk.
And now this.
Whoever had sent those damn flowers—whether it was a cruel joke or some ridiculous misunderstanding—had put a target on her back. Trina’s words echoed: Office romance is not tolerated. Perception is dangerous.
She wasn’t doing anything wrong. But in a place like this, perception could be fatal.
“I can’t lose this,” she whispered. “Please don’t let me lose this.”
The tears came harder.
She sank to the cold floor, curling in on herself like something brittle about to break. And finally—alone—the sobs tore free.
She wiped her eyes. Smoothed her hair. Composed herself the best she could.
Then she stood.
And went back downstairs.
Meanwhile — Executive Wing
The sleek corridors of the executive wing were a world apart from the noise and energy of the lower floors. Silence reigned here—sharp, polished, intentional.
James Horton moved with quiet efficiency, a slim folder tucked under one arm as his polished shoes echoed against marble. The investigation was complete. As always, swift and precise.
He didn’t need long.
The bouquet had been delivered via Lilium & Lace, a high-end floral boutique. The sender: Paul Sanders. One of the PR generalists who worked just three rows down from Maya Thompson.
James raised a brow slightly as he reviewed Paul’s profile. Clean record. Employed for four years. Well-liked. No major red flags. Just… a man who had apparently taken an interest in the wrong intern.
James walked into Damien’s office.
“He sent them,” James said simply, placing the report on the edge of Damien’s desk.
Damien didn’t look up immediately. He was still staring at the screen—reviewing department analytics, productivity graphs, PR metrics that didn’t actually matter at this moment.
“Name?”
“Paul Sanders.”
Damien’s eyes finally moved.
James continued. “PR generalist. Four years in. Quiet file. No violations—until now.”
There was a pause.
Then, Damien’s tone turned sharp. “I want him gone.”
James waited. “Fired?”
“No. Transferred.” Damien’s voice was ice. “Overseas. Make it immediate. Frame it as strategic collaboration between branches. Internal talent initiative. I want him in the Seoul office by Monday.”
James inclined his head. “Understood.”
“And,” Damien added coldly, “let HR know it’s a disciplinary preemptive reassignment. Policy breach. Code of conduct. Make it clean.”
James nodded. “I’ll handle it.”
And he did.
Back in PR
When Maya returned, nothing had changed. The stares were still there. The whispers. The side-eyes she pretended not to see.
She walked to her desk like a ghost and stared at the bouquet still sitting there, soft petals bright under the fluorescent lights.
Her chest tightened.
And then, without a word, she reached for the vase.
Harper looked up from across the room, startled. “Hey—”
She took two quick steps from her desk—but Trina’s gaze snapped toward her and gave a subtle shake of her head.
Not now.
It wasn’t cruel.
It was a manager’s instinct—a quiet command to give someone space when they were on the edge.
Harper froze, her heart aching. She nodded once, reluctantly, and sat back down.
Across the department, Paul Sanders looked up.
He’d been watching her from the other side of the room—not intentionally at first, but he couldn’t look away now. He had seen her walk in with that haunted look on her face. And now, watching her grip the vase like it burned her, something in him twisted.
He rose halfway from his chair, torn. Part of him wanted to stop her. To say something. Anything.
He’d only meant to make her smile.
He’d noticed her quiet presence all week. The way she scribbled notes when no one else paid attention. The way she looked out the window during breaks, like she was somewhere else entirely. There was something about her—gentle, but strong in a way he couldn’t describe. Alone, but never small.
He hadn’t even signed the card with his name.
He hadn’t thought it would explode like this.
And now, watching her march toward the recycle bin with that bouquet clenched in her hands, his chest ached with regret.
He had made it worse.
And he didn’t know how to fix it.
Maya didn’t notice any of it.
Her pace didn’t falter. She moved on instinct—past desks, past whispers—straight to the corner where the large recycling bin stood like a finish line.
She dumped the vase without ceremony. The glass hit the bottom with a muted crack, the water sloshed, petals folding in on themselves like the remnants of something already ruined.
She stood there, breath uneven.
Then her shoulders hunched forward — and the tears returned.
Maya turned away from the bin and hurried toward the far corner near the elevator—quiet, tucked away from the main floor. She collapsed to the ground beside the tall window, her back against the cold wall, pressing a trembling fist against her lips to stifle the sobs.
She didn’t care if anyone saw anymore.
She was too tired. Too overwhelmed.
Her body slid down the wall in surrender, knees drawn close as the tears spilled freely. She tried to hold them back, to stay composed, but everything had finally caught up with her—the exhaustion, the fear, the weight of it all.
She just wanted to disappear.
That’s when the elevator chimed.
The doors slid open—and James Horton stepped out, a signed folder in hand, on his way to deliver the HR document to Trina personally.
He paused when he saw her.
A crumpled figure by the window, red-eyed and shaking.
“Ms Thompson?” he said, approaching carefully. “Maya?”
She flinched and looked up.
“I… I’m sorry,” she said quickly, standing abruptly and wiping her cheeks. “I’m fine. I’m okay. I’m—”
“You don’t look okay,” James said, voice neutral but quiet.
“I didn’t mean to—” Her words stumbled. “It’s just been a long week. I’m sorry, sir.”
She tried to straighten her blouse, her pride clashing with the tears. “I’ll be fine. I didn’t mean to make a scene.”
James looked at her, and for a moment, the stern assistant seemed to soften. “You didn’t make a scene.”
Maya managed a weak smile. “Thank you.”
James gave a single nod. “Take care of yourself, Ms. Thompson.”
And then he walked away.
Across the room, Paul watched it all unfold—watched her crumble, and knew he had no right to walk over now.
Not when his gesture—meant to be kind—had humiliated her.
Not when she looked like the world had just caved in.
He sank back into his chair, jaw tight with regret.
He’d wanted to make her smile.
Instead, he made her cry.
Back in the Executive Office
Damien was standing by the window when James returned.
“The file’s signed,” James reported, placing it on the desk. “Trina has it.”
Damien gave a terse nod.
James paused at the door.
“Oh,” he said casually, though the weight behind his words was anything but. “I also saw Ms. Thompson.”
That name—spoken aloud—was like a pin dropped in a silent room.
Damien didn’t turn. But his voice was colder. Sharper.
“What about her?”
James’s gaze flicked to the skyline before answering. “She was… upset. Alone. Near the recycle bin. Looked like she’d just thrown out the flowers. She was crying.”
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Damien didn’t ask for more. Didn’t react.
But James noticed the subtle shift—the way Damien’s hand, resting at his side, slowly curled into a fist.
Not rage.
Something quieter.
More dangerous.
James waited, as always, for the command.
But none came.
Only silence. And the city—cold, glittering—stretching out like a cage. But all he could see was her face.
“Keep an eye on her.”
Just that.
No explanation.
And James, as always, understood exactly what it meant.
- Writer
