Ivy
I went back to work on a Monday. The office smelled like old paper and burnt coffee, and everyone walked too fast, like they were trying to outrun the weight of the new year. But I was different now. Slower. Quieter. Not because I wanted to be. Because the ache inside me had nowhere else to go.
My desk still had the tiny framed photo of Lila propped beside my monitor, the one Camille had printed at the hospital, her wrinkled face and clenched fists as she screamed into the world. It used to bring me comfort. Now, it was the only reason I managed to keep breathing.
I made it halfway through the morning before someone said his name.
“Did you see the Vanguard Legacy interview?” one of the interns whispered just outside the copy room. “Damian Blackwell looked flawless. That suit, God.”
