The next morning, the firm felt smaller.
Not physically.
Not in any way a floor plan could explain.
But Ronda felt it the moment she stepped through the gate; the strange claustrophobia that came when a place already held too many versions of you. The woman who worked hard. The woman they had decided to move. The woman people whispered about. The woman who had gone home the night before feeling seen in a way that was almost too tender to survive daylight.
That last version frightened her most.
Because tenderness always looked stronger at night.
In the morning, under fluorescent lights and office routines, it became something else:
risk.
She signed in, greeted the receptionist, and headed upstairs with her bag tucked close to her side. The corridor gleamed as always. Doors opened an
