The second-stage conversation was on Thursday.
By the time the day arrived, Ronda had already lived through it too many times in her head.
On the bus.
In the shower.
While tying her scarf.
While waiting for water to boil.
While checking on her father through Simi’s short, tired updates.
Every version of the conversation had played itself out privately before morning even finished opening.
In one version, she spoke too softly and disappeared under politeness.
In another, she sounded too sharp and turned clarity into defense.
In a worse one, she lost her clean lines entirely and let the wrong firm speak through her voice, until everything she said sounded like reaction instead of direction.
She hated how much was at stake.
Not only the role.
Not only the possibility of leaving.
