TRUE LOVE, WRONG FIRM

Chapter Six: Rumors in the Air

By Tuesday morning, Ronda had already decided she would be normal.

Not “pretending to be normal” normal. Not “trying very hard not to look affected” normal. Actually normal. The kind of normal that came from sense, self-control, and the refusal to build a fantasy out of something as small as attention.

Karl had noticed her work. That was all.

He had spoken to her more than once. Fine.

He had said her name in that low, calm voice that somehow made her far too aware of herself. Annoying, yes, but still survivable.

None of it had to mean anything.

Ronda repeated this to herself all the way to the firm.

By the time she walked through the gate, signed in, and made her way upstairs, she had almost convinced herself.

Almost.

The training room was noisier than usual that morning, buzzing with the loose, restless energy of people who had already grown comfortable enough to carry stories into the day before work even began. Anita was sitting in her usual seat, one elbow on the desk, already mid-conversation with another trainee.

The moment she saw Ronda, she straightened.

“Ah. Madam Focus has arrived.”

Ronda sat down and placed her bag neatly beside her chair. “Good morning to you too.”

Anita leaned closer. “You came at the right time. We’ve moved from discussing work stress to discussing the actual real danger in this building.”

Ronda did not bother looking up. “If this is about Karl again, I’m not interested.”

“That’s a lie,” Anita said at once.

The other trainee laughed.

Ronda opened her notebook. “You people should fear God.”

“God can see all of us,” Anita replied solemnly. “That’s why I’m speaking honestly.”

Ronda shook her head, but she was smiling before she could stop it.

The truth was, the room did feel different these days whenever Karl’s name came up. A little lighter. A little more charged. As though half the trainees had quietly agreed that office discipline was one thing, but acknowledging beauty when it entered a room was simply human responsibility.

Ridiculous.

Still, she could not deny that the mention of his name now brought with it a tiny inward tightening she was beginning to resent.

Nathan entered a few minutes later, and the room settled quickly.

The morning session launched into a practical review, and for a while, the atmosphere returned to order. Questions were answered. Tasks were assigned. Notes were copied down. Ronda was grateful for the steady weight of concentration.

Work helped.

Work gave her somewhere to place her mind besides the areas where it clearly could not be trusted.

She was in the middle of reviewing a sample response when she felt it, not a touch, not a sound, just that quiet shift in the room she had come to recognize before seeing its cause.

She looked up.

Karl had entered.

It was becoming irritating how quickly her body registered him now.

No dramatic collapse, no foolish staring, but awareness arrived too fast all the same. He was dressed simply today, not in the full sharply cut suit of his first appearance, but in a crisp shirt with the sleeves folded neatly at the wrist. Somehow that looked even worse.

Or better.

Unfortunately.

He exchanged a few words with Nathan, then moved toward the front of the room with the same easy composure that seemed to belong to him naturally.

Ronda forced her eyes back to her page.

No.

She was not doing this again.

She would listen like everyone else. Learn what she needed to learn. Return home in peace. End of story.

“Good morning,” Karl said, and the room responded.

The session began.

He was reviewing a case-study exercise today, breaking down how communication and presentation shaped trust in professional settings. He spoke with the same steady ease as before, never dramatic, never stiff, but somehow impossible to tune out. He had a way of making people feel as though what he was saying mattered specifically to them.

That was probably one of his gifts.

And one of his problems.

Because men who knew how to speak well could unsettle far more than silence ever could.

Ronda focused on writing.

She really did.

But halfway through one explanation, Karl asked a question and then, after looking briefly around the room, said, “Ronda?”

Her head lifted before she could stop it.

“Yes?”

“How would you handle it if a client misunderstood your tone during a formal exchange?”

Several eyes turned in her direction at once.

Wonderful.

Ronda straightened. “I’d clarify the intention immediately, but respectfully. I’d avoid sounding defensive and focus on restoring trust first before explaining details.”

Karl nodded slowly. “Good.”

That was it.

One word.

Still, Ronda felt every unnecessary eye in the room.

From the corner of her vision, she caught Anita trying very hard not to grin.

Karl continued the lesson, but something had shifted. Not because of him, perhaps, but because people had noticed the exchange. She felt it in the way a few trainees glanced her way afterward, in the quiet hum that moved beneath the room’s concentration.

By the time the break came, she already knew what was waiting.

Anita did not disappoint.

“You see?” she whispered the second Nathan stepped out.

Ronda kept her tone flat. “See what?”

“Please. Even the walls can see at this point.”

“Can see that I answered a question?”

Anita folded her arms. “Can see that whenever he needs an example of someone with sense, your name is the first one entering his mouth.”

“That doesn’t mean anything.”

“Maybe,” Anita said. “But other people won’t say maybe. They’ll say what people always say.”

Ronda hated that the words landed.

Because Anita was right.

People did not need facts to create stories. They only needed a little pattern, a little suggestion, a little something to make ordinary interactions seem more interesting than they really were.

And this office, with all its polished order and quiet professionalism, was still full of human beings.

Human beings loved stories.

Especially f*******n ones.

At lunch break, the rumors began to take shape.

Not openly. Not boldly.

But in fragments.

As Ronda stood near the dispenser filling a cup with water, two women from another training group paused nearby, their voices low but not low enough.

“…I’m not saying anything is happening,” one murmured, “but he definitely pays more attention to her.”

The other gave a small hum of agreement. “She’s serious though. Maybe that’s why.”

“Or maybe serious girls are exactly the kind that make men curious.”

They moved off before Ronda could decide whether to be annoyed or embarrassed.

She chose both.

The rest of the day did not help.

Karl was not inappropriate. If anything, his behavior remained frustratingly professional. He moved through the session exactly as any observer or trainer should. He spoke to others. Corrected mistakes. Asked questions across the room.

But now that the first whisper had begun, even ordinary moments felt exposed.

A glance lingered too long? Someone noticed.

He paused by her desk to review a response? Someone noticed.

He said “good” after her answer? Someone definitely noticed.

By late afternoon, the air around her felt thinner somehow, as though she had become visible in a way she had never asked for.

Ronda hated being the subject of speculation.

She had spent too much of her life being watched for the wrong reasons, judged through hardship, measured against expectations she had never agreed to. The last thing she wanted was to become some office side-story because a calm, handsome man happened to respect her work.

It made her sharper than usual that evening.

More careful.

More aware of how she moved.

When Karl stopped near her desk once more to ask if she had finished the revised task sheet, her answer came out polite but clipped.

“Yes, I have.”

He seemed to notice the restraint immediately.

His brows shifted almost imperceptibly. “Alright. I’ll check it later.”

He moved on without another word.

Ronda stared at the page in front of her and instantly regretted the stiffness in her tone.

Not because she owed him softness. She didn’t.

But because it had not been about him.

It had been about the room.

The eyes.

The whispers.

The irritating fact that she could already feel herself becoming defensive over something that had not even happened.

By the time work ended, she was exhausted in a way that had little to do with tasks.

She packed quietly, avoided unnecessary conversation, and stepped into the corridor with one goal: leave before Anita said anything else capable of making her overthink the entire day.

She had almost succeeded.

Then Vivian appeared.

Ronda had noticed her before, of course. It was impossible not to. Vivian was one of those women who entered spaces as if they belonged partly to her already. Beautiful in a deliberate, polished way. Always composed. Always carrying herself like someone fully aware of her effect on people.

Until now, their interactions had been minimal. Greetings. Passing acknowledgments. Nothing more.

So when Vivian stepped beside her near the stairwell and smiled, Ronda slowed slightly.

“Heading home?” Vivian asked.

“Yes.”

Vivian nodded as though this had been meaningful information. “You’re settling in quickly.”

“I’m trying.”

“I can tell.”

The silence that followed was not exactly uncomfortable, but it held something underneath it. Something measured.

Then Vivian smiled again. “You’ve caught attention fast.”

Ronda looked at her. “I’m not sure what you mean.”

Vivian gave a light laugh. “You don’t have to pretend with me. This place may look serious, but people still notice things.”

Ronda’s grip tightened slightly on the strap of her bag. “If you mean work, then yes, I’m trying to do well.”

Vivian tilted her head. “Work, of course.”

The words were harmless on the surface.

The tone was not.

Before Ronda could decide how to respond, Vivian went on.

“Just be careful. The firm is not as forgiving as it looks, especially when people start mixing professionalism with personal feelings.”

There it was.

Clear enough now.

Ronda held her gaze. “I’m here for work.”

“Good,” Vivian said smoothly. “Then keep it that way.”

With that, she walked off.

Ronda stood still for a second.

Then another.

Not because the exchange had shaken her, exactly, but because it had confirmed what she had been trying not to admit all day.

The rumors were no longer imaginary.

People were noticing.

People were talking.

And worse, some of them clearly had opinions already.

The bus ride home felt longer than usual.

The city outside moved in its normal, impatient rhythm, but Ronda barely saw any of it. Her mind kept circling the same points until they became exhausting.

Maybe she had been careless.

Maybe she should stop answering so eagerly when Karl called on her.

Maybe she should make herself less noticeable, less available to interpretation.

But another part of her resisted that thought.

Why should competence become something to shrink because other people lacked discipline in their assumptions?

Why should she dim herself just to make gossip less convenient?

That anger stayed with her even after she reached home.

She changed clothes, washed her face, and sat on the bed in silence for a long time before finally reaching for her notebook.

She opened to a fresh page and wrote:

Rumors begin where clarity ends.

Then beneath it:

I cannot control what people say.

I can only control what I do.

She paused.

Then added:

And what I do next matters.

Her pen remained in her hand long after she stopped writing.

Because beneath the irritation, beneath the wounded pride and the annoyance of being discussed, another truth sat quietly waiting.

She had been affected.

Not by the rumors themselves, but by what they threatened.

Distance.

Awkwardness.

Misunderstanding.

The possibility that something simple and unspoken might now become complicated before it even had the chance to become anything at all.

Ronda closed the notebook and leaned back against the wall.

No, she told herself.

This was exactly why she had drawn boundaries from the start.

Attraction was one thing. Rumor was another. And she had no intention of allowing herself to become trapped in a story that could cost her peace, focus, and reputation before her future had even properly begun.

From tomorrow onward, she would be more careful.

More contained.

Less responsive.

If Karl noticed, fine. If he didn’t, even better.

Because whatever dangerous attention had begun to grow around them, she needed to cut it off before it grew roots.

That decision sat firmly with her as she prepared for bed.

It felt sensible.

Necessary.

The kind of decision a woman made when she remembered the cost of being careless.

But somewhere beneath all that reason, hidden where discipline could not easily reach, a softer ache remained.

Because the worst part of all this was not the whispering.

It was the fact that, for one foolish moment, she had liked being the girl he noticed.