Clara’s POV
I step off the elevator the next morning into a mood I can only describe as barely contained chaos, phones ringing off the hook, the executive floor tense enough to cut with a knife.
Coworkers cluster in small groups near the coffee station, voices dropping to whispers the second I pass, a few sideways glances following me all the way to my desk. Somewhere down the hall, a printer churns out page after page without pause, feeding whatever crisis is unfolding behind closed doors.
“What’s going on?” I ask the first person I pass, a junior associate clutching two phones at once, one pressed to each ear.
His tie hangs crooked, sleeves rolled up past his elbows, the particular disheveled look of someone who’s been fielding calls since before the sun came up.
“You haven’t heard?
