There were three kinds of rumors in the corporate building… the quiet kind, the misheard kind, and the kind that slapped you across the face with a glittered hand and didn’t bother to wipe its prints. This week… apparently I was dating both Glasgow brothers. At the same time. Like I was some sort of investment-firm courtesan with a private harem and a pension plan. Like I was a glitch in their code… some corrupted woman-function who opened her legs and accidentally rebooted the entire floor.
It started slow… a side-eye in the elevator, a cough that somehow sounded judgmental in the break room. Then came the sugar-laced venom… “I mean, some people don’t even try to keep things professional anymore…” said by a red-lipped intern who barely knew how to click ‘Reply All.’ I clutched my coffee
