CHAPTER THIRTEEN — SUNDAY RULES
953 Words
Sunday was supposed to be quiet.
That was the rule Yoko Tran-Siripong had lived by for most of her adult life. Sundays were for laundry, groceries, catching up on sleep, and pretending Monday did not exist.
They were not for thinking about your boss.
They were definitely not for replaying the sound of her name leaving your own lips.
Faye.
Yoko lay on her couch staring at the ceiling, phone resting on her chest like a dangerous object.
“This is fine,” she muttered. “Everything is completely normal.”
Her phone buzzed.
She nearly screamed.
A message.
From Faye.
“Did you make it home safely?”
Yoko sat up so fast she felt dizzy.
She stared at the screen, heart racing.
This was not a work text.
There were no files attached.
No instructions.
No professional distance.
Just concern.
She typed slowly, carefully.
“Yes. I’m home.”
A pause.
Then:
“Good.”
One word.
It should not have felt intimate.
It absolutely did.
Yoko spent the rest of Sunday in a strange emotional limbo.
She folded clothes while thinking about Faye’s laugh.
She cooked instant noodles while remembering the way Faye listened when she spoke.
She tried to watch a series but kept checking her phone like a fool.
Nothing else came.
And somehow, that was worse.
Monday morning arrived with cruel efficiency.
Yoko dressed carefully, choosing a blouse that felt professional enough to protect her heart.
“Boundaries,” she told her reflection. “We are reestablishing boundaries.”
The elevator ride up to Malhotra Tower felt heavier than usual.
When the doors opened, Faye was already there.
Of course she was.
“Good morning,” Faye said.
Her voice was calm.
Normal.
As if Saturday had not happened.
Yoko’s chest tightened.
“Good morning, Madam Malhotra.”
The title slipped out automatically.
Something flickered in Faye’s eyes.
Gone. Quickly hidden.
“Busy day,” Faye said, turning toward her office.
“Always,” Yoko replied.
The walls were back up.
And it hurt more than she expected.
Work threw itself at them mercilessly.
Meetings stacked on meetings.
Calls overlapped.
Deadlines tightened.
Yoko threw herself into it, grateful for the distraction.
If she focused hard enough, maybe she wouldn’t think about how different Faye felt today.
Colder.
More distant.
More… careful.
At 11:30, Faye called her in.
“Sit.”
Yoko sat.
“We’re hosting a private dinner tonight,” Faye said. “Important investors.”
Yoko nodded, already pulling up schedules. “I’ll coordinate with the caterers.”
“And attend.”
Yoko looked up. “Attend?”
“I need someone I trust.”
That word again.
Trust.
“Of course,” Yoko said quietly.
The dinner was held at a discreet
rooftop venue overlooking the river.
Soft lights.
Muted music.
Luxury disguised as simplicity.
Yoko moved seamlessly through the evening — managing details, smoothing conversations, anticipating needs.
She was good at this.
She always had been.
At one point, one of the investors smiled at her and said, “You work very well together.”
Yoko smiled politely. “We’re efficient.”
The word tasted like restraint.
Later, when the guests finally left, the city spread out beneath them in glittering silence.
Yoko checked her phone. “Car’s waiting.”
Faye nodded. “Thank you.”
For a moment, neither moved.
The night breeze lifted loose strands of Yoko’s hair.
Faye watched it happen.
“You were very composed tonight,” Faye said.
Yoko gave a small laugh. “Is that good or bad?”
“Necessary,” Faye replied. Then softer, “And impressive.”
Yoko met her gaze.
“You’re distant today.”
The words escaped before she could stop them.
Faye stiffened.
“That’s inappropriate,” she said.
“I meant professionally,” Yoko lied.
Silence stretched between them.
Then Faye sighed.
“We blurred lines on Saturday.”
Yoko’s heart sank.
“I know.”
“That can’t happen again.”
“I know,” Yoko repeated.
They stood there — two women facing the same truth from opposite sides.
“You’re my employee,” Faye said quietly. “And I’m… older. And this world is not kind.”
Yoko swallowed.
“I never asked you for anything,” she said. “I just wanted honesty.”
“You have it,” Faye replied. “This is dangerous.”
Yoko nodded.
“I’ll keep things professional.”
Faye looked at her for a long moment.
“I would appreciate that.”
The car ride home was silent.
No accidental touches.
No shared warmth.
Just distance.
When they reached Yoko’s building, Faye didn’t linger.
“Goodnight,” she said.
“Goodnight, Madam Malhotra.”
The door closed between them with a soft, final sound.
Inside her apartment, Yoko kicked off her shoes and sank onto the floor
“Well,” she whispered. “That hurts.”
She pressed her forehead to her knees and let herself feel it.
The disappointment.
The frustration.
The ache she hadn’t meant to earn.
She understood why Faye had done it.
That didn’t make it easier.
Across the city, Faye stood in her penthouse staring at the city lights.
She replayed the rooftop conversation again and again.
Yoko’s honesty.
Her hurt.
Her restraint.
“You did the right thing,” Faye told herself.
She had chosen control.
Reputation.
Safety.
So why did it feel like she had just walked away from something fragile and precious?
Faye closed her eyes.
Because rules were easy.
What terrified her was how badly she wanted to break them.
And somewhere in Bangkok, two women lay awake that night, both pretending the distance they had chosen did not already feel unbearable.
- Writer
