Rumors in the Ballroom — Sydney’s POV
1962 Words
Rumors in the Ballroom — Sydney’s POV
The elevator doors glide open with a soft chime, but the air that greets me isn’t the warm, festive hum I expected.
It’s… weird.
Thick.
Like the whole place just swallowed a secret and is struggling not to choke on it.
I step out, smoothing the side of my winter-blue gown. The skirt sways around my legs like I’m some kind of snow-queen-wannabe who accidentally wandered into the wrong castle. But hey, fake it till you make it, right?
A staff member adjusts a wreath near the ballroom entrance. Another sets down a tray of champagne flutes. Everyone is buzzing, moving, talking—yet somehow, the moment they see me, conversations shape-shift. Lowered voices. Quick glances. Half-hidden smirks.
I pretend not to notice.
I’ve worked with enough traumatized children to know when energy shifts.
And this?
This feels like Christmas wrapped in tension and sprinkled with… gossip.
My heels tap across the marble tiles. “Good evening,” I tell a pair of junior staff members passing by with garlands in their arms.
“Good evening, ma’am,” they say in unison, bowing slightly.
The moment I move past them, one whispers behind me, not quietly enough:
“Did you see them yesterday at the staff lounge?”
“Shhh—”
“No, seriously, I’m telling you, they were close—like close close—”
My heart hiccups.
Okay… probably not about me.
Probably not about Marcus.
Not every whisper in this world is about my relationship.
Right?
I exhale and straighten my shoulders as I follow the soft sound of Christmas jazz drifting from the ballroom. The lights spill across the floor like melted stars—warm golds, icy silvers, soft blues. It’s magical. Fairy-tale level magical.
I should be floating.
I should be smiling.
I should be excited to be Sydney Walters, the devoted girlfriend of Marcus Thompson, hotel supervisor extraordinaire.
Instead, a nervous flutter skitters up my spine.
Where is he?
He texted me ten minutes ago: “Be there in a sec, babe. Just sorting something with logistics.”
Sorting something.
Sure.
Maybe that’s why he felt distant earlier. Stress. Pressure. The usual.
I try convincing myself.
It’s… ridiculously hard.
I walk deeper into the ballroom, letting the decor steal my anxiety for a few seconds. Crystal icicles hang from chandeliers. The tables sparkle with frosted centerpieces. The stage holds a giant twelve-foot Christmas tree with a silver star that looks like it fell out of a northern legend.
My foundation’s logo appears on the giant LED screen behind the podium.
That part makes me finally exhale a little.
Everything we worked for—every sleepless night, every emergency rescue, every heartbreak carved into my bones—it’s all going to be celebrated here tonight. Donations. Support. Awareness.
Marcus helped make this possible.
He didn’t have to, but he did.
And he loves me.
Seven years isn’t nothing.
So yeah, maybe he’s acting weird.
Maybe he’s distant.
Maybe he keeps answering his phone like it’s oxygen.
But we’re fine.
We’re—
“Sydney?”
A voice snaps me out of my spiraling thoughts.
I turn—and freeze.
Tyra Baynes stands there in a red sequined gown that fits her like it was poured onto her skin. Her hair is slicked back, sharp and glossy. Even her smile looks weaponized.
I swallow. “Hi, Tyra.”
She clasps a tablet against her chest. “Marcus is quite busy with the event details. He asked me to check if you needed anything.”
My stomach tightens. “Where is he exactly?”
Tyra’s smile grows half a centimeter too smug. “Handling… final arrangements for tonight.”
Her tone drips with subtext.
My heart gives a single, uncomfortable thump.
I’m not the type to accuse people based on tone and eyebrows, okay?
But something is off.
Still, I force a polite smile. “Thanks, but I’m good.”
“Perfect.” She steps closer, lowering her voice. “Try to relax a bit tonight, yes? You look like you’re thinking too hard. Men notice that.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“Oh, sweetheart.” Her laugh is silky, fake, and absolutely condescending. “You’ll figure it out.”
I want to bathe in holy water.
Tyra glides away, leaving a trail of expensive perfume and a weird chill.
A staff member rushes toward me, bowing. “Ms. Walters, the donors from Ankara are arriving soon. Would you like assistance greeting them?”
“Yes, please. Thank you,” I answer automatically.
But I barely hear myself. My pulse keeps tapping out a nervous Morse code.
Where is Marcus?
Why send Tyra instead of coming himself?
Why is she acting like she knows something I don’t?
As if choreographed by the universe, another whisper floats by from behind a floral arch:
“Supervisor Marcus and Manager Tyra… didn’t you see them lately?”
“Yeah. Always together.”
“Too close.”
“Very close.”
My throat tightens.
No.
People love making drama out of nothing.
Marcus told me he wasn’t close to her. He said she was just a coworker, an annoying one, actually.
He wouldn’t lie.
He wouldn’t betray me.
He wouldn’t ruin seven years.
Not Marcus.
Not my Marcus.
Right?
“Hey, stranger.”
My entire system jumps as a familiar voice finally reaches me. Warm. Soft. A little too casual.
Marcus.
He approaches with a half-smile, adjusting his tie like he just won an award for pretending everything is perfect. He looks insanely good in his navy tux—like the kind of good that usually makes me forget my name.
But instead of melting, I feel… wrong.
Something is wrong.
“Syd,” he says, touching my arm lightly. “You look beautiful tonight.”
“Thank you.” My voice is barely steady. “Where were you?”
He laughs it off. “Just finalizing some things. You know how it is.”
“You didn’t answer your phone.”
“It was on silent. Relax, babe.” He leans in to kiss my cheek.
I let him—but it feels foreign.
Like plastic touching skin.
“Are you sure everything is okay?” I ask quietly.
His jaw tenses for half a second. “Why wouldn’t it be?”
“I just… feel like you’re avoiding me.”
“Of course not.” He gives me that careful smile. The one he uses when he wants to shut down a conversation without actually saying the words. “It’s a big night. That’s all.”
“Right.”
He looks past me—at the donors, the staff, the decorations—everywhere except directly at my eyes.
My chest squeezes painfully.
Before I can say anything else, Tyra reappears behind him, tablet in hand. “Marcus, your presence is required backstage.” She doesn’t even look at me.
“Coming,” he replies instantly.
He turns back to me. “I’ll be right back, okay? Just… mingle. Enjoy.”
“Marcus—”
But he’s already walking away.
With her.
And that’s when it hits me.
Not a truth.
But a fear.
A loud, ugly, suffocating fear.
I clutch the side of my dress, breathing unevenly.
Because the whispers aren’t stopping.
They’re multiplying.
They’re following me like shadows.
“Did you hear?”
“I saw them together earlier.”
“They looked close.”
“Poor Sydney doesn’t suspect a thing.”
I close my eyes.
No. Don’t jump to conclusions. Don’t overthink. Don’t let insecurity ruin you.
Marcus loves you.
Marcus would never—
“Sydney!”
I open my eyes.
Nadia, one of the donor coordinators, rushes up to me with glowing cheeks. “Can you talk to the couple from Ukraine? They’re huge potential sponsors and they specifically asked for you.”
“Of course,” I say, pushing the ache down my throat.
Work.
Focus on work.
Focus on what you’re good at.
I greet donors.
I smile.
I speak about the foundation.
I laugh at their jokes.
I thank them sincerely.
On the outside, I am a woman shining under ballroom lights.
On the inside, I’m unravelling thread by thread.
Every few minutes, I glance toward the backstage entrance.
Marcus still hasn’t returned.
Tyra keeps walking in and out of the curtains.
Marcus doesn’t.
My heartbeat starts crawling up my neck.
At some point, I catch a group of staff whispering while staring straight at me. The moment our eyes meet, they scatter like startled birds.
I’m going to scream.
Or cry.
Or both.
Finally, needing a breath—any breath—I slip toward the side of the ballroom where a narrow corridor leads to the event operations room. I need a moment away from all of this. From the whispers. From the tension. From the fear tightening its grip around my ribs.
As I’m about to turn the corner, two staff members accidentally walk right past me without realizing I’m there.
“Honestly, it’s so obvious now,” one says.
“Right? The way he looks at her. It’s wild.”
“Poor Ms. Sydney… she has no clue.”
My entire world slows to a stop.
The lights blur.
The sounds fade.
The room tilts.
They walk away before I can speak, leaving me crushed under a sentence I can’t unhear.
Poor Ms. Sydney… she has no clue.
I blink hard, forcing air into my lungs.
I’m not going to break.
Not in front of strangers.
Not in the middle of my own foundation’s gala.
Not when I’ve survived children’s trauma, rescued infants from dumpsters, and held babies with fevers high enough to scare grown doctors.
I can survive this little whisper storm.
I can.
I straighten my back, breathe through my nose, and march toward the backstage hallway. If Marcus is there, I’ll see him with my own eyes. I’ll know the truth.
My heels strike the floor sharply.
Left turn.
Right turn.
Past the prep kitchen.
Past the audiovisual wing.
Then—
A soft, familiar laugh.
Not mine.
Not his.
Hers.
Tyra.
I freeze.
Another laugh follows—deeper, male, too close.
Marcus.
No. No, no. I grip the wall, my knees threatening to buckle.
Their voices echo from behind a partially drawn velvet curtain.
I shouldn’t listen.
I shouldn’t.
But I do.
Tyra: “She really has no idea, doesn’t she?”
Marcus: a low sigh. “Tyra—please.”
“Relax. I’m not going to tell her. Yet.”
“Tyra.”
“Come on, Marcus. Why pretend?”
My pulse spikes so fast I swear I’m going to faint.
I step closer—one step, then two—until the curtain’s edge almost brushes my shoulder.
I’m breathing too loud.
My heart beats too loud.
Everything is too loud.
But I push the curtain just enough to peek.
I already know.
I know from the way Marcus is standing too close to her.
From the way her eyes glitter with possessiveness.
From the way he doesn’t step back.
From the way they look like two people sharing a secret they shouldn’t share.
A cold wave rolls over me.
Something is breaking.
Cracking.
Splintering.
And the worst part?
The Christmas lights are still twinkling overhead.
Soft music is still playing.
People are still laughing.
The world keeps spinning like nothing is happening.
But inside me?
Something enormous shifts.
Something irreversible.
Something that tells me—
I was never paranoid.
Never dramatic.
Never insecure.
I was right to be afraid.
And the fear isn’t done with me yet.
Not tonight.
Not when destiny is standing just a hallway away, waiting to catch me as I fall.
- Writer
