By noon, the office felt louder than usual. Phones rang, printers churned, and voices overlapped in the background like static.
Freya sat at her desk, typing steadily, her eyes fixed on the screen. Her hands moved with practiced rhythm, but her breathing felt too shallow, each inhale dragging just a fraction longer than it should.
You should have gone home, Irene muttered.
“I told you, I’m fine,” Freya murmured under her breath.
Fine people don’t grip the desk every time they stand.
Freya ignored her, focusing instead on the clock. The quarterly strategy meeting was in less than ten minutes, and she was expected to attend. That meant a long conference table, Daniel at the head, and every department head watching her take notes.
She gathered her notepad and pen, willing her legs to mo
