By Monday morning, the office buzzed like a hive someone had kicked. Not with deadlines. Not with product launches. With me.
It started small — a whisper by the elevators, the kind of low murmur that dies when you step close. Then came the Slack messages, thinly disguised as questions. Hey, did you get that report in? Also, is it true you were spotted in a black car with…
By ten a.m., it wasn’t whispers anymore. It was open speculation.
Angela dropped into my chair without asking, scrolling through her phone. “Okay, so half the floor thinks you were kidnapped, the other half thinks you’re starring in a Hallmark remake of Pretty Woman. Which one should I confirm?”
“Neither,” I hissed. “And get out of my chair.”
Maya leaned against the partition, sipping coffee like she was watching mor
