(Rebecca's POV)
Hannah hits the floor at noon like a product launch.
A pastry box balanced on one hand—white kind a ribbon, the kind that smells like imported butter and looks like it cost someone an hour of their morning to pick.
The floor melts.
I watch from my desk while heads swivel and voices drop into a hush that reads like admiration and works like worship. She crosses the lobby the way people who’ve been applauded do—heels clicking, eyes bright, smile warm enough glow but not so warm it tries.
She stops at reception. Hands off a pastry. Touches an arm. Uses a name.
"Kaitlyn, right? These are for you."
Kaitlyn beams. "Oh—you didn't have to—"
"Of course I did."
Hannah moves on. An intern gets the next one. Then a junior account manager who straightens like she’s been tapped
