COLLATERAL BRIDE

AMBITIOUS AND BITTERNESS

The office smelled like ambition and bitterness. Polished floors reflected the harsh fluorescent lights, and glass walls made it impossible to hide. Every movement was on display, every mistake exaggerated. But I wasn’t the type to make mistakes. I knew my job. I knew the schedules, the protocols, the flow of this place. I was good at my work. I had to be.

Yet being good wasn’t enough.

Margot, the senior assistant, didn’t like me. She didn’t hide it. Every day, she found a way to make my life miserable. Sometimes it was subtle: a paper left slightly out of place, a whispered correction, a glare that burned through my chest. Other times, it was blatant: she’d deliberately assign me impossible tasks at the last minute or drop entire folders of documents onto my desk like a slap, just to watch me scramble.

“Aria, did you even check these files?” she said one morning, tapping a stack of contracts. Her eyes flicked over me, sharp and accusing. “It would be such a shame if Kane noticed mistakes again. Don’t you want to keep your job?”

I bent over the papers, forcing my hands to stop shaking. “They’re correct,” I said quietly, my voice steady even as my heart pounded. I wasn’t lying; I had triple-checked them the night before. But Margot smirked and walked away, satisfied.

Some colleagues watched quietly. A few, like Jenna in accounting, gave me small smiles and whispered encouragement. “Ignore her,” she said once. “You know you’re better at this than she’ll ever be.” But most of the others leaned into gossip, snickering behind their hands, splitting the office into a battlefield I navigated alone. Supporters were careful not to draw attention, while detractors reveled in my discomfort.

By mid-morning, the cruel choreography continued. Margot “accidentally” dropped a stack of forms I had just finished on the floor. I hurried to pick them up before anyone noticed, cheeks burning, while she leaned against the counter, smirking.

“Careful, Aria,” she said mockingly. “Wouldn’t want Kane thinking you can’t handle the basics.”

I swallowed hard and kept silent. My pride wanted to shout back, to tell her she was petty and cruel, but I knew it would only make her sharper. Her enjoyment came from watching me flinch. My silence was the only weapon I had.

During a brief coffee break, Jenna sidled up to me, offering a warm smile. “Don’t let her get to you,” she whispered. “You’re doing a great job. Seriously.”

I forced a small smile in return. Jenna and a few others were my quiet allies. They gave me hope that not everyone here wanted to see me humiliated, that not all eyes in this place were sharp with judgment. But their encouragement was soft, fragile, and easily drowned by the relentless mockery of others.

The rest of the office was split. Some colleagues simply ignored me, while others seemed to enjoy finding new ways to make me falter. Whispered comments followed me in the hallways. When I picked up a dropped pen, I felt their eyes judging every move. When I answered a phone call, someone muttered under their breath, mocking the inflection in my voice. Every success was diminished, every small victory undermined, leaving me constantly second-guessing myself.

By mid-afternoon, Margot escalated. I was tasked with preparing a presentation for a client meeting later that week. She handed me a half-finished report and said, “Finish this, perfectly, in an hour. Kane will be reviewing it personally. Don’t disappoint.”

I set to work, double-checking every line, every number, every spreadsheet formula. Just as I thought I was done, Margot appeared behind me, leaning over my shoulder with that familiar smugness.

“You forgot a page,” she said casually. “I guess some people really aren’t cut out for this line of work.”

My hands trembled slightly as I fumbled through my papers, forcing a calm I didn’t feel. “I’ll fix it,” I said quietly, holding my breath.

Margot laughed softly, the sound sharp as glass. “Don’t strain yourself. Maybe just… let someone else handle the important stuff next time.” She walked away, leaving me burning with silent rage.

Even with her cruelty, I persevered. I stayed late, redoing the work she had sabotaged, triple-checking every detail, ensuring it would pass Kane’s scrutiny. The office was quiet now, empty chairs casting long shadows across the polished floors. For the first time that day, I let myself exhale, but the weight of the constant tension remained.

I thought of Lucian. The memory of him — his commanding presence, the way he had pulled me close in the dark, the strange thrill of letting myself feel something dangerous — flickered through my mind. I had no idea who he really was, only that he had existed in a night that felt impossibly real, impossibly fleeting. And yet, even here, in the fluorescent-lit prison of Kane Enterprises, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Packing my bag at the end of the day, I avoided eye contact with Margot and the others. Their stares, whether supportive or malicious, had followed me all day. I slipped out the glass doors, the city air hitting my face like freedom and shame wrapped together. I walked slowly, reflecting on the day. Being competent hadn’t protected me. Being careful hadn’t protected me. Every task completed perfectly was somehow still a failure in someone else’s eyes.

Yet, despite the humiliation, the exhaustion, the relentless bullying, there was that spark inside me. The part of me that refused to break. That refused to bow to anyone, no matter how petty or cruel. I pressed my hand against my bag, as if holding onto it could anchor that spark, make it real.

And then, as I walked, the thought surfaced again. Lucian. The stranger who had felt like a storm and a fire all at once. The stranger whose memory made my chest ache in a way I hadn’t realized I was capable of feeling. Would he be at the bar again?

The question lingered in my mind, unspoken but heavy. Could I really go back? Could I risk opening myself up to him again, to the danger and the desire he represented? And yet, a part of me wanted it desperately. Wanted to see that shadow of freedom again, to escape for a few hours the suffocating reality of glass walls and whispers.

My steps slowed as the streetlights flickered on, casting long shadows across the pavement. My bag weighed heavily on my shoulder, but the thought of Lucian made the weight almost bearable. Would he be there? The words repeated like a pulse in my chest.

I paused outside my building, leaning against the cool brick, staring at the city around me. The night felt alive, dangerous, and thrilling — and in a way, it mirrored the storm that had become my life. One day, I promised myself, I would stop being powerless. One day, I would make the people who underestimated me regret it.

But tonight, there was only one question: Would Lucian be at the bar again?