Exposed
1423 Words
Monday morning at Morrison & Klein began the same way it always did—with Richard Morrison’s voice slicing through the office.
“Alison! Coffee. Now. And don’t bring that burnt trash from downstairs.”
Alison didn’t even look up from her computer. She was already pulling on her coat, already calculating the fifteen-minute round trip to the overpriced café Richard swore was the only place in Chicago that made coffee “worth drinking.”
“Yes, Mr. Morrison,” she called back, keeping her voice neutral and tired in the way she’d perfected over the years.
She’d been at her desk since 7:30, thirty minutes before anyone else, trying to get ahead of the mountain of work she knew Richard would dump on her. The Anderson files were printed. His schedule updated. Lunch ordered for his noon meeting.
None of it mattered. Richard always found something to complain about.
The office on the twenty-third floor looked sleek and modern, with glass walls and gray carpet. But to Alison, it just felt cold.
She got into the elevator and passed the other assistants coming in. Jennifer gave her a sympathetic smile. Marcus—a different Marcus, not the driver—gave her a knowing nod. They all understood what it meant to work under the partners.
The café was packed. Alison stood in line, checking her phone. A few memes from Maya. Nothing serious.
Nothing from anyone else.
Not that she expected anything.
She ordered Richard’s overly-specific pour-over and hurried back to the office, the hot cup burning through the sleeve.
When she returned, Richard was waiting at her desk, furious.
“Twenty minutes,” he said. “It took you twenty minutes.”
“The café was busy—”
“I don’t pay you to make excuses.” He snatched the cup from her hand. “The Henderson presentation. Redo it.”
Her stomach dropped. “Redo it? You approved it Friday.”
“Well, I changed my mind. The colors are too harsh. Softer tones. I want it by eleven.”
She glanced at the clock. It was 9:15.
“Mr. Morrison, that’s less than two hours—”
“Then get to work.” And just like that, he walked away. “And when you’re done, reorganize all my files. The current system isn’t working.”
The system he demanded. The one she’d spent two weeks building.
“Of course,” she muttered.
Jennifer rolled over on her chair and whispered, “He’s such an asshole.”
“It’s Monday,” Alison said. “He’s always worse on Mondays.”
“You should report him.”
“For what? Being awful?” Alison shook her head. “Not illegal. Just exhausting.”
She opened the presentation and started changing the colors—again. This was her life. Her choice. The thought tasted bitter.
By 10:30 she was halfway done, her eyes burning, her break-room coffee cold on her desk.
Her phone buzzed.
She ignored it.
Buzzed again. And again.
With an annoyed sigh, she checked it.
Twelve missed calls from Maya. Fifteen texts.
Her chest tightened.
She opened the messages.
ALI PICK UP YOUR PHONE
CALL ME NOW
CHECK TWITTER—WAIT NO DON’T JUST CALL ME
OH MY GOD ALI
Her hands went cold.
She opened Twitter.
She didn’t need to search long.
Her face was everywhere.
Her face—and Damian’s.
A photo from Saturday night. She remembered that moment now, blurry pieces snapping into place. Them at the bar, laughing. His hand on her waist. Her leaning into him. The way they looked at each other.
The caption:
DAMIAN REEVES SPOTTED WITH MYSTERY WOMAN AT VAULT – WHO IS SHE?
She clicked the article with numb fingers.
There were more photos—too many.
Her laughing. Him touching her back. Them leaving together. Him steadying her as she stumbled in heels. A shot of them getting into his car.
Her breathing went shallow.
The comments were worse.
She doesn’t look like his type.
Gold digger, obviously.
Aim high girl lol.
Her phone rang—Maya.
“I’m looking at it,” Alison whispered.
“Ali, this is everywhere. i********:, Twitter, t****k—have you heard from him?”
“No. Why would I?”
“Because you’re literally all over the internet with him! Do people know who you are yet?”
“The articles say ‘unidentified woman.’”
Even as she said it, new comments popped up:
Isn’t that the girl from Morrison & Klein?
Someone find her i********:.
“Oh God,” Alison breathed.
“Ali, stay calm,” Maya tried, but she didn’t sound calm at all. “Have you googled him? Damian Reeves?”
Alison hadn’t. She did now.
The search results made her head spin.
Billionaire CEO. Tech mogul. Forbes covers. Charity galas. Political handshakes. Pictures with glamorous ex-girlfriend Victoria Ashford.
She was dizzy.
“Ali?” Maya asked.
“I have to go,” Alison whispered.
“Don’t—”
“Alison!” Richard barked. “Where’s my presentation?”
She looked up to find him staring at her computer—at the photos.
His eyes narrowed.
“I don’t pay you to browse gossip sites,” he snapped. “Get back to work.”
But she saw it. The calculation. The recognition.
He knew.
Her hands shook as she forced herself to work. Colors, fonts, slides—none of it made sense anymore.
At 11 she sent the presentation.
At 11:15 she got his reply.
This is worse. Start over. I want it by three.
She stared at the screen, hollow.
Her phone buzzed—another text from Maya.
Ali… someone found your LinkedIn.
Her stomach twisted.
There it was. Her profile. Her photo. Strangers commenting. Sharing. Judging.
Her i********: blew up next. Hundreds of new followers. People digging through years of pictures. Commenting. Picking her apart.
She stood quickly. The office was buzzing. People whispering. Phones held up.
She ran to the bathroom and locked herself in a stall, finally letting the panic hit.
Her phone rang—unknown number.
“Hello?”
“Is this Alison Carter? I’m Jessica Chen from—”
She hung up.
Another number called. Then another.
She turned off her phone.
Jennifer knocked on the stall. “Alison? Are you okay? Richard is looking for you.”
Of course he was.
She washed her hands, avoided the mirror. Jennifer gave her a worried look.
“Is it true? You and Damian Reeves?”
“It’s… complicated,” Alison said weakly.
“The photos don’t look complicated.”
Before she could answer, the bathroom door swung open.
Richard.
“Office. Now.”
Her insides turned to ice.
She followed him. Everyone stared.
The door slammed behind them.
“Sit.”
She sat.
He didn’t.
“Are you in a relationship with Damian Reeves?”
“No. We just—”
“Because if you are, that’s a conflict of interest.”
“What? How?”
“Reeves Industries is negotiating a possible merger with us.” His voice was clipped. “And my assistant is sleeping with their CEO.”
“I’m not—we barely know each other—”
“So you expect me to believe you just happened to meet a billionaire CEO by accident?”
“It was my birthday. My friend dragged me out. I had no idea who he was—”
He didn’t care.
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. “This is a disaster.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t—”
“You’re suspended.”
The word hit like a punch. “What?”
“Effective immediately. Until we determine if you violated policy. Clear your desk.”
“You can’t suspend me for my personal life!”
“You’re an at-will employee. And right now, a liability. Leave before I call security.”
Alison stared at him—this man she’d worked for three years—and saw nothing but cruelty.
She walked out without looking at anyone, grabbed only her bag and coat, and headed for the elevator.
Jennifer whispered, “Ali—”
“Don’t,” Alison said, her voice shaking.
She made it downstairs. Made it outside.
And finally, she broke.
Her life had completely collapsed in hours.
She walked aimlessly through the city until she felt like she could breathe again.
Then she turned her phone back on.
147 notifications.
Too many.
And one text that froze her in place:
We need to talk. – Damian
- Writer
