(Elara POV)
The room is too bright.
That's the first thing I notice as I step inside — the sharp white lights, the wall of glass overlooking the city, the long table already half-filled with people who don't work here. Clients. Partners. Outsiders who don't know my name but will remember my face if this goes wrong.
Vivienne stands near the screen, tablet in hand, calm and radiant in a way that makes the room bend slightly toward her. Marcus lounges in one of the chairs closer to the back, jacket slung casually over the armrest, confidence loose and careless.
Alex arrives last.
The room adjusts. He takes his seat at the head of the table without ceremony, expression unreadable, presence heavy enough that conversations taper off on their own. When his gaze passes over me, it doesn't linger.
That's when the unease starts to coil in my stomach.
"This won't take long," Vivienne says brightly, as everyone settles. "We'll walk through the revised projections, address any concerns, and then open the floor for questions."
She gestures toward me.
"Elara prepared the deck," she adds.
Prepared.
The word feels deliberate.
I nod, step forward, and pick up the remote. My palms are already damp, though I don't know why. I reviewed the numbers twice this morning. Then again after lunch. Everything was clean. Everything aligned.
The first slide loads.
So far, so good.
I begin walking them through the overview, my voice steady, practiced. Heads nod. Pens move. A few people murmur agreement when I explain the market assumptions.
Then I click to the third slide.
The numbers are wrong.
Not subtly.
Blatantly.
A sharp intake of breath escapes me before I can stop it.
The projected margins have collapsed. The risk buffer is nearly gone. The chart on the right spikes dangerously, the kind of visual even a non-technical eye can read as bad.
A low murmur ripples through the room.
I freeze.
"This—" I begin, then stop, because the words I prepared no longer exist in this version of reality. "This isn't…"
Marcus laughs.
Not a polite sound. A real laugh.
"Wow," he says, leaning back in his chair. "That's… bold."
A client near the middle of the table frowns. "Is that accurate?"
My heart slams painfully against my ribs.
"There seems to be a version discrepancy," I say, forcing myself to breathe, to speak. "The approved model maintained a wider buffer. This file—"
Vivienne steps in smoothly.
"Elara," she says, gentle but firm, "this is the file you uploaded to the shared drive last night."
Every head turns toward me.
The room goes quiet in that awful way where curiosity sharpens into judgment.
"I didn't upload this version," I say, my voice sounding thinner than it should. "I can pull up the approval chain—"
"Do you stand by these numbers?" a client asks, cutting me off.
The question lands like a slap.
"I—" I swallow. "I don't recommend this level of compression."
"So you're presenting projections you don't support?" another voice adds.
Heat floods my face.
Alex hasn't said a word.
I look at him.
He's watching me now — not with concern, but with something colder. Assessment.
"Elara," he says at last, voice calm and carrying easily across the table, "answer the question."
The room seems to lean in.
I open my mouth.
Nothing comes out.
Marcus breaks the silence. "That's not reassuring."
A few people laugh cruelly enough. Enough to make my ears ring.
"I believe what Elara is trying to say," Vivienne interjects smoothly, "is that there was a miscommunication during consolidation."
Miscommunication.
My throat tightens.
"We'll take responsibility for clarifying the numbers," she continues, already moving toward the screen. "Allow me."
She takes the remote from my hand.
The gesture is small.
The effect is devastating.
Vivienne clicks through the slides with confidence, reframing the projections, softening the blow, explaining away the risk as "aggressive but manageable." Heads nod again. Pens resume movement.
I'm no longer part of the presentation.
I'm standing there, useless, exposed, watching someone else explain my work while the room quietly rewrites the narrative around me.
"Support roles are crucial," Marcus says lightly, glancing my way. "But this is why final review needs senior oversight."
Someone smiles.
Someone else looks at me with pity.
Alex nods once, almost imperceptibly.
"Going forward," he says, "all external-facing presentations will route through Vivienne's team."
The words land like a verdict.
External-facing.
Meaning me - cut out. Removed. Reduced.
"Let's continue," he adds, as if nothing significant has happened.
The meeting wraps up ten minutes later.
Clients shake hands. Compliments are exchanged. Vivienne accepts praise with graceful ease.
No one speaks to me.
Not directly.
As the room empties, Marcus passes close enough to murmur, "Rough day," his tone almost kind, which somehow makes it worse.
Vivienne pauses beside me, her voice low. "We'll discuss next steps later."
Alex doesn't look at me.
Not when he leaves, not even when the door closes behind him.
I stand there alone, staring at the darkened screen until my reflection stares back.
At my desk, the damage continues quietly.
Emails reroute. Access disappears.
A calendar notification pops up — a follow-up call I would normally be on.
My name isn't listed.
By mid-afternoon, the office hums with subdued energy, the kind that follows spectacle. People glance at me, then away. Conversations lower when I pass.
I eat nothing.
I don't feel hungry anymore.
When I finally leave, the city feels too loud, too bright. I walk without direction for a few blocks before realizing where I am, then force myself toward the subway.
In the train window, my reflection looks unfamiliar — eyes too large, shoulders drawn inward, mouth set in a line I don't remember choosing.
The worst part isn't the mistake they think I made.
It's knowing how easily the room believed it.
How quickly my credibility vanished.
By the time I reach my apartment, my hands are shaking too badly to unlock the door on the first try.
Inside, I drop my bag and sink onto the floor, back against the wall, breathing shallow and uneven.
This wasn't just a bad meeting. It was a warning.
I was never meant to stand in that room.
And if I stay, this will happen again.