(Elara POV)
I haven't seen Alex in a week.
Not really.
We pass each other sometimes brief, distant moments where he's already turning away, already absorbed in something else but there's been no reason for us to speak beyond clipped, professional necessities. No lingering pauses. No accidental proximity. No quiet gestures that might give anyone another excuse to look at me like I don't belong where I stand.
I tell myself this is good.
The less we're seen together, the faster the whispers should die. The office thrives on novelty, and scandals only last until the next distraction comes along. Distance should dull interest.
It doesn't.
If anything, things feel worse.
The project restructuring email comes on a Tuesday morning, buried between routine updates and scheduling notices. I almost miss it until I notice the subject line.
Project Allocation Update
My name is still there which is a relief but it's no longer listed where it used to be. I scan the email twice, then a third time, my eyes catching on the detail that matters.
Project Lead: Tessa Whitmore
I sit very still at my desk, fingers hovering over my keyboard.
I shouldn't be surprised. Tessa has more experience. More confidence. On paper, the decision makes sense. She knows how to speak to executives, how to present herself like she belongs at the table.
I close the email and open my work files.
It doesn't matter who leads. The work still needs to be done.
The first request comes before lunch.
"Can you move desks?" Tessa asks, already standing beside me before I notice her approach.
I look up slowly. "Move?"
She gestures vaguely toward the hallway closer to Mr. Hale's office. "I'll need to update him frequently. It'll be more efficient if I'm closer to his office. Your desk just… makes more sense for that."
My desk.
The one I've sat at since my first week here. The one positioned just close enough to the executive floor that I can hear when meetings end, when people pass by, when the office rhythm shifts.
I glance toward the space she's indicating a smaller desk tucked near the back hallway, half-shadowed, far from foot traffic.
A corner. Invisible.
I swallow and say. "Okay."
Her relief is immediate. "Great. Thanks. I knew you'd understand."
Understanding has always been my problem. I thought to myself.
By the end of the day, my things are packed neatly into a box. Pens. Notebooks. A small framed photo of my mother that I keep turned face-down so no one asks questions. I carry it to the new desk.
From here, I can barely see Mr. Hale's office. Just the edge of glass if I lean forward in my chair. This place….It's quieter. More like Isolated.
At night, when I get home, I open my calendar and count the days again.
Twenty-eight.
Twenty-eight days until I complete a full year at Hale Industries.
Twenty-eight days until the insurance coverage kicks in.
I don't cry.
There's no time for that.
The next two weeks blur together.
I work harder than I ever have.
Every morning, I arrive early and leave late, compiling reports, verifying data, and triple-checking numbers that are already correct. I send updates to Tessa, to Vivienne, to Daniel, copying everyone who might need to see them so there's record proof that I've done my part.
Daniel is kind. Professional. Steady in a way that makes the days bearable.
"Everything's clean on the compliance side," he tells me one afternoon, scrolling through the documents on my screen. "You're thorough. It makes my job easier."
"Thank you," I say quietly.
It's the only recognition I get.
When the presentation date finally arrives, my stomach knots the moment I wake up.
This matters.
Not just for the project — for me.
I've worked on every aspect of this report. The expense projections. The profit margins. The flowcharts that break down the process in a way the board can digest quickly. I've structured it carefully, anticipating the questions they'll ask, the points they'll challenge.
I want them to see that I still belong here.
An hour before the meeting, Tessa appears at my desk.
"Is it ready?" she asks.
"Almost," I reply, angling my screen toward her. "I'm just doing final formatting. I've aligned the expense and profit charts side-by-side so comparisons are easier, and I added flowcharts for the operational timeline."
She studies the screen closely.
This time, really looks.
"Yes," she says after a moment. "Finish it quickly. We'll need it uploaded before the meeting."
"I'll have it up shortly," I say.
She nods and walks away.
I finish the report in silence, fingers flying over the keyboard, heart pounding as the clock ticks closer to the meeting time. When I'm done, I upload the file to the shared drive and send Tessa a message. "Report uploaded."
Ready for presentation. I smooth my skirt, take a deep breath, and head to the boardroom.
The room is already filling when I arrive. Executives settling into seats. Low conversations. The familiar weight of anticipation pressing down on my chest.
This is the first time in two weeks that I have seen him up close.
He stands at the head of the table, speaking quietly with one of the board members, posture composed, expression unreadable. For a brief, dangerous moment, my eyes linger.
It hurts in a way I wasn't prepared for.
I look away quickly, grounding myself by focusing on the edge of the table, the cool surface beneath my fingers.
Tessa steps forward.
"I'll start," she says smoothly, taking the clicker from the table.
I blink.
Vivienne gives me a brief look not unkind, not warm — just neutral. "Go ahead, Tessa."
My heart stutters.
Maybe she's just opening.
That's what I tell myself as the first slide appears on the screen.
Tessa speaks confidently, walking the board through the introduction and then the numbers.
My numbers!
She explains the charts exactly as I described them to her. Uses the same phrasing. Highlights the same key points. Even gestures at the flowchart the same way I did, tracing the process step-by-step.
The room listens intently.
Heads nod.
Someone murmurs approval.
By the time she finishes, the board looks impressed.
"Well done," one of the VPs says. "This is very clear."
Another leans forward. "Did you prepare this report yourself, Tessa?"
"Yes," she answers without hesitation.
My breath leaves my lungs.
Vivienne smiles. "Excellent work."
She turns toward me then, as if remembering I exist. "Elara, what was your contribution in this project?"
I open my mouth.
Before I can speak, Tessa cuts in.
"Elara was assisting Daniel with compliance," she says lightly. "Given the time constraints, I took over the report compilation."
The words settle over the room.
No one questions it.
No one looks at me again.
Alex's gaze flicks briefly in my direction just for a fraction of a second and then returns to the screen.
The meeting continues.
I stand there, silent, invisible, hands clasped tightly in front of me so no one sees them shake.
When it ends, people file out in clusters, discussing next steps, praising the clarity of the presentation. Tessa laughs softly with Vivienne as they walk ahead.
I leave the boardroom last.
Back at my desk in my corner — I sit down slowly, staring at the blank screen in front of me.
This is how it happens.
Not loudly. Not cruelly.
But quietly..
I think of the insurance coverage. Of the calendar on my wall. Of my mother's voice when she tries not to sound tired.
Twenty-eight days.
I open a new file and start working again.
Because quitting isn't an option.
And because sometimes, survival means letting pieces of yourself be taken one by one and telling no one how much it costs.