(Elara POV)
I don't let myself think about what happened in the boardroom.
Not when I wake up in the morning, not when I stand under the shower and let the water run longer than necessary, hoping it will rinse the weight from my chest. And definitely not when I sit at my desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard, staring at spreadsheets that look exactly the same whether my name is attached to them or not.
Thinking about it won't change anything.
And right now, change is a luxury I can't afford.
When I joined Hale Industries, I made a promise to myself. It wasn't about ambition or titles or climbing any invisible ladder. It wasn't about being seen.
It was practical.
I needed stability.
I needed a job that would still exist tomorrow, even if I moved through it quietly. I needed consistency, predictability, and most importantly, insurance coverage something I had waited nearly a year for, something my mother needed more than I needed pride.
I am so close to that goal now that I can almost feel it in my hands.
So I endure.
That's what I tell myself as I open my inbox and see emails carrying reports I built from the ground up, now addressed to someone else. I don't scroll back through drafts. I don't open file properties to check timestamps. I don't let myself catalogue proof that would only confirm what I already know.
The work still needs to be done.
That truth hasn't changed.
Neither has my need for this job.
Two days later, Mr. Hale leaves for London.
The announcement arrives as a neutral, carefully worded email sent to the entire executive floor. He'll be overseeing the final stages of an acquisition he's been building toward for nearly two years. Negotiations. Integration planning. Meetings stacked end to end.
Three months at least. Possibly longer.
In his absence, Vivienne will manage operations.
The office reacts instantly. There's a ripple of excitement, speculation, whispered calculations of opportunity and authority. Some people seem energized by the change. Others look cautious.
I listen without contributing, my focus fixed on the task list I've already mapped out for the day.
Strangely, I feel lighter.
With him gone, something subtle shifts in the air. The sideways glances fade. Conversations don't pause when I pass. Whatever narrative people had been constructing around us seems to lose momentum without proximity to sustain it.
The rumors begin to die down.
It feels like relief.
I tell myself this is good. That with him away, I can focus entirely on my work. That I can rebuild quietly, steadily prove through consistency that I'm competent, dependable, and worth keeping.
That recognition will come : slowly but earned and it will be undeniable.
That belief carries me through the first week.
I arrive earlier than usual, when the office lights are still dim and the air feels untouched. I leave later, shutting down my system as the cleaning staff begins their rounds. I compile reports, reconcile numbers, prepare compliance summaries with the same meticulous care I always have.
Everything goes through Tessa now.
She reviews my work quickly, eyes scanning rather than reading. Sometimes she nods. Sometimes she sends it back with vague comments tighten this, simplify that, adjust tone without explaining what she actually wants changed.
Once, after I revise a document for the third time, she looks up at me and says,
"You should be grateful, you know."
I pause. "Grateful?"
"That I'm letting you work on this," she continues lightly, as if offering advice. "You don't have much experience at this level."
I keep my face neutral. "I've been handling similar analyses since I joined."
She smiles — indulgent, dismissive. "And this will help you develop. Exposure like this is good for your career."
The implication settles between us.
This is a favor.
I nod. "I understand."
Inside, something tightens, then goes still. I store the moment away and move on.
Gratitude, I've learned, is often demanded most from the people doing the hardest work for the least acknowledgment.
By Friday evening, exhaustion has threaded itself into every movement. Still, I pack my bag carefully, double-checking that the insurance forms I need are tucked safely inside.
I'm visiting my mother.
The hospital smells the same as it always does — clean, sharp, faintly metallic — but when I step into her room, something feels different.
She's sitting up.
Her color is better. There's more strength in the way she smiles, more presence in her eyes.
"You look tired," she says immediately.
I laugh softly. "You look better."
She reaches for my hand, her grip steadier than it's been in weeks. "The doctor said the treatment is responding. They'll run a few more tests, but… they're hopeful."
Hope is a fragile thing. I hold it carefully, like glass.
We talk for a long time. About food she misses. About the nurse she's grown fond of. About a small house she saw listed near the park where we used to walk in the evenings.
"I was thinking," I say hesitantly, "when you're discharged… maybe we could rent a place together again."
Emotion tightens my throat. "I'd like that." She replied.Her smile widens as she pats my head gently.
Life could feel normal again.
When I leave the hospital that evening, the city feels softer somehow, lights blurred by warmth settling in my chest. For the first time in weeks, the future doesn't feel like something to survive.
It feels like something to move toward.
On Sunday, I meet Kyla because she forgot her laptop on the way to the airport. For a work trip!
Of course she did.
She asks me to bring it as if it's a small favor, even though we both know she would have missed her flight if she'd come back herself. I arrive early at the café near the terminal, and when she shows up, she's buzzing with nervous energy.
She's heading to San Francisco for a week.
"I'm excited," she says, eyes bright. "Terrified, but excited."
"You'll be amazing," I tell her. And I mean it.
She asks about my work, and I keep it simple. Projects. Deadlines. Learning curves.
"I think things will turn around," I say. "I just need to keep doing good work."
She grins. "You always do."
We hug before she leaves, and I watch her disappear into the crowd, carrying her future with her.
That night, back in apartment, I cook something warm and eat slowly, savoring the quiet. I think about my mother's improving health. About the insurance card that should arrive soon. About the fragile but real possibility that life might settle into something manageable again.
As I get ready for bed, a thought of Alex in London drifts through my mind — glass buildings, long meetings, unfamiliar streets.
It feels distant. Muted.
He's doing what he's always done.
So am I.
Tomorrow, I'll go back to the office. I'll do my job. I'll send the reports. I'll meet the deadlines.
I'll endure.
And for now, that feels like enough.