Barrett Payne appeared at my desk on a Tuesday morning with a latte and a smile.

"Oat milk, one pump vanilla, extra hot," he said, setting the cup down. "Right?"

I looked up from my screen. "How did you—"

"I pay attention." He leaned against the partition. "Also I asked Sandra, but that ruins the mystique."

I laughed. Actually laughed. The sound surprised me.

He grinned. "There it is. I was starting to think you didn't know how."

"I know how to laugh."

"Could've fooled me. You've got this whole ice-queen-who-takes-no-prisoners thing going." He tilted his head. "It's working for you, don't get me wrong. But it's nice to know there's a human under there."

I picked up the latte. It was perfect. Exactly the way I ordered it.

"Thank you," I said.

"Anytime." He pushed off the partition. "Hey, you eat lunch?"

"Generally, yes."

"Smart. Very pro-survival." He smiled. "Want to eat it with me today? There's a new poke place on Pine. Supposed to be good."

I should have said no.

I said, "Okay."

His face lit up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Noon?"

"Noon."

He walked away looking like he'd just won something.

Sandra appeared the moment he was out of earshot.

"That was interesting," she said.

"It's lunch."

"Uh-huh." She sipped her terrible break-room coffee. "He's cute. Single. Doesn't take himself too seriously. You could do worse."

I didn't answer.

She studied me. "You could also do nothing, which is what you've been doing since you got here."

"I'm focusing on work."

"You're hiding."

I looked at her.

She shrugged. "Just an observation."

She left.

I stared at the latte and felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.

Guilty.

Lunch was easy. Barrett talked about his last project, a rebrand for a boutique hotel in Portland. He sketched the logo on a napkin. It was good. He was good.

"You should've been in that pitch meeting," I said.

"I was. You just didn't notice me." He grinned. "I'm used to it. I have a very forgettable face."

"You don't."

He looked at me. The grin softened into something else.

"Good to know," he said.

We walked back to the office. He held the door. Asked if I liked art. There was a gallery opening Friday night. Small place in Pioneer Square. His friend was showing.

"You should come," he said.

I hesitated.

"Just as friends," he added quickly. "No pressure. I just think you'd like it."

"I'll think about it," I said.

He nodded. Smiled. Walked toward the elevator.

I watched him go and felt the guilt sharpen.

The next morning, Barrett's desk was empty.

I noticed at 9:30 a.m. By 10:00, Sandra had the explanation.

"He got reassigned," she said. "Some project two floors up. Satellite office."

"Why?"

She shrugged. "Workflow optimization. That's what the email said."

I pulled up my inbox. Found the message. Read it twice.

It was signed by Clayton.

I stood up.

Sandra looked at me. "Where are you going?"

"Nowhere," I said.

I walked to Clayton's office. The door was open. He was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, eyes on his screen.

I stepped inside and closed the door.

He looked up.

"You reassigned Barrett," I said.

He leaned back in his chair. "Yes."

"Why?"

"We needed someone on the Cascade account. He's a good fit."

"He was a good fit on my team."

"He's a better fit on Cascade."

I crossed my arms. "You moved him because he asked me to lunch."

Clayton didn't blink. "I moved him because the project required it."

"That's bullshit."

"It's documented."

"It's transparent."

He stood. Slowly. Walked around the desk and stopped three feet from me.

"What do you want me to say, Margot?"

"I want you to admit you're using your authority to control my personal life."

He looked at me for a long moment.

"I'm not controlling your personal life," he said quietly. "I'm protecting mine."

The air left the room.

I stared at him.

He didn't move. Didn't soften.

"You don't get to do that," I said.

"I just did."

My hands curled into fists. "We're not together."

"I know."

"We're not anything."

"Okay."

"So you don't get to—" I stopped. My voice was shaking.

He stepped closer. Not touching. Just close enough that I could feel the heat of him.

"Tell me you don't think about it," he said. "Tell me you don't replay that night every time you see me. Tell me you're not lying to yourself right now."

I couldn't.

He nodded slowly. "That's what I thought."

I turned and walked out.

I didn't look back.

I didn't trust myself to.

When I got back to my desk, my hands were still shaking.

Sandra didn't ask.

I opened my laptop and stared at the screen until the words stopped blurring.

Barrett sent me a message at 3:00 p.m.

*Hey—heard you're stuck with someone boring now. Let me know if you still want to hit that gallery Friday. No pressure.*

I read it three times.

I didn't respond.

I closed the message and went back to work.

But I felt Clayton's eyes on me from across the floor.

And I hated that I wanted them there.

Adrianna Elliott wore power like perfume. Expensive. Unmistakable. The kind that announced itself before she entered a room.

She entered the quarterly happy hour at 6:47 p.m., late enough to make an entrance, early enough to claim the best position at the bar. She wore black. She always wore black. It made everything else look like it was trying too hard.

I stood three feet away with a glass of wine I wasn't drinking and watched her move through the crowd like she owned the oxygen.

She found Clayton near the windows.

Of course she did.

He was talking to someone from finance. She touched his arm. Light. Casual. The kind of touch that said *I belong here*. He glanced down. Said something. She laughed.

My chest tightened.

I looked away. Took a sip of wine. It tasted like nothing.

Sandra appeared at my elbow. "You okay?"

"Great."

"You're staring."

"I'm observing."

"You're staring like you want to set something on fire."

I turned. Walked toward the bar. Ordered another glass I wouldn't finish.

When I turned back, Adrianna's hand was still on his sleeve. She was leaning in now. Saying something that required proximity. He wasn't leaning away.

I moved without thinking.

Three steps. Four.

I walked directly into a glass partition.

The impact was loud. My forehead hit first. Then my nose. The wine sloshed out of the glass and onto my shirt.

The room went quiet.

I stepped back. Blinked. My eyes were watering.

Barrett materialized beside me. "Jesus. You okay?"

I nodded. My face was hot. My forehead was throbbing.

He took the glass from my hand and set it on a table. Then he disappeared and returned thirty seconds later with a bar towel full of ice.

"Here," he said, pressing it gently to my forehead. "Hold that."

I held it.

He didn't ask what I'd been looking at. Didn't make a joke. Just stood there with his hand steadying mine until the room started moving again.

"Thanks," I said.

"Anytime." He smiled. Not his usual grin. Something quieter. "You sure you're okay?"

"Yeah."

I wasn't.

I left ten minutes later.

The next morning, there was a small tube of arnica cream on my desk.

No note. No name. Just the tube, placed precisely in the center of my keyboard.

I picked it up. Turned it over. It was the expensive kind. The kind you had to go out of your way to find.

Sandra appeared at the partition. She looked at the tube. Then at me.

"That man is not over you," she said quietly.

I said nothing.

She left.

I sat down. Opened my laptop. Put the tube in my desk drawer.

I used it that night. And the next. And the one after that.

I told myself it was practical.

I told myself it didn't mean anything.

I told myself a lot of things.

On Thursday, Clayton called me into his office.

I knocked on the open door. He looked up.

"Come in," he said. "Close the door."

I stepped inside. The door clicked shut.

He gestured to the chair across from him. I sat.

He slid a folder across the desk. "Pacific Northwest rebranding campaign. We just landed it. It's the highest-stakes project this quarter."

I opened the folder. Skimmed the brief. My pulse quickened.

"This is huge," I said.

"Yes."

"Who's leading?"

He looked at me. "We are."

I stopped reading.

"Co-leads," he said. "You and me. We'll present to the client together. Strategy, execution, everything."

I set the folder down. "Why me?"

"Because you're good at this."

"There are other people who are good at this."

"Not like you."

I looked at him. He looked back. Steady. Unreadable.

"This is a bad idea," I said.

"Probably."

"We can't work together like this."

"We already are."

I stood. "I need to think about it."

"Okay." He leaned back. "You have until tomorrow."

I left.

I didn't need until tomorrow.

I knew I was going to say yes.

The first strategy session was scheduled for 7:00 p.m. Thursday in Conference Room C.

I arrived at 6:58 p.m. Clayton was already there. Laptop open. Sleeves rolled up. Two coffees on the table.

He slid one toward me. "Oat milk. One pump vanilla."

I sat down. Took the cup. Didn't say thank you.

We worked for two hours without stopping. He asked questions that made me think three steps ahead. I challenged assumptions he hadn't questioned. We built the strategy skeleton in ninety minutes.

It felt like the early years of our marriage.

When everything was easy because we were building something together.

At 9:15 p.m., I said something about the target demographic that contradicted his positioning.

He disagreed.

I pushed back.

He pushed harder.

"You're wrong," I said.

"I'm not."

"You're thinking about what they want. I'm thinking about what they need."

"They're the same thing."

"They're not." I stood. Crossed to the whiteboard. Drew a diagram. "Look. If we position it this way—"

"It's too narrow."

"It's focused."

"It's limiting."

I turned. He was standing now. Three feet away.

"You're not listening," I said.

"I'm listening. You're not making sense."

My hands curled into fists. "I make perfect sense. You just don't want to admit I'm right."

"You're not right. You're stubborn."

"I'm thorough."

"You're inflexible."

I stepped closer. "Say that again."

He didn't move. "You are the most stubborn person I have ever loved."

The room went silent.

I stared at him.

He stared back.

Then I turned. Grabbed my bag. Left my coat on the chair.

I walked out of the building and into the cold Seattle night.

Six blocks home. No jacket. November wind cutting through my shirt.

I didn't stop.

I didn't look back.

I couldn't.

Because if I did, I would go back.

And I couldn't let myself go back.

Not yet.

Maybe not ever.