The Reckoning

Ignoring Victor Ashford is like ignoring gravity—impossible, but I'm trying anyway. Monday morning arrives with the weight of inevitability. I shower, dress in my most conservative suit, and apply makeup with hands that won't quite stop shaking. The pearls—V's pearls, Victor's pearls, whoever's pearls—stay in my jewelry box, hidden beneath scarves I never wear. I deleted Victor's message without responding. Blocked V's account on the app. Told myself that if I pretend hard enough, last Friday night never happened. It's the most pathetic form of denial, and I know it. But the alternative—facing Victor, confronting the truth, acknowledging that the man I've submitted to might be the man who rejected me—feels impossible. So I walk into the office at exactly 8:57 AM, head high, spine straight, wearing my professionalism like armor. Victor is already at his desk. Our eyes meet through the glass wall of his office, and something in his expression makes my breath catch. Not anger. Not disgust