Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
AUDRA
The building feels the same when I step inside.
That’s the first thing I notice.
The hum. The familiar rhythm. Conversations overlapping just enough to sound alive without being invasive. Phones ringing. Footsteps on marble. Someone laughing too loudly near the elevators.
Normal.
I hang my coat, badge in, and take the elevator up with my posture already set—shoulders back, breath steady. I don’t rush. I don’t brace.
I refuse to let the calm I earned dissolve just because I’m back.
My office door is open.
Inside, everything is as I left it.
Except the flowers.
They’re everywhere.
Not one arrangement. Not two. But several—lined along the credenza, tucked into the corner table, balanced carefully on the windowsill where the light won’t scorch them. Different blooms. Different colors. All fresh.
I stop just inside the doorway.
One for each day I was gone.
The realization settles slowly, not as a jolt but as weight—intentional, considered. Someone paid attention. Someone noticed what mattered to me and planned for it.
I don’t touch them yet.
I just stand there for a moment and let the room receive me back.
Then I hear it.
Laughter.
Alex’s laughter, unmistakable. Karl’s voice underneath it, dry and amused, indulging him.
Of course.
I follow the sound.
Alex’s office looks like a florist lost a bet.
Vases—enormous ones—crowd every available surface. Roses. Lilies. Something wild and trailing I don’t know the name of. The air smells faintly green and sweet.
Karl is perched on the edge of the desk, coffee in hand, looking entirely too comfortable for someone technically still filling in.
Alex spots me and lights up.
“She lives,” he announces. “And look at that—she brought herself back in one piece.”
“I was gone three days,” I say. “Not trekking across Antarctica.”
Karl raises his cup. “Still impressive.”
Alex gestures broadly at the room. “We handled Ethan Rowley. Clean termination. Access locked. Legal satisfied. IT still twitchy.”
Karl nods. “He talked more than he meant to.”
“Always do,” Alex says, puffing up his chest. “Under the right pressure.”
I exhale, the tightness I've been holding eases.. “Thank you. Both of you.”
Alex waves it off. “Please. I live for professional chaos.”
My eyes flick to the flowers again. “They’re… alive.”
“Barely,” Alex says. “But that’s because I know how to take care of them.”
I arch a brow. “You?”
“Green thumb,” he says proudly. “Unlike someone we know.”
Karl snorts into his coffee.
“Text me your trick,” I say. “I refuse to let these die on principle.”
Alex grins. “Already drafting the manifesto.”
I smile despite myself.
The calm holds.
I return to my office, set my bag down, and finally touch the flowers—adjusting a ribbon, nudging a stem back into place. They’re still fresh. Still intentional.
I’m reminded, not for the first time, that care doesn’t have to be loud to be unmistakable.
When I step back into the hall, there’s one place left to go.
Derek’s office.
My stomach dips as I approach it—not dread exactly, but awareness. The quiet recognition that some moments require you to show up fully present, whether you want to or not.
I straighten my spine.
I knock once and step inside.
The office is different.
Not dramatically. But pleasantly.
There’s a framed photo on the side table—Derek with Alex and Mark, all three of them younger, less guarded. A signed Jordan basketball in a custom case sits on the shelf, not hidden away. Sports memorabilia arranged with care rather than nostalgia.
Personal.
Chosen.
I take it in without comment.
What does this mean, I wonder.
Is this real change—or just movement?
He looks up as I enter.
Our eyes meet.
Nothing sharp passes between us. No defensiveness. No apology reaching too soon for words.
Just acknowledgment.
“I’m back,” I say.
“I know,” he replies.
And he does. I can tell.
"I heard what that jackhole Ethan Rowley did," I start
Derek raises his brows. His lip twitch, but he just nods.
We don’t talk long. We don’t need to.
This is professional. Not personal, I remind myself.
When I leave his office, my breath feels steadier than I expected.
In the breakroom, Jamie is already there, coffee in hand.
She looks up and smiles—small, real.
“You okay,” she asks.
“Yes,” I say. And mean it.
We talk quietly. About Ethan. About what was handled while I was gone. About what wasn’t. She fills in the gaps without embellishment, without protecting anyone unnecessarily.
It’s the kind of conversation that reminds me why I trust her.
When we part, I return to my office, close the door, and finally sit.
The flowers catch the light.
The calm stays with me.
I didn’t leave to escape.
I left to remember myself.
And I didn’t lose that version of me on the way back.