2. Cloe #2
Not heavy. Not cruel.
Just… sad.
The kind of sadness that lives in the walls of old places and old grief.
We stood there in silence.
The hallway pulsed around us—phones ringing, laughter behind closed doors, the distant hum of an espresso machine—but none of it touched us.
Loyal shifted. “You okay?”
I could’ve lied.
Could’ve said yes.
That it was fine. That I was just tired.
But my voice cracked when I whispered, “No.”
He didn’t flinch.
Just nodded.
Short. Quiet.
Not unkind.
But not warm either.
“She wouldn’t want you here,” he said after a moment .
I flinched.
He caught it and winced. “I mean—this place. This world. She tried to keep you outside of it.”
“I know.”
“She used to say you were the only real thing she had.”
My breath caught.
Loyal’s gaze dropped to the floor. “She was right.”
We were quiet again.
Then he turned.
Walked away without another word.
And I stood there, in front of the only photograph of the girl I loved more than anything, feeling like maybe this building had already buried me too.
I left the photo behind.
I couldn’t stand the way Camille smiled at me—like she still believed in me. Like I hadn’t abandoned her. Like I hadn’t crawled back into this world too late, dragging guilt and debt like a shadow.
The hallway was fuller now.
People returning from meetings, coffee runs, rooftop smoke breaks.
The energy had shifted—brisk, focused, self-important.
Women in sharp blazers strutted past with the click of four-inch heels, their voices cool and decisive.
Men walked in smooth, choreographed packs, hands tucked into pockets of tailored slacks, their laughs low and effortless.
I didn’t fit.
I never had.
And now, I didn’t even try to pretend.
I ducked into the nearest bathroom, yanked the stall door shut, and locked it with shaking fingers. The clack of the latch echoed too loud in the tiled silence.
I sat on the closed toilet lid and pulled my knees to my chest. Pressed my palms to the tops of my thighs until the heat from them grounded me.
Until I felt real.
Not like a shadow.
Not like a mistake.
Not like a girl trying to resurrect a life she never got to claim.
My phone buzzed.
One sharp vibration in the pit of my bag.
I knew who it was before I pulled it out.
UNKNOWN NUMBER:
You’re not here to make friends. You’re here to keep your mouth shut.
No signature.
But I didn’t need one.
Selene.
Her voice lived inside my bones now. Cold. Controlled. Sliced into everything soft.
I stared at the message for a long moment before putting the phone on silent and shoving it back into my bag. Like I could push her away that easily.
But she always came back.
Always knew the perfect moment to tighten her grip.
My fingers trembled.
I counted my breaths.
One. Two. Three.
The door creaked.
Heels tapped the tile. Two women entered the bathroom, laughter trailing behind them like perfume.
I didn’t move.
Didn’t make a sound.
They didn’t know I was there .
“She’s not that pretty,” one of them said. Her voice was coated in sugar and venom.
“I mean, not ugly,” the other replied, “just… kind of frumpy. Cheap shoes. Thick around the thighs.”
Their words landed like bruises. Quiet, brutal, precise.
I stayed still.
“She’s, like… the cousin of someone they used to know, right?”
“Or the sister’s friend. I don’t know. Either way, she doesn’t fit. Total pity hire.”
The first woman laughed. “I heard Barron didn’t even approve it. Loyal did.”
A pause.
The rush of running water.
The mechanical chirp of the soap dispenser.
Then one of them laughed again. “Watch her get fired before she finds the break room.”
The door opened.
Closed.
Silence again.
Heavy. Absolute.
I stayed in the stall for five more minutes.
Long enough to make sure they were gone.
Long enough to swallow every sound I wanted to make.
Then I stood, slowly, and stepped out.
I didn’t fix my mascara.
Didn’t blot the sweat at my temples.
I just stared at myself in the mirror.
Frizzy curls.
Uneven lipstick.
A small, dark stain on the sleeve of my blouse I hadn’t noticed before.
I looked like everything they said .
I looked tired. Unpolished. Disposable.
And yet...
There I was.
Still standing.
Still trying.
“You don’t belong here,” I whispered to my reflection.
And for one broken second…
I heard her voice say it back.
Not Selene’s.
Not mine.
Camille’s.
Soft.
Pained.
Like maybe she’d known all along.
I pressed my hand to the mirror. The glass was cool beneath my fingertips. My own breath fogged the surface.
This wasn’t strength.
This was survival.
And sometimes, those looked nothing alike.
I didn’t go back to the bathroom stall.
I didn’t curl up again.
I just walked back into the hallway.
Back into the building that didn’t want me.
And I kept moving.
Because they weren’t going to make me disappear.
Not yet.
I went back to my desk—the tiny, suffocating space at the end of the hall with no nameplate, no windows, no welcome.
The moment I stepped inside, the air felt heavier. The light flickered overhead like it was trying to warn me away. My chair gave a pained squeak as I sat, like it was protesting my return. Like even the furniture had decided I didn’t belong.
I opened my bag slowly. Not because I was rummaging— but because everything felt louder than it should. The zipper buzzed in my ears. The crinkle of receipts. The muted thunk of my pen case sliding to one side.
Then I reached into the small zippered pocket I hadn’t touched in months.
And pulled out the photo.
It was creased in one corner. The edges curled slightly from wear. The image itself was faded at the sides, like time had been trying to eat it.
Me and Camille.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Laughing so hard our eyes were squinted shut.
She wore sleek black silk, strapless and stunning. I wore gold—off-the-shoulder, one of those dresses that made you feel like you belonged at a ball instead of pretending you were borrowing space at someone else’s party.
The dress had been hers.
She’d worn it once, hated the color, and passed it to me the next week with a half-smile and a flip of her hair.
Ugh. Not my color. You take it. It’ll look better on you anyway.
That was Camille.
She always made it look like generosity was a joke. Like she had too much of everything and needed help unloading it.
The dinners I couldn’t afford?
She “ accidentally ” ordered too much.
The handbags I complimented?
She just “ happened ” to have a spare.
She made me feel like I belonged to a life I didn’t have the keys to.
But I wasn’t stupid.
I knew she was feeding me because she knew I hadn’t eaten .
I knew she was covering rent with a casual text because she’d seen the final notice on my counter.
She did it with grace. With finesse. With the kind of love that never made me feel small—even when I was drowning.
I only called her out once.
She paid off a semester of my tuition behind my back. I found out when I logged into the portal and saw the zeroed balance.
I went to her penthouse, shaking. Humiliated. Furious.
She didn’t yell.
She didn’t even raise her voice.
She just leaned against the kitchen island, watching me with those ocean-colored eyes and said, quietly:
I know what it feels like to need help and be too proud to ask for it.
And then?—
You don’t owe me anything. You’re just mine, that’s all.
That sentence shattered me in ways I didn’t know how to explain.
My throat burned now, just thinking about it.
I traced the edge of her smile in the photo. Her laugh frozen in light and ink.
“I never got to say thank you,” I whispered.
The words barely made it out.
My fingers trembled as I slid the photo back into the pouch. I pressed it to my chest for one long second.
You always knew I couldn’t afford you.
And you loved me anyway.
I zipped the pouch shut. Closed the bag. Tucked it back beneath my desk like it was something sacred.
There were a thousand things I wanted to say to her.
But all I had was silence.
I turned back to the computer. The screen still lagged like it knew I didn’t belong. The cursor blinked in the corner, passive-aggressive and eternal.
I sipped my lukewarm coffee. It tasted like cardboard and desperation.
I’d brought it from a gas station two blocks over. I couldn’t afford the glossy, overpriced café in the building. Couldn’t bear walking in there with my shoes squeaking and my secondhand blouse and the shame living between my ribs.
Every time someone walked by, I stiffened.
I waited for a tap on the shoulder.
For someone to say I was a mistake.
That the offer had been meant for someone else.
That I was here by accident.
Part of me wanted them to.
Part of me was begging for a reason to run.
And then—like a live wire snapped across the base of my skull—I felt it.
The shift.
The sensation.
Like static brushing the back of my neck.
I looked up.
And froze.
Wolfe stood across the mezzanine, leaning against the steel railing.
Watching me.
He didn’t move.
Didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
His arms were folded across his chest. His sleeves rolled to his elbows. A silver watch glinted under the recessed lights.
His expression didn’t change.
He looked carved from stone.
Colder than steel .
Colder than this building.
And his eyes?—
God.
His eyes didn’t hate me.
They didn’t pity me.
They didn’t burn.
They didn’t even flicker.
They were empty.
And that was worse.
Because it wasn’t rage that made your skin crawl.
It was indifference.
Sharpened to a blade.
And pointed right at me.
I shifted in my seat, the chair groaning beneath me like it had grown tired of my presence. The sound echoed louder than it should’ve, swallowed by the stillness of a floor too quiet and too cruel.
My skirt caught beneath my thigh, the fabric twisting wrong, pinching skin. My legs pressed together tightly, ankles crossed, thighs locked as if that could make me smaller—less visible. Less… judged.
But Wolfe didn’t look away.
He hadn’t blinked.
He hadn’t moved.
He just stood there, a sentinel in dark clothes and darker thoughts, half-shadowed by the railing. Watching. Waiting.
I couldn’t look away either.
Because there was something in the way he looked at me. Not lust. Not disgust.
Worse.
Like I was a problem he hadn’t decided how to solve.
Then, slowly—so slowly—it made my spine lock with anticipation, he pushed off the railing. One step. Two. Unhurried. Controlled.
He turned.
And disappeared through a door at the end of the hall.
No glance back.
No parting words.
Just absence.
But even when he was gone, I still felt him.
In my pulse.
In the sweat beading at the small of my back.
In the shame that slid down my spine and pooled behind my knees.
In the tight coil of heat between my thighs that made me hate myself.
I shifted again. Tried to breathe.
The computer froze.
Again.
I clicked once.
Nothing.
Twice.
Still nothing.
Three times.
The screen blinked.
Then went black.
I sat there a moment longer, staring at the dead screen like it might come back to life and explain something to me. Like it might confirm what I already knew—that I didn’t belong here. That I was a trespasser in heels that clicked too loud and hope that burned too bright.
My eyes stung.
My throat ached with all the things I hadn’t said. All the words I’d swallowed since I walked into this building.
I wasn’t crying .
Not yet.
I wasn’t allowed to cry here.
There wasn’t space for softness. Not in this borrowed blouse. Not in this cursed desk at the end of the hall. Not in this glass-and-gold world where everyone else had names that mattered and mine was written on a Post-it.
The light above me buzzed.
The chair creaked again—leaning slightly left, as if it, too, had finally given up.
And then I stood.
I didn’t plan to.
I didn’t even know why I did.
Maybe because if I sat there a second longer, I’d scream.
Maybe because the silence was too loud, and Wolfe’s absence still pressed against my chest like a bruise.
Maybe because shame has a weight, and I needed to move before it pinned me in place.
I walked to the bathroom.
Not fast.
Not like I was running.
Just… slow .
Heavy.
Like every step was dragging guilt up from the soles of my feet.
The moment I stepped inside, the air slapped me.
Cold. Too clean. Orchids and bleach.
The overhead light flickered once before settling into a sterile buzz.
A single gold-trimmed mirror stretched across the wall.
Expensive.
Unforgiving.
I looked into it.
And hated what I saw .
My curls were frizzing at the ends. My lipstick had bled unevenly, and my eyeliner smudged just beneath the left corner. The blouse clung in all the wrong places—too tight at the bust, too loose at the waist. My skirt had twisted sideways without me noticing.
I looked like a girl who didn’t belong here.
Like someone who’d snuck in.
Like someone who didn’t know when to leave.
I rested both hands on the sink and leaned forward, staring at my reflection with the kind of desperation usually reserved for prayers.
“You don’t belong here,” I whispered.
My voice didn’t echo.
It sank into the porcelain and tile like a secret.
And for one breathless second, I waited for the reflection to argue.
To deny it.
To whisper something back.
But it didn’t.
It just looked at me.
Bruised.
Tired.
And silent.