Chapter 2 The Photograph
By Friday evening, Orm had almost forgotten about the handkerchief.
Almost.
It was still folded carefully inside the smallest compartment of her handbag, tucked beneath a packet of tissues and a lipstick she rarely used.
She had meant to return it on Tuesday, then Wednesday, then Thursday, but every time she saw Ling at the office, the opportunity seemed to disappear before she could gather enough courage to approach her.
It wasn't that returning a handkerchief should have been difficult, but somehow, after the strange late-night conversation outside Veyra and the quiet ride home, the simple act had started to feel unnecessarily personal.
Which was ridiculous.
It was a handkerchief, after all; a small piece of fabric that had probably meant nothing to Ling the moment she handed it over. Orm reminded herself of that as she stood in front of her bedroom mirror, trying to decide whether the black dress she had chosen was too much for a company party.
She looked at herself critically.
The dress wasn't particularly revealing.
It was simple, fitted at the waist, and fell just below her knees, with a modest neckline and short sleeves that made her look slightly more polished than she normally did at the office.
She had paired it with small earrings and a pair of heels she already regretted putting on because she knew she would probably be complaining about her feet within the hour.
Her hair was loose tonight, falling naturally around her shoulders instead of being tied into the practical ponytail she wore almost every day.
She looked different.
Not dramatically different, but enough to make her wonder whether the people at Veyra would even recognize her.
Her phone buzzed on the bed.
Bow: I'm downstairs.
Orm grabbed her handbag and took one final look at herself before leaving.
"You're going to a company party," she told her reflection. "Not a wedding."
Her reflection offered no reassurance.
With a resigned sigh, she turned off the bedroom light and left.
?
Veyra's annual company celebration was being held at one of Bangkok's more exclusive hotels, the kind of place where even the lobby seemed to smell expensive.
The polished marble floors reflected the warm chandelier lights above them, the reception desk was decorated with enormous arrangements of white flowers, and employees were being greeted by hotel staff who looked as though they had been trained never to show surprise at anything.
Orm knew immediately that she was underdressed.
Then she saw Bow.
"Okay," Orm said, staring at her friend.
Bow looked down at the dress she was wearing and laughed. "What?"
"You told me this was casual."
"It is casual."
Orm looked around the lobby at the women wearing gowns and the men in perfectly tailored suits before looking back at Bow. "This is not casual."
"It's a company party, not the Met Gala."
Orm gave her a doubtful look.
"Tell that to everyone else."
Bow linked her arm through Orm's and pulled her toward the ballroom. "Relax. We're here to eat, drink, pretend to enjoy corporate speeches, and leave before anyone asks us to dance."
"That's the plan?"
"That's always the plan."
The ballroom doors opened, and the sound of music, conversation, and laughter immediately washed over them.
The room had been transformed into something almost unrecognizable, with long tables covered in white linen, soft lights hanging above the dance floor, and enormous floral arrangements placed between the tables.
Employees who usually spent their days in jeans, sneakers, and practical office attire had transformed themselves into people Orm barely recognized.
She stopped near the entrance.
"Everyone looks so..."
"Expensive?" Bow suggested.
"I was going to say polished."
"Same thing."
Orm laughed, finally relaxing enough to take in the room properly.
Then she saw her.
Ling.
She was standing near the stage, speaking with several senior executives, and although there were hundreds of people in the ballroom, Orm's attention seemed to find her almost immediately.
Her steps slowed.
There was no reason for her to notice Ling. There were more than two hundred people in the room, most of whom were dressed far differently from how they appeared at work, and yet Ling was the first person Orm had truly noticed since entering the ballroom.
She was wearing a black evening gown with clean, understated lines that made her look effortlessly elegant without appearing as though she had tried too hard.
Her hair was styled differently too, swept away from her face and falling over one shoulder, and she held a champagne glass loosely in one hand while listening to one of the senior executives speak.
Orm stared for perhaps two seconds too long.
Bow noticed.
"Oh."
Orm immediately looked away.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"You said something."
"I said nothing."
Bow smiled.
"You were staring."
"I was not."
"You were."
"I was looking in that direction."
"The stage is behind you."
Orm turned.
It was.
She looked back at Bow.
"Shut up."
Bow laughed.
Before Orm could respond, someone from the account management team approached them, calling her name and immediately pulling her into a conversation about the upcoming campaign.
Within minutes, Orm had been dragged toward the bar with a group of coworkers, leaving Bow behind with a knowing smile that Orm chose to ignore.
?
The first glass of champagne was harmless.
The second was questionable.
By the third, Orm had stopped keeping track.
She wasn't drunk, she decided. She was simply relaxed, which was entirely different and therefore much less concerning.
The music had gotten louder as the evening progressed, the formal atmosphere had gradually dissolved into something much more comfortable, and employees who usually addressed one another by surnames were now laughing together, taking photographs, and exchanging stories about their bosses.
Orm had discovered that Veyra's finance department became surprisingly entertaining after two drinks.
She was sitting with Bow and several coworkers when someone raised a glass.
"To surviving another year!"
Everyone cheered.
Orm raised her own glass.
"To surviving."
Bow leaned closer.
"How many have you had?"
Orm frowned as though the question required serious mathematical consideration.
"How many what?"
"Drinks."
Orm looked down at her glass.
She thought about it.
"Two."
Bow stared at her.
"You've had three."
"That's impossible."
"I watched you."
Orm looked at the empty glass in her hand.
"Then this is three."
"Exactly."
Orm shrugged, apparently satisfied with this newly discovered information.
"Still fine."
Bow laughed.
"That's what everyone says before becoming a problem."
"I am not a problem."
A voice behind her answered, "Debatable."
Orm turned.
Ling stood there.
For one embarrassing second, Orm simply stared.
Then she laughed.
"Did you just call me a problem?"
Ling's lips curved slightly.
"I said debatable."
"You did."
"I did."
Orm pointed at her with her glass.
"You're enjoying this."
"Maybe."
It was strange seeing Ling smile so easily.
At work, her expressions were always measured, a slight lift of an eyebrow capable of meaning disapproval, curiosity, amusement, or absolutely nothing at all.
Tonight, however, there was something softer about her, and Orm wasn't sure whether it was the champagne, the setting, or simply the fact that Ling wasn't sitting behind a desk evaluating her work.
Ling glanced at the glass in Orm's hand.
"How much have you had?"
Orm immediately became defensive.
"Why does everyone keep asking me that?"
"Because you're counting incorrectly."
Bow burst out laughing.
Orm glared at her.
"You're supposed to be my friend."
"I am."
"Then defend me."
"Against mathematics?"
Orm sighed.
Ling smiled.
"Drink some water."
"I don't need water."
"Orm."
"Fine."
Ling gestured toward the table where several glasses of water were waiting.
"There's water there."
Orm looked at the glass, then back at Ling.
"You sound like my mother."
"I'll take that as an insult."
"It was."
Ling laughed.
Orm stared again.
There was something dangerously disarming about hearing that sound.
She had never heard Ling laugh like that at the office, and perhaps it was the champagne, the music, or the simple fact that she was seeing a version of Ling that existed outside the walls of Veyra, but for the first time,
Orm wondered what the woman behind that carefully controlled exterior was really like.
Then someone called Ling's name from across the room.
Ling turned.
"I should go."
Orm nodded.
"Sure."
Ling took one step away before looking back.
"Water."
Orm rolled her eyes.
"Yes, boss."
Ling smiled before disappearing into the crowd.
Bow leaned toward Orm.
"You are so screwed."
Orm frowned.
"What?"
"Nothing."
"Why do you keep saying that?"
"Because you don't see it."
"See what?"
Bow smiled into her drink.
"Nothing."
Orm stared after Ling for a moment, but she had no idea what Bow meant and wasn't interested in finding out.
At least, that's what she told herself.
?
The evening continued.
At some point, someone convinced Orm to join the dance floor, and at another point, she lost Bow before finding her again twenty minutes later near the dessert table.
There was a photo booth in one corner of the ballroom, and after being dragged into it by several coworkers, Orm posed for a series of increasingly ridiculous photographs until she was laughing so hard her cheeks hurt.
She was having fun.
Real fun.
The kind she hadn't allowed herself to have in months.
Her work had consumed most of her attention since joining Veyra.
She had spent every day trying to prove herself, every night thinking about deadlines, and every spare moment worrying about whether she was good enough to remain where she was.
Tonight, however, she didn't want to think about any of it.
She wanted to laugh.
So she did.