Before work, I bought a new phone—a different model, a different color. I added my colleagues back, one by one.
On my way back from HR after submitting the Seattle paperwork, I saw them. In the glass-walled office cafe, Chloe was perched on a stool, chin in her hands, watching Ethan fiddle with the expensive espresso machine. He made two lattes, setting them on the counter.
Chloe picked up a sugar cube, her fingers brushing his as she dropped it into his cup. "Just how you like it," she sang.
He grinned, ruffling her hair, and took a sip.
My heart didn’t break. It simply emptied. A bitter taste coated my tongue.
I remembered making him coffee once. I’d been distracted, giving him my mug, the one loaded with vanilla creamer. He’d been working on a merger. He took a sip, grimaced, and hurled the ceramic mug at the wall beside my head. Shards sliced my calf.
"How many times do I have to tell you? Black. No sugar. Are you stupid? Get out!"
The scar on my leg throbbed faintly. I’d thought he hated sweetness. Turns out, he just hated it from me.
I tried to slip away, but Chloe’s voice, sugar-sweet and sharp, cut through the air. "Ethan! Lauren’s been standing there watching us forever. Make her a coffee too, or she’ll blame me for hogging you again."
Ethan’s shoulders tensed. He turned, scowling at me, then deliberately positioned his body as a shield between Chloe and me. "Finish your latte and that croissant," he told her, voice soft. "I’ll smooth things over with your manager if you’re late."
Chloe blushed, taking tiny, delicate bites of the pastry he held to her lips.
Only when she was settled did he deign to address me. "What was with the attitude this morning? With the lunch?" he demanded, walking over. "If you don’t want to do it, Lauren, there are plenty of women who would be happy to."
He said it like a threat, one that had always worked before. The threat of replacement.
But not anymore.
"Then I suggest you find one of them," I said, my voice even.
His face went slack with shock. He started to say something, but I was already walking toward the elevators.
At lunch, riding down with a group from Marketing, the doors began to close when a hand shot out, forcing them open. Ethan stepped in, pulling Chloe behind him.
The elevator emitted an unhappy *beep-beep-beep*. Overweight.
Ethan’s eyes scanned the crowded car and landed on me, tucked in the back corner. "Lauren," he said, voice cold and authoritative. "Get off. You’re holding everyone up."
Every eye turned to me. I held his gaze, saying nothing.
An intern near the front shifted nervously. "I can go, it’s okay—"
She stepped off. The warning beep continued.
"Lauren," Ethan repeated, a hard edge in his tone. "Now."
I knew what this was. He was punishing me for my earlier defiance, for my new, unsettling calm. He wanted a scene. He wanted the old, reactive Lauren. Sighing internally, I figured I’d spare the others the drama and stepped forward.
But as I moved, a hand—Chloe’s—shot out and shoved me, hard, out of the elevator just as the doors began to close. I stumbled, falling to my knees on the cold marble of the lobby.
The last thing I saw before the doors sealed was Chloe wrapping herself around Ethan’s arm, that smug smirk on her face. And Ethan… his hand was half-outstretched, as if he’d thought about catching me, then thought better of it.
The lobby was packed with people on lunch break. Heat flooded my cheeks as whispers and stares followed me. I kept my head down, blinking back furious, humiliated tears, and hurried away.
I picked at a salad at my desk. My new phone rang. It was my coworker’s number, but Ethan’s voice came through.
"You changed your number without telling me? My writing callus is acting up. The finger protector you made is dirty. Bring me a new one. Now."
He rattled off an address—a client’s office across town—and hung up.
My hand went automatically to my desk drawer, where I kept a spare. I’d started making the leather finger protectors for him after he broke his pinky saving me from a falling shelf at a bookstore on our third date. He’d seemed to love the first one. That was the day he’d given me a delicate silver bracelet. *"For my practical girl who takes such good care of me,"* he’d said.
