The first time Aurora smiled at me on Monday morning, the entire office exhaled like we’d been holding our breath for weeks.

It wasn’t a warm smile. Not the kind you’d give a friend.

It was the kind you’d give a suspect.

And in that second, I knew.

She knew something.

Because Aurora Sinclair—the youngest VP in our Chicago high-rise, the woman who made grown men triple-check their spreadsheets and interns cry in the bathroom—didn’t smile unless she had already won.

And lately… she’d been in hell.

The kind of hell that doesn’t show up on your calendar.

The kind that makes a woman who never flinches in boardrooms suddenly start snapping at everyone over a missing comma.

The kind that makes the entire office stay until midnight, because nobody dares leave before her.

The kind that makes your skin break out, your eyes turn hollow, and your coworkers start whispering like it’s a horror movie:

“What is wrong with her?”

They didn’t know.

They couldn’t know.

Because the reason Aurora had turned the office into a pressure cooker was the kind of secret that would destroy reputations in one headline.

Aurora Sinclair had just been dumped.

And I was the one who dumped her.

She just didn’t know the person who broke her heart had been sitting three desks away from her for the last two years.

It started on an anonymous forum late one night, the kind of site people in America go to when they’re too proud to admit loneliness out loud.

The post was titled:

“Why can’t I find a partner?”

Curiosity pulled me in.

The woman who wrote it sounded like she’d been built by an algorithm designed to make men jealous:

“25 years old. Ivy League. Management Science + Engineering. Vice President at a Fortune 500. Seven-figure salary. House, car, attractive… still single. What am I doing wrong?”

The comments were brutal.

“Fake.”
“Daddy’s company.”
“Attention seeker.”
“A 25-year-old VP? Sure, and I’m Beyoncé.”

I chuckled and left a careless reply, something half-joking:

“Maybe it’s your appearance. Post a picture.”

I didn’t expect anything.

Then she messaged me privately.

“Can I send you a picture… just to you?”

I hesitated.

Then replied, “Sure.”

A moment later, a mirror selfie popped up.

And I nearly spit coffee on my laptop.

Because the woman in that photo was not five-foot-nine, not even close.

More like five-foot-three.

Thick black-rimmed glasses. Outdated clothes. Bad lighting. A posture that screamed insecurity.

But her face?

Her face hit me like a punch.

Perfect features hidden under the wrong packaging. Like a diamond buried under cheap plastic.

And the weirdest part?

Something about her looked familiar.

I zoomed in, studied the picture like it was a puzzle, then typed a long message.

Not because I was flirting—at least that’s what I told myself.

I framed it as “honest advice,” like I was doing her a favor.

“Try different glasses. Better lighting. Camera angle. More modern style. Confidence. Don’t hide your face.”

She replied:

“Thank you so much.”

Then she did it again the next day.

Another photo.

Better.

Then another.

Better.

And another.

For a week straight.

Like she was submitting homework.

By the fifth day, I was annoyed.

Then she asked something that made my eyebrows shoot up.

“Can I pay you for your consulting services? Can I have your personal contact?”

Money is money.

I gave her my private account.

A friend request appeared instantly.

And when I saw the profile picture, I swear my heartbeat stopped.

Aurora.

My boss.

My vice president.

My nightmare.

For a second I sat completely frozen, staring at the screen.

My finger slipped.

I accepted.

Panic lit up my body like electricity.

I changed my settings.

Chat-only.

No public details.

No profile access.

Then her message came through like a sweet little grenade:

“Thank you for all your advice. Here’s a token of appreciation.”

A transfer notification appeared.

$5,000.

No strings attached.

I stared at it in silence.

Because now I wasn’t just her anonymous style coach.

I was her employee who had just taken five grand from her under a fake identity.

And she still didn’t know.

That should have been the moment I walked away.

It should have been.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I kept helping her.

Her style improved fast.

Her confidence grew.

She stopped hiding behind those glasses.

Her photos went from awkward to stunning.

And then, like the universe wanted to punish me personally, she crossed the one line I never wanted her to cross.

She confessed feelings.

It started with a long message—soft, emotional, full of details about loneliness, about not being seen, about how nobody ever helped her the way I had.

I skimmed through until the last line:

“I like you.”

I froze.

I typed something weak:

“Thanks.”

A few minutes passed.

Then:

“What?”

I typed:

“I appreciate it.”

Then she said:

“No. I’m serious. I really like you. Can I have a chance?”

That night, I didn’t sleep.

The next morning, she started sending me messages like we were already together.

Good morning.
Good night.
Updates about her day.

“Hitting the office.”
“Board meeting.”
“Thinking about you.”

It should have freaked me out.

But the truth?

Part of me liked it.

Because Aurora wasn’t just a powerful executive.

She was a woman who, for some reason, had chosen me.

Even if she didn’t know it.

Then one day, I made the mistake that changed everything.

I was scrolling through social media, half-asleep, when I accidentally sent Aurora a model photo meant for my friend.

I typed, without thinking:

“Wow. She’s gorgeous.”

The moment I sent it, my stomach dropped.

Aurora replied instantly:

“?”

Then:

“Is that your type?”

And a second later, she sent a video.

A short clip, clearly recorded in a gym, showing her confidently moving through a workout routine—nothing explicit, but… undeniably bold.

Aurora. My boss. Acting shy.

I stared at my screen like it was cursed.

Then she sent:

“If you agree to be my boyfriend, I’ll send you things like this every day.”

That was the moment I stopped pretending this was harmless.

Because now it wasn’t just advice.

It wasn’t just flirting.

It was an online relationship.

With my boss.

I set rules immediately.

No public announcements.
No profile changes.
No video calls.
No meeting in real life.

No exceptions.

She didn’t like it.

But she agreed.

And for two years, it stayed that way.

Aurora grew into someone unrecognizable from the woman who first posted on that forum.

She became radiant.

Confident.

Magnetic.

And at work?

She became even sharper, even more intimidating—like she was feeding off her own secret life.

She’d walk past my desk in heels that sounded like gunfire and never once suspect the man sitting there had seen her most vulnerable side.

I thought the arrangement could last forever.

Until the day she asked:

“Can we meet?”

My stomach flipped.

“We agreed from the start,” I typed. “No meetings.”

She replied:

“I know. I’m sorry. But I really want to see you.”

And I knew why.

Because a few days earlier, I had posted screenshots exposing a former classmate who wouldn’t stop messaging me.

It was petty, and I knew it.

But Aurora saw it.

She saw how quickly I could publicly shame someone.

And now she wanted what she had never asked for before:

A claim.

Proof.

Reality.

I avoided her for a week.

Then I got frustrated.

And I ended it.

Just like that.

One message.

Goodbye.

Aurora’s calls flooded my phone.

I didn’t answer.

Not because I didn’t care…

Because I didn’t know how to face what I’d done.

And at the office?

Aurora turned into a storm.

She stayed late.

She demanded perfection.

She crushed people over tiny mistakes.

She didn’t yell.

She didn’t scream.

But her silence alone made grown adults sweat.

And everyone blamed stress.

Deadlines.

The market.

A bad quarter.

Nobody realized the truth.

She wasn’t stressed.

She was heartbroken.

And the man she was heartbroken over was the reason everyone was stuck in the office until midnight.

Then came Friday night.

The office was empty.

It was after 10 p.m.

I was rewriting a proposal Aurora had rejected.

The receptionist left hours ago, trusting me to lock up.

The building was quiet enough to hear the air conditioning breathe.

Then the front door unlocked.

My heart slammed.

I looked up like someone in a horror movie.

And there she was.

Aurora.

Standing in the doorway like she owned the night.

“Why are you still here?” she asked. “Don’t you have a life?”

I swallowed.

“The proposal is due tomorrow,” I said. “I didn’t want to leave it unfinished.”

She stepped closer.

And that’s when I realized my laptop was open.

My personal account.

The tab with our messages still pulled up.

My secret identity sitting there like a loaded weapon.

Aurora moved toward my desk.

“Open it for me,” she said. “I want to see.”

My blood went cold.

“Wait,” I blurted, too fast.

Aurora stopped.

Raised an eyebrow.

Crossed her arms.

The amusement in her eyes felt dangerous.

“What are you hiding, Mason?”

I forced a laugh.

“It’s not ready yet,” I said quickly. “I don’t want you to see an incomplete draft.”

Weak.

So weak.

Aurora narrowed her eyes.

But she stepped back and sat at the desk beside mine.

“Fine,” she said. “I’ll wait. But hurry.”

Time slowed.

Every keystroke sounded loud.

My fingers typed nonsense while my mind screamed:

Fix it. Fix it. Fix it.

I opened a new tab and created a fake version of the proposal, just to distract her.

I sent it.

She glanced at it.

Then her voice changed.

Lower.

Hesitant.

“Mason… can I ask you something?”

I turned slowly.

She looked… tired.

Not Aurora-the-VP.

Aurora-the-woman.

“Sure,” I said carefully.

She stared at me.

And then she said it.

“Why did you break up with me?”

My lungs stopped working.

For one second, I forgot where I was.

Forgot the office.

Forgot the risk.

All I saw was her expression—raw, open, wounded.

She wasn’t asking as my boss.

She was asking as Aurora.

And I realized something terrifying:

She wasn’t guessing anymore.

She wasn’t “suspicious.”

She was testing.

She wanted to see if I would lie.

I tried to keep my voice steady.

“It wasn’t you,” I said quietly. “Things were just moving too fast. Boundaries got messy.”

She looked down, biting her lip.

“You didn’t give me a chance,” she whispered. “Do you know what that did to me?”

I couldn’t answer.

Then she stood abruptly, snapping her armor back on.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said coldly. “Let’s focus on work.”

She finished reviewing the fake draft.

Then she left.

Without looking back.

But before I even packed my bag…

A message popped up on my phone.

From Aurora.

“I still think you’re hiding something. Whatever it is… I’ll find out.”

My throat went dry.

Because Aurora wasn’t just smart.

She was relentless.

The next morning, she didn’t look at me the way she used to.

She didn’t criticize my work.

She didn’t snap.

She watched me.

Like I was a locked door.

And she had the key.

At 6:40 p.m., I got a text.

“Conference room. Now.”

Her tone was ice.

When I walked in, Aurora was already there.

Laptop open.

Phone on the table.

She didn’t greet me.

She didn’t smile.

She closed the laptop with a sharp click and crossed her arms.

“Mason,” she said, voice dangerously calm. “Care to explain this?”

She slid her phone across the table.

And my stomach dropped so hard I thought I might throw up.

It was everything.

Screenshots.

Messages.

Photos.

Our entire two-year online relationship—organized, timestamped, undeniable.

And then I saw it:

A screenshot of my profile.

A screenshot I never sent her.

My eyes snapped up.

“How did you get this?” I whispered.

Aurora tilted her head.

“I’m a vice president at a Fortune 500 company,” she said softly. “Did you really think I couldn’t connect the dots?”

She stood and began pacing.

“You were sloppy,” she continued. “A detail here. Another there. It wasn’t hard.”

Her voice sharpened.

“You knew who I was.”

I didn’t deny it.

I couldn’t.

She laughed once, bitter.

“And you stayed anyway,” she said. “You watched me. Worked under me. Let me trust a stranger online while you were right there in the office.”

Her eyes locked on mine.

“That’s not love, Mason.”

Her voice dropped.

“That’s control.”

“It wasn’t like that,” I said, desperate. “I didn’t plan it. I didn’t mean to—”

“You accepted my money,” she cut in.

I flinched.

“You let me be vulnerable,” she continued. “You let me say things to you I’ve never said to anyone.”

She stepped closer.

“I trusted you blindly.”

Her voice shook.

“And you let me.”

I swallowed hard.

Because she was right.

The truth was ugly.

I had liked the secret.

I had liked the power.

I had liked knowing I had something over the woman who intimidated everyone else.

And now it was turning into the thing I feared most:

A nightmare I couldn’t explain away.

Aurora sat back down, arms crossed again.

“I don’t know what you are,” she said quietly. “But I know what this feels like.”

She looked at me with something close to disgust.

“Violation.”

My throat tightened.

“Aurora… I care about you,” I said.

She laughed, but there was no humor in it.

“You care about me?” she repeated. “You built a whole identity to deceive me. That isn’t care.”

Her eyes darkened.

“That’s obsession.”

I shook my head.

“No. I fell for you before I even knew who you were. When I found out, I panicked. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Aurora stared at me for a long moment.

Then she said softly:

“You already did.”

I felt my chest cave in.

“So… it’s over?” I asked, voice barely there.

Aurora’s gaze hardened.

“I don’t know,” she said. “Right now, I need distance.”

She stood, laptop under her arm, and moved toward the door.

At the threshold, she paused and looked back.

“One last thing.”

Her voice was almost quiet.

“I truly hope you understand the impact of your choices.”

Then she said the sentence that made my stomach turn to ice:

“Because right now… I don’t know who you really are.”

The door shut behind her.

And I sat there alone, staring at the empty space she left behind, realizing the truth:

This wasn’t just an online relationship gone wrong.

This was a bomb.

And it had just been placed inside the workplace.

And Aurora Sinclair?

She wasn’t the kind of woman who walked away quietly.

She was the kind of woman who made sure the person who betrayed her learned exactly what consequences felt like.

And I had no idea whether the next thing she would do…

would ruin my career…

or ruin my life.

Aurora didn’t speak to me for three days.

Not a single word.

Not a glare. Not a reprimand. Not even the cold, mechanical “Good morning” she gave people she barely tolerated.

Nothing.

And somehow, that nothing was worse than screaming.

Because Aurora Sinclair wasn’t the type of woman who lost control in public.

She was the type who tightened her grip in silence—until the moment she could crush you cleanly.

The office noticed immediately.

They thought her “bad mood” had finally reached its peak.

But I knew the truth.

Her mood wasn’t “bad.”

It was… surgical.

She walked through the glass hallways like she had been rewritten into a sharper version of herself. Her heels clicked with the steady rhythm of someone counting down.

Every meeting became shorter, colder.

She wasn’t angry anymore.

She was empty.

And that emptiness turned the entire office into a war zone.

People whispered by the coffee machine.

“She hasn’t eaten lunch in days.”

“I saw her sleeping in her office.”

“Something is wrong.”

The interns started showing up thirty minutes early out of sheer panic.

Even Kenneth—the senior manager who had spent months orbiting Aurora like a hopeful planet—stopped trying to impress her.

Because you can flirt with fire.

But you don’t flirt with a wildfire.

Meanwhile, my phone stayed silent.

No more private messages.

No “good morning baby.”

No late-night confessions.

No videos.

It was as if Aurora had deleted the version of herself that had once trusted me.

And honestly?

That was the part that terrified me most.

Because the Aurora I knew online—the soft one, the shy one, the lonely one—would’ve cried and begged.

But the Aurora in the office?

The one who had climbed her way to VP at twenty-five?

That Aurora didn’t cry.

She retaliated.

And on Thursday morning, she finally made her move.

It started subtly.

At 9:07 a.m., I got a calendar invite with no subject line.

Just one word.

“Meeting.”

Conference Room B.

10:00 sharp.

No explanation.

No agenda.

I stared at the invite, my mouth dry.

This wasn’t normal.

Aurora didn’t schedule “mystery meetings.”

Aurora scheduled meetings like she scheduled executions—detailed, timed, and inevitable.

The entire hour before 10:00 felt like walking to a courtroom knowing you were guilty.

I couldn’t focus on anything.

My hands shook when I tried to type.

Every time my phone buzzed, my heart jolted like it was being electrocuted.

At 9:58, I stood up.

At 9:59, I walked toward Conference Room B.

At 10:00, I pushed the door open.

Aurora was already there.

Not sitting.

Standing.

Hands folded behind her back, staring out the window like a general surveying a battlefield.

The glass wall behind her made the skyline look like a portrait of power—Chicago steel and sunlight.

And there was something almost poetic about it.

Aurora had always belonged to that view.

She didn’t turn around when I entered.

She didn’t need to.

“I didn’t realize you were into costumes,” she said calmly.

My stomach tightened.

“I’m sorry,” I said automatically, because apologizing had become my survival instinct.

Aurora finally turned.

Her eyes were unreadable.

“You know what the worst part is?” she asked softly.

I didn’t answer.

She stepped closer.

Slowly.

Like she was closing distance not out of fear… but because she knew I couldn’t run.

“The worst part is that you weren’t even good at it,” she said.

Her voice was quiet. Controlled.

But every syllable cut deep.

“You didn’t even hide your patterns,” she continued. “Your typing cadence. Your phrases. Your punctuation.”

She tilted her head.

“You used the same words online that you use in reports.”

I swallowed.

She smiled slightly.

A smile without warmth.

“I don’t like being made a fool, Mason.”

My chest tightened.

“I didn’t mean to—”

“Stop,” she said sharply.

The air changed instantly.

Aurora’s voice wasn’t loud.

But it carried the authority of someone who could end careers with a sentence.

“I’m not here for your excuses.”

She reached into her folder and pulled out a printed document.

Then she slid it across the table.

I looked down.

It was a formal memo.

My name in bold at the top.

“Internal Ethics Review – Employee Conduct.”

My blood turned cold.

Aurora watched my reaction like she was studying an experiment.

“You thought you could build a relationship with your boss under a fake identity,” she said. “And nobody would care?”

I didn’t speak.

My throat wouldn’t let me.

Aurora leaned forward.

“You understand what this could be categorized as?” she asked.

I shook my head slightly.

“Harassment,” she said.

My heart stopped.

“No—” I tried.

“Deception,” she added.

My fingers went numb.

“Breach of trust,” she said, voice like ice.

My vision blurred.

Aurora straightened.

“But here’s the funny thing,” she said, and for the first time, there was a hint of emotion in her eyes.

Not sadness.

Not anger.

Disgust.

“I should destroy you.”

My lungs locked.

“I should report this, ruin your employment record, make sure you never work in this industry again.”

She paused.

Then she said:

“But I won’t.”

I looked up.

Confused.

Aurora walked around the table and sat down slowly, crossing her legs like she had all the time in the world.

“Because I don’t want you fired,” she said quietly.

That sentence hit harder than any threat.

I stared at her, completely lost.

Aurora leaned back and folded her arms.

“I want you to stay,” she said.

My blood ran cold again.

“What?” I whispered.

Aurora’s gaze sharpened.

“I want you to sit at your desk every day,” she said, “and watch what happens when the person you lied to… stops being kind.”

She let the silence stretch.

Then she smiled again.

That same predator smile.

“I want you to feel it.”

My throat tightened.

“Aurora… please,” I said.

Aurora’s expression didn’t change.

“Do you know what it felt like?” she asked suddenly.

Her voice dropped, softer now.

“To send someone my insecurities? My vulnerability? My loneliness?”

I swallowed.

Aurora continued.

“To ask for love… and realize the person on the other side was watching me in real life the whole time.”

Her voice trembled for half a second.

Then it hardened again.

“You don’t get to say you care about me, Mason.”

I opened my mouth.

She raised a hand.

“No.”

Then she slid another printed page across the table.

A performance improvement plan.

The kind HR uses to end someone politely.

It listed impossible expectations.

Deadlines.

Metrics.

Weekly reviews.

Aurora had built it like a noose.

“You’re on this starting Monday,” she said. “You’ll report directly to me.”

My stomach dropped.

“That’s not normal,” I whispered.

Aurora’s eyes flashed.

“Oh, but it is,” she said smoothly. “Because you wanted closeness. You wanted access.”

She leaned forward, voice quiet.

“Now you’ll have it.”

I felt sick.

I wanted to argue, fight, protest…

But I couldn’t.

Aurora had set the trap perfectly.

If I refused the PIP?

I’d look guilty.

If I accepted?

I’d be trapped under her thumb until she decided I’d suffered enough.

She stood up and walked toward the door.

Then she paused.

Without looking back, she said:

“One more thing.”

My heart hammered.

Aurora turned her head slightly, just enough for me to see her profile.

Her jaw tight.

Her eyes sharp.

“I’m not the only one who knows.”

My blood froze completely.

“What?” I whispered.

Aurora’s gaze slid to me.

And she said it like she was delivering the final knife:

“Kenneth saw the messages.”

The room tilted.

I gripped the table.

“That’s impossible—”

Aurora shrugged.

“You left your tab open. He brought me a file. He saw your screen.”

She stepped closer.

And in a voice low enough that only I could hear, she said:

“He thinks you took advantage of me.”

My heart slammed like it was trying to escape my chest.

Aurora’s lips curved slightly.

“He hates you now.”

Then she leaned in.

“And you should know this, Mason—”

Her voice turned almost gentle.

“Kenneth is the type of man who believes he’s protecting women.”

My mouth went dry.

Aurora stepped back.

“And men like him?” she whispered.

“They don’t play fair.”

Then she walked out.

Leaving me alone in that conference room, staring at the papers like they were a death certificate.

Because now it wasn’t just Aurora.

It was Kenneth.

The office.

HR.

A reputation machine that could chew me up and spit me out.

And worst of all?

The part that made my chest ache like something was tearing—

Aurora wasn’t doing this because she hated me.

She was doing it because she had loved me.

And love, when betrayed, doesn’t always turn into grief.

Sometimes it turns into something colder.

Something sharper.

Something that destroys slowly…

so the person responsible has time to understand every second of what they’ve done.

And I had the terrifying feeling that Aurora Sinclair had just decided to teach me that lesson.

By Friday, the office didn’t feel like an office anymore.

It felt like a courtroom.

And I was the defendant.

The worst part?

Nobody had officially accused me of anything.

Yet.

But you don’t need a formal charge when the air itself is whispering.

People stopped talking when I walked past. Conversations died mid-sentence. The receptionist, who used to smile at me every morning, suddenly became very interested in her monitor.

Even the elevator felt hostile—like it didn’t want to carry my weight.

And Kenneth…

Kenneth was everywhere.

He didn’t say anything directly, not at first.

He didn’t have to.

He made sure I saw him leaning into people’s cubicles, talking quietly. He’d glance up, notice me watching, then look away with that righteous expression on his face—like I was something he’d scraped off his shoe.

Kenneth had always been dramatic in a harmless way.

But now?

Now he looked like a man who believed he was on a mission.

And Aurora…

Aurora stayed untouched by the chaos.

She floated through it with terrifying composure.

Her hair was pinned perfectly. Her blazer looked like it had been pressed by a personal assistant. Her phone buzzed constantly, but she never reacted.

She didn’t look at me.

Not once.

It was like she had erased me from the world.

And that silence was a message.

You’re not worth emotion anymore.

You’re just a problem to be contained.

At 4:47 p.m., I got another calendar invite.

Subject: “Review.”

Location: Aurora’s office.

Time: 5:00 p.m.

Five o’clock.

End of day.

When the building started emptying.

When witnesses disappeared.

When shadows got longer.

I stared at the invite, my pulse banging in my ears.

My hands were sweaty by the time I reached her door.

I knocked.

“Come in.”

Her voice was calm—too calm.

I stepped inside.

Aurora was sitting at her desk, laptop open, a small stack of files neatly aligned beside her like a display.

She didn’t look up right away.

She continued typing for a moment longer.

Then she shut the laptop—softly, deliberately—like she was closing a casket.

She finally raised her eyes.

“Mason,” she said.

Just my name.

Nothing else.

I swallowed. “You wanted to see me?”

Aurora rested her elbows on the desk and folded her hands.

“I wanted to give you an opportunity,” she said.

I blinked. “An opportunity?”

“Yes.” Her gaze was steady, unblinking. “To tell the truth.”

My stomach dropped.

“I… have told the truth,” I said cautiously.

Aurora’s lips twitched, almost amused.

“No,” she said. “You’ve told your version.”

She reached into the stack of files and slid one across the desk.

It was printed, clean, professional.

A full report.

My name. My employee ID. My internal logins.

And then—what made my blood freeze—

Screenshots.

Not just of messages.

But of timestamps.

Login locations.

IP addresses.

It looked like someone had dissected my entire digital life with surgical precision.

Aurora watched my face like she was watching a lie crumble.

“You’re wondering how I got this,” she said.

My throat went dry.

She leaned back slightly.

“I’m a Vice President at a Fortune 500 company,” she said softly, like she was reminding me of gravity. “I don’t guess. I confirm.”

A cold chill crawled up my spine.

“I didn’t hack anything,” she continued. “I didn’t need to.”

She tapped the report.

“You used a company laptop. Company Wi-Fi. Company time.”

Her eyes sharpened.

“You handed me the evidence yourself.”

My chest tightened.

Aurora took a slow breath, then said something that made my stomach knot into a hard ball.

“HR wants to terminate you.”

I went still.

My fingers tingled.

“They said your behavior is ‘unethical,’” she went on, tone clinical, “and that it created a hostile environment.”

I couldn’t breathe.

Aurora watched me for a long beat.

Then she said quietly:

“I told them no.”

My head snapped up.

Aurora’s expression didn’t soften.

“I told them you were valuable,” she said. “That you deserved a chance.”

My throat burned.

“Why?” I whispered, the word breaking on the way out.

Aurora’s eyes held mine.

And for the first time, I saw it.

Not anger.

Not hatred.

Something worse.

Something wounded that had calcified into steel.

“Because I don’t want them to take you away,” she said.

My heart jumped—hope, stupid and sudden—

Until she added:

“I want you to stay right here where I can watch you.”

The hope died instantly.

Aurora slid another paper forward.

It was the PIP again—updated, harsher.

But now there was something else attached.

A signature line.

At the bottom:

“Failure to comply may result in termination.”

Aurora placed a pen on top of it and pushed it toward me.

“Sign it,” she said.

My mouth went dry. “Aurora, this—this is…”

“This is mercy,” she said.

I stared at her.

Aurora’s voice dropped, controlled but sharp.

“You have two options, Mason.”

She held up one finger.

“One: you sign it, and you work under me.”

She raised a second finger.

“Two: I forward everything to HR tonight and you leave this building in thirty minutes with a security escort.”

My stomach dropped.

“That’s not fair,” I whispered.

Aurora’s eyes flickered.

And just for a second—one tiny crack in her armor—

I saw pain.

Then it was gone.

“Neither was what you did to me,” she said.

The words hit like a slap.

My hand shook as I picked up the pen.

Aurora didn’t blink.

I signed.

The ink looked too dark.

Like a bruise on paper.

Aurora took the document back and placed it neatly in her stack.

Then she did something that made my blood run colder:

She pressed a button on her desk phone.

“Send Kenneth in.”

My heart stopped.

Kenneth walked in seconds later.

His posture was stiff, like he’d been waiting outside the entire time.

He didn’t look at me.

He looked at Aurora, his eyes full of concern and… something else.

Protectiveness.

Possessiveness.

Aurora smiled faintly at him.

Not warmly.

But enough to feed his ego.

“Kenneth,” she said. “Thank you for your support this week.”

Kenneth’s jaw tightened. “Of course. I just want to make sure you’re safe.”

I felt sick.

Aurora leaned back in her chair.

“I’ve decided Mason will remain on the project,” she said.

Kenneth finally looked at me.

His eyes were pure ice.

“Are you sure?” he asked Aurora, voice tight. “He—”

Aurora lifted a hand.

“It’s handled,” she said.

Kenneth’s gaze stayed on me, sharp enough to draw blood.

Then Aurora added casually:

“Kenneth, I’d like you to supervise him closely.”

Kenneth’s lips pressed into a thin line.

A slow smile began to form.

It wasn’t friendly.

It was the kind of smile men wear when they get permission.

“Of course,” Kenneth said.

Aurora turned her eyes back to me.

“If you fail,” she said softly, “it won’t be personal.”

Her gaze flicked to Kenneth.

“It’ll be procedural.”

Kenneth stepped closer to me, leaning down slightly.

Low voice.

“You’re done,” he whispered.

Then he straightened and walked out.

Aurora stood up, signaling the meeting was over.

As I moved toward the door, she said quietly behind me:

“One last thing, Mason.”

I stopped.

Aurora’s voice was calm.

“Don’t contact me privately again.”

I swallowed. “Aurora, I—”

“Not a single message,” she continued. “Not an apology. Not a confession. Not even a goodbye.”

Her voice tightened.

“Because the next time you cross that line…”

She paused.

Then said softly:

“I won’t stop HR.”

I left her office with my heart in my throat.

And as I walked back toward my desk, I realized something terrible.

Aurora hadn’t just punished me.

She had rewired the entire office around me.

She had turned me into a cautionary tale.

A rumor.

A lesson.

And Kenneth?

Kenneth was going to enjoy every second of breaking me.

That night, I worked until midnight.

Because I had to.

Kenneth sent revisions every twenty minutes.

Not because he needed them.

Because he could.

At 12:14 a.m., I finally shut my laptop and stood up to leave.

My eyes burned.

My body ached.

The office was silent except for the hum of the lights and the distant sound of cleaning staff.

I stepped into the elevator and pressed the lobby button.

The doors started to close.

But at the last second…

A hand slid between them.

The doors reopened.

Aurora stepped inside.

My heart stopped.

She looked exhausted.

Her eyes were shadowed.

Her perfect armor had cracks now.

She didn’t look at me.

She pressed the button for the parking garage.

The elevator descended in complete silence.

Every second felt like a grenade waiting to explode.

Finally, the elevator chimed.

The doors opened.

Aurora stepped out.

Then she paused.

Without turning, she said:

“You know what hurts the most?”

My breath caught.

Aurora’s voice was quieter than I’d ever heard it.

“I wasn’t pretending.”

She took a breath.

“I was lonely.”

She looked over her shoulder slightly, her eyes glossy but hard.

“And you let me be pathetic for you.”

Then she walked away into the garage.

Leaving me frozen inside the elevator like a man watching the last piece of his own humanity get shut off.

And that’s when my phone buzzed.

A notification.

An email.

Subject line:

“CONFIDENTIAL — Investigation Opened.”

From: Human Resources.

I stared at it.

My hands went numb.

Because Aurora had promised she wouldn’t report me.

But HR had opened an investigation anyway.

And the sender list wasn’t just HR.

It included:

Kenneth.
Legal.
Aurora Sinclair.

She had CC’d herself.

Which meant only one thing.

Aurora wasn’t protecting me anymore.

Aurora had decided to let the system crush me.

And she was going to watch.