And then I was alone, in the same hallway I’d walked a thousand times, wondering if I’d just made the right move - or destroyed the only thing that ever mattered to me.
I could have chased her. That was my first instinct. Instead, I her go as she vanished into the elevator.
Three years ago, I would have followed, cornered her in the stairwell and demanded an explanation, an apology, an instant fix to whatever I’d broken. But Eliza wasn’t some variable in a system I could debug and reboot. She was human, and humans required space.
I gave it to her. For two days, I didn’t call, text, or so much as hover near her office. The absence was like an unpicked scab; every hour I didn’t reach out felt wrong, like letting a wound fester. I ran my meetings with one ear tuned to the corridor, waiting for the percussion of her heels, or the sharp, clear snap of her voice through the glass.
The office shifted without her. The junior analysts, usually emboldened by her presence, tiptoed through the open space like deer in hunting season. Even the copy machine was quieter. Nobody played jazz in the breakroom.
I did what I was good at: work. And, when that wasn’t enough, I found new ways to shield her from the fallout. Word of Whitfield’s disgrace hadn’t leaked, but that wouldn’t last. The press was circling, and the internal rumor mill was already inventing reasons for his abrupt “health leave.” If Eliza got caught in the blast radius, she’d never forgive herself… or me.
On the morning of the third day, I sent flowers. An explosion of anemones and snapdragons, wrapped in navy tissue and delivered to her desk before she arrived. I made sure there was no card.
From my office, I tracked her arrival: the slow peel of her overcoat, the way she set her purse on the chair before glancing at the bouquet. She paused, hand hovering over the petals, then looked around as if someone might be watching. For a second I thought she’d throw them away. Instead, she smiled. Small, sharp, real. Like she’d just solved a riddle nobody else could see.
I felt the urge to go to her, to claim responsibility, to bask in that sliver of happiness. I didn’t. She returned to her screen, the flowers pushed to the far side of her desk as if they might burst into flame.
Later that day, I intercepted the first HR complaint about her “abruptness” with a certain vice president. I deleted it. When a team from Legal tried to loop her in on a post-Whitfield audit, I redirected the request to myself. I spent most of Thursday cleaning up messes, each one a tripwire meant for her, every resolution another apology I’d never voice aloud.
In the hallway, I glimpsed her twice. Once on the phone, her face pure ice, slicing through some hapless client’s excuses. The second time, she caught me looking and didn’t look away.
“You’re not subtle,” she said as we crossed near the main elevators.
“I didn’t think you liked subtle,” I replied.
Her lips twitched. “What are you doing, Gabriel?”
“Protecting the firm. And you.”
She exhaled, something between exasperation and amusement. “You already did your part. I’m not a porcelain doll. Let me take the hit next time.”
“I know you’re not fragile,” I said. “I just-” Just what? Wanted to keep you from pain? Needed you to see I cared? Wanted to be the reason you smiled again?
She shook her head. “You’re impossible.”
But she didn’t sound angry. She sounded tired. For the first time in years, I wanted to drop the act and tell her everything. Instead, I let her walk away, the trace of her perfume lingering in the air.
That night, I stayed late, typing a dozen unsent emails to her. Each one more honest than the last, none of them fit to send.
By Friday, the press was rabid. News vans staked out the lobby, talking heads speculated about a “coup” at the firm. Eliza handled it with the usual steel: she prepped talking points, coached the PR team, and took a call from the governor without so much as blinking. She was better at damage control than I was, though she’d never admit it.
I heard her heels echo down the empty corridor. She stopped in my doorway, arms folded, a challenge in her eyes.
“You’re working late,” she said.
“So are you.”
She let that stand. For a moment, she said nothing. Then: “You’re going to tell me what happens next.”
It wasn’t a question. I respected that.
“Tomorrow,” I said. “We’ll get in early. I’ll explain everything. You’ll have full visibility.”
Her eyes narrowed. “And then what?”
“Then you do what you’ve always done. You win.”
She smirked. “You’re damn right I will.”