[Sophie’s POV]

I know something is wrong the moment I step onto the floor and the energy feels off. It’s subtle at first, the way conversations pause half a second too late, the way eyes lift and drop when I pass, the way my name seems to hang in the air even when no one is saying it out loud.

Normally the publishing house hums with a steady, distracted kind of focus, editors buried in pages, assistants whispering deadlines like prayers, keyboards clacking in anxious harmony. Today, it feels like I walked into a room where my name has already been said too many times, rolled around mouths that were never meant to hold it.

I make it three steps toward my desk before Mara calls out from the copy desk, her voice too bright to be innocent. She leans back in her chair, pen twirling between her fingers like she’s rehearsed this moment in her head and decided to enjoy it.

“Hey, Sophie,” she says. “Can I ask you something?”

I stop because not stopping would look defensive, and I’m tired of being defensive before nine in the morning. I turn slowly, keeping my expression neutral even though my shoulders already feel tight.

“Sure,” I say.

She tilts her head, pretending this is casual, pretending she isn’t watching my face for cracks. “The man who was here yesterday,” she says, drawing out the sentence. “Is he… your boyfriend?”

The word lands heavier than it should. My stomach tightens, a reflex I don’t have time to control.

“Why?” I ask, keeping my tone flat.

Her smile widens, pleased with herself. “Just curious,” she says. “He was… memorable.”

Before I can decide how much of the truth to give, a voice from behind her cuts in, loud and unfiltered. “He’s not married, right?”

Heat creeps up my neck, fast and embarrassing. I turn toward the voice, forcing my spine straight even as irritation prickles under my skin.

“I don’t really discuss my personal life at work,” I say, measured and polite in the way that takes effort.

“That’s a yes to not married,” someone else adds, laughing like this is a group sport.

Jealousy hits me sharp and irrational, curling in my chest like something ugly and territorial. I don’t like that they’re dissecting him like a character instead of a person.

I don’t like that they’re imagining him outside of me, slotting him into fantasies that don’t belong to them. I don’t like that part of me wants to bare teeth instead of professionalism, and wants to mark ground instead of smile.

“He’s taken,” I say, my voice clipped before I can soften it.

Mara raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying this. “By you?”

“Does it matter anyway?” I reply, and I don’t wait to see how that lands. I turn and walk away before I say something that would follow me into HR with a paper trail and a lecture about boundaries.

At my desk, I try to focus on my screen, on the manuscript waiting for edits, on anything that isn’t the low buzz of whispers rippling through the room like static. It’s impossible not to hear them.

Someone asks if he’s single again. Someone else speculates about his job, his age, his confidence, like confidence is a communal resource. Every word feels like fingers on something private, something that was never meant to be communal, and my jaw tightens until it aches.

By lunch, the rumors have grown legs and learned how to walk. I overhear my name paired with words like intense, lucky, secretive, as if I’m a puzzle they’re entitled to solve. I eat at my desk, sandwich untouched, jaw clenched, fury simmering beneath the surface in a way that makes my hands shake.

It’s not just embarrassment, I realize with a jolt that unsettles me. It’s possession, sharp and bright, and the realization startles me because I didn’t know it lived this close to my skin.

When my phone buzzes, I don’t even look at the name before answering. I step into the stairwell, the door swinging shut behind me with a soft echo.

“They’re talking about you,” I say the second the call connects, the words tumbling out before I can filter them.

On the other end, Adrian exhales slowly, a sound that feels measured and dangerous even through the phone. “I assumed they would.”

“You assumed?” I repeat, incredulous. “They’re asking if you’re single. They’re asking if you’re available.”

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