[Sophie’s POV]

“You should be careful with Sophie.”

The words don’t belong to me, but they land in my body like they do.

I freeze just outside Mark’s office, my hand hovering inches from the doorframe, my folder pressed tight against my ribs. The glass wall is frosted just enough to blur faces, not voices. I recognize Lisette’s tone immediately. Calm. Measured. Concerned in a way that sounds generous if you don’t know how to listen for the knife.

“Careful how?” Mark asks, his voice distracted, the sound of a pen clicking. “She’s one of my strongest editors.”

“Oh, I’m sure she is,” Lisette replies smoothly. “That’s actually why I wanted to flag this now, before it becomes… uncomfortable.”

My stomach drops. My heart starts doing that sharp, panicked rhythm that makes everything else feel too loud.

“Flag what?” Mark says.

There’s a pause. A deliberate one. The kind people use when they want to seem reluctant.

“I hesitate to even bring this up,” Lisette says. “I don’t want to seem like I’m questioning your team. But given the subject matter of my book, and some things I’ve observed, I’d hate for Sophie to be put in a position where her personal life complicates her professional judgment.”

My fingers curl around the edge of the folder. Complicated. The word hums like a warning bell.

Mark exhales. “I’m not sure I follow.”

Lisette lowers her voice, not enough to hide it from me, just enough to make it feel confidential. “She has… complex personal entanglements. Emotional ones. Involving power dynamics.”

I feel heat rush up my neck, my face burning even though no one can see me. My instinct is to walk in, to interrupt, to demand clarification. My feet don’t move. I’m pinned in place by the sheer unreality of hearing my life reframed by someone else.

“She hasn’t disclosed anything inappropriate,” Mark says cautiously. “And frankly, we don’t police our editors’ personal relationships.”

“I wouldn’t suggest you do,” Lisette says gently. “I’m simply wondering if assigning her to relationship-centered manuscripts, especially ones dealing with coercion and consent, might expose the company to bias concerns. Or worse, reputational risk.”

Reputational risk.

The words echo, hollow and loud.

“I’m saying this because I care about the integrity of the work,” Lisette continues. “And because I believe Sophie may not even realize how visible her situation is.”

I step back before the floor gives me away. My pulse is roaring in my ears as I walk down the hallway on autopilot, past desks and screens and coworkers who look up and smile at me like nothing is wrong.

Something is very wrong.

At my desk, I sit down too hard, my chair rolling back an inch. My hands are shaking now. I press them flat against my thighs, breathing through my nose, counting like Cassian taught me when my anxiety spirals.

One. Two. Three.

My inbox refreshes. A calendar notification pops up. “Check-in with Mark — 3:30 PM.”

My stomach clenches.

By the time the meeting starts, I’ve replayed the conversation a hundred different ways. I’ve drafted defenses in my head, imagined confrontations that go nowhere, tried to convince myself I’m overreacting. I’m not.

Mark gestures for me to sit, his smile polite but strained. “Hey. Thanks for coming.”

“Of course,” I say. My voice sounds steadier than I feel. “You wanted to talk?”

He folds his hands on the desk. “I wanted to touch base about the Vaughn project.”

I keep my expression neutral. “Okay.”

He hesitates, which tells me everything. “Lisette raised some concerns.”

My chest tightens. “About the manuscript?”

“About… alignment,” he says carefully. “Perspective. Objectivity.”

I let out a slow breath. “Can you be specific?”

“She mentioned,” he continues, choosing each word like it might explode, “that you may have personal experiences that overlap with some of the themes in her book.”

I meet his gaze. “That’s true for most editors.”

“Yes,” he says quickly. “Absolutely. That’s not inherently a problem.”

“But,” I prompt.

“But she framed it as potentially compromising,” he admits. “Especially given the sensitivity of the subject.”

My jaw tightens. “Did she say how?”

He looks uncomfortable. “She implied you have… complicated personal entanglements.”

There it is again. The phrase she’s weaponizing.

“I do,” I say evenly. “And they are consensual, ethical, and not remotely relevant to my ability to edit a memoir professionally.”

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