[Sophie’s POV]

“Sophie,” Mark’s voice says over the intercom, too careful, too neutral. “Can you come to my office?”

I already know. My stomach drops before my brain can pretend this is about a deadline or a typo or a budget line that doesn’t add up.

“I’m in the middle of revisions,” I say, buying time like that has ever worked.

“This won’t take long,” he replies, and the lie is gentle enough to make it worse. “HR will be joining us.”

HR.

I close my document without saving and stand so slowly my knees ache. The hallway feels longer than it did this morning. People glance up as I pass, then look away too fast, like eye contact might burn them. It confirms what I’ve been pretending not to see all week.

The door to Mark’s office is already open. He’s seated behind his desk, hands folded. Across from him sits Lydia from HR, posture perfect, tablet resting on her knee like a shield.

“Hi,” I say, forcing my voice into something steady.

“Have a seat,” Lydia says, smiling in that professional way that never reaches her eyes.

I sit. I cross my legs. I place my hands in my lap so no one can see them shaking.

Mark clears his throat. “This is a preliminary conversation.”

Those words hit like a warning shot.

“About what?” I ask.

Lydia glances at Mark, then back at me. “Concerns have been raised,” she says, “about maintaining appropriate professional boundaries.”

I blink. “With whom?”

“With respect to your role,” she continues smoothly, “and the kinds of manuscripts you’ve been assigned.”

My chest tightens. “I don’t understand.”

Mark leans forward. “Sophie, this isn’t disciplinary. We just need to address some information that’s been brought to our attention.”

“What information?” I ask, my voice sharper now.

Lydia taps her tablet once. “We’ve received anonymous communications suggesting you may have complicated personal entanglements that could bias your editorial judgment, particularly on relationship-themed or power-dynamics-related content.”

The room tilts. “Anonymous communications,” I repeat. “Plural.”

“Yes,” she says.

I laugh, a short, disbelieving sound that surprises even me. “So someone emails you gossip and that’s enough to call me in here?”

“It wasn’t gossip,” Mark says quietly.

I look at him. Really look at him. “Then what was it?”

He hesitates, and that hesitation tells me everything. “It was… detailed.”

My pulse starts pounding in my ears. “Detailed how?”

Lydia interjects, voice calm. “The messages alleged that you are currently involved in personal relationships with two former professors, and that those relationships are ongoing.”

The words land one by one, each heavier than the last.

“Former,” I say. “You said it yourself. Former.”

“That distinction doesn’t eliminate potential conflicts,” she replies.

“I am not their student,” I say, leaning forward now. “I am not under their authority. I am an adult with a private life.”

Mark rubs his temples. “Sophie, no one is accusing you of misconduct.”

“Then why does this feel like an interrogation?” I demand.

Lydia’s smile tightens. “Because perception matters in this industry.”

“So does the truth,” I snapped.

She tilts her head. “Truth and optics don’t always align.”

I swallow hard. “Who sent this?”

“We can’t disclose that,” she says immediately.

“Of course you can’t,” I mutter.

Mark’s voice softens. “The concern is about bias. That your lived experiences might influence how you shape narratives around power, consent, and authority.”

I stare at him. “That’s literally why I’m good at my job.”

“That’s one interpretation,” Lydia says.

“No,” I say firmly. “That’s the reality. Every editor brings perspective. You hired me because I don’t flatten stories. Because I can hold nuance.”

“And we still value that,” Mark says quickly. “But when personal involvement mirrors subject matter too closely, it raises questions.”

“Questions about what?” I ask. “My competence?”

“About judgment,” Lydia replies.

My hands clench. “Have I missed deadlines?”

“No.”

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