Returning to the office after a dramatic wedding, public scandal, and a week of accidentally poisoning her husband with porridge felt... anticlimactic.
Althea stood in front of the towering glass entrance, clutching her access card like it was a weapon. The security guard gave her a double-take, as if half-expecting her to burst into flames or sue the entire building. She offered a polite smile, one she'd practiced in the mirror all morning; pleasant, distant, vaguely threatening.
"Mrs. Velasco," the guard said. Her smile faltered. That was still weird.
She nodded and entered, walking past the sleek marble lobby, through whispers that pretended not to be whispers. She didn't know if people were staring because she was a Velasco now, or because last week she'd been featured in a business tabloid under the bold headline: Runaway Bride Saved by Billionaire. They didn't even use her good side in the photo.
The elevator ride to the 21st floor was long. Too many mirrors. Too many moments to see her reflection and wonder, Is this still me?
The office looked exactly the same, ergonomic chairs, open layout, soft humming of machines and people pretending to be productive. Her desk still sat by the window. Someone had even watered her neglected little cactus. She blinked.
Okay, who was being nice? That was suspicious.
As she approached, a bright, beaming face popped up beside her like a well-meaning ghost. Lydia from Marketing.
"Althea!" Lydia chirped. "Oh my God, you're back!"
Althea offered her best tired-but-graceful smile. "Apparently."
"You look amazing! Married life suits you. And seriously, the company's been booming since the wedding."
Althea froze mid-step. "Sorry?"
"Yeah, I mean, clients, partnerships, visibility, it's like having Velasco attached to your name opened fifty doors at once. No offense, you were already talented, but now people actually listen."
Althea blinked at her. "Oh," she said. Lydia grinned. "It's like being royalty! Like you married into a business monarchy. Honestly, I'm jealous. If you ever divorce, call me. I'll take Maximilian in a second."
Althea laughed. It was the polite kind. The murder-restrained-by-HR kind. She walked the rest of the way to her desk without speaking. Her cactus winked at her in solidarity. Probably.
Clients listen now. Not because of her ideas. Not because of the work she poured her soul into. But because she shared a last name with the CEO.
All those years of building her reputation brick by stubborn brick, of fighting to be heard in a room of men twice her age and half her talent—apparently, what finally made her valuable was the gold-plated leash around her neck.
Royalty, they said. No. She felt like property. Like a very expensive company pen.
Her fingers hovered over the keyboard, but her mind was nowhere near her calendar. Max's voice echoed faintly from the night before. It's not what you think, Althea.
She'd scoffed then. Angry. Hurt. Confused. But today... it lingered differently. What if it wasn't what she thought? What if Max was telling the truth?
Her fingers opened her email almost on autopilot. She scrolled past everything and clicked on a contact buried under fake names and vague labels: Mr. Reyes, the lawyer she'd contacted after discovering the surveillance files.
It had been a rushed meeting, but Mr. Reyes had listened, calm and neutral, sipping overpriced coffee like he had all the time in the world.
She typed:
Hi. Need to ask something off the record. Would the CSO of a company have direct access or control over surveillance files? Need clarity.
She stared at the blinking cursor for a few seconds. Then hit send.
A reply came faster than she expected. She opened it.
Not usually. CSO oversees overall strategy, not day-to-day data operations. Surveillance decisions are usually under Legal or Security departments unless specified. Why do you ask?
She didn't reply. Because if Max wasn't in charge of that… then why were the files under his laptop? Had someone sent it to him? Was he trying to warn her? Or worse, was she wrong?
Althea leaned back in her chair. Her cactus judged her in silence. From across the office, Lydia waved with an expression that said girl, tell me everything. Althea offered a wave back that said only if you enjoy lawsuits.
Just then, someone from the design department wandered over with a cup of coffee. "Hey, Mrs. Velasco," he said, half-joking. Althea stiffened.
"I've been meaning to say," he continued, "the pitch you made last quarter? It's getting greenlit now. The clients said your name being associated with the Velasco board gave them confidence."
He handed her the coffee with a wink and strolled off. She didn't drink it. Instead, she stared at her hands.
She had typed up that pitch five months ago. Alone. On a Sunday.
It had been rejected. Then ignored. And now, suddenly, it was gold, because she had become gold-plated. She should've felt triumphant. A win was a win, right? But it didn't feel like hers anymore. They listen now because you're one of them, she thought bitterly. Not because you're you.
By lunchtime, she'd avoided four meetings, pretended to be on calls twice, and accidentally snapped at the office intern for asking if she wanted sugar.
She ended up outside the building, sitting on a concrete bench near the parking lot, eating a sad sandwich that tasted like cardboard and betrayal. Someone honked from across the street. She ignored it.
Then her phone buzzed. Mr. Reyes again.
Quick follow-up: If someone was trying to protect another employee from surveillance, they might route files to a personal device to keep it from being flagged in official systems. Not standard practice. Highly risky, but possible.
Her fingers tightened around the phone. That... changed everything. What if Max didn't betray her? A pigeon waddled too close to her foot, and she kicked lightly in its direction. It was symbolic, not violent. Maybe.
Althea stood abruptly and marched back toward the building. She didn't know what she'd do, confront Max? Re-check his files? Bribe the IT department with baked goods?
She didn't get far before Lydia intercepted her like a cheerful missile.
"Althea! Team lunch. Everyone's upstairs. They made a cake with your initials. V and S! Velasco Serrano, you know?"
Althea blinked. "There's cake?"
"Yeah! It's in the shape of a dollar sign."
Althea stared at her. It was so on the nose she actually laughed.
"Oh my god," she muttered, rubbing her face. "This is my villain origin story."
Lydia looked concerned. "Are you okay?"
"No," Althea said. "But it's fine. I'll eat capitalism cake and pretend everything's normal."
And she did. She sat through the team lunch, listening to people joke about how they should all marry billionaires, and how Althea's presence was their company's good luck charm. She smiled. She nodded. She even took a selfie with a confused intern who thought she was an influencer now.
But her mind was spinning. Max hadn't told her anything. But maybe... he was never trying to hurt her. Maybe he was doing what he always did. Quiet things. Protective things. Things she was too angry to notice at the time.
That night, Althea went home with a headache and half a cake in a box. She opened the front door of the penthouse and found Max on the couch, half-asleep again, tissues everywhere, a bottle of medicine in his lap like a weird pet.
He looked up and blinked.
"You came back."
"Don't sound so shocked," she muttered.
He gave her a weak smile. "I was betting on dramatic storm exit."
"I took the last cake."
"Ah, revenge."
She walked past him, dropped the cake box on the kitchen island, and stared at the tiles.
Max coughed behind her. "Hey, about yesterday—"
"I'm tired," she said.
He paused. "Okay."
She didn't look at him. Couldn't.
Because if she did, she might say something like Why didn't you just tell me? or Did you think I wouldn't understand? or worse, Thank you.
And she wasn't ready for any of those. Instead, she pulled out a fork and started eating cake directly from the box. Max blinked at her.
"Didn't even offer me any?"
She shoved a forkful toward him wordlessly. He took it. Chewed. Paused. "Why does this taste like guilt and frosting?"
Althea didn't answer. Because maybe it did. Maybe guilt was the frosting of all things left unsaid. And in the quiet space between them, nothing was solved. Not yet.
But something had shifted.
End of Chapter 36.