Clara first heard it in whispers.
At first, she thought it was nothing—casual chatter from the interns gathered near the pantry, voices hushed but sharp, the kind of half-baked gossip that always floated through corporate halls. But as she stepped closer to the copier that morning, their words cut through the low hum of the machine and sank into her skin like a burn.
"—of course she stays late with him. Why else?"
"Don't be naïve. No one works those hours unless there's… something."
Clara froze, her heart hammering. She felt the weight of their glances dart toward her, then away, guilty but unrepentant. The copier beeped, the pages sliding into the tray, yet the sound felt distant, almost muted, as heat crawled up her neck.
She forced herself to pick up the papers, her hands steady despite the storm inside. Without a word, she turned and walked back toward Ethan's office, her heels clicking sharply, echoing like accusations in her ears.
Rumors. She should have been prepared for this. She'd worked in enough offices to know how stories spread like wildfire, how people twisted devotion into scandal, professionalism into something else. But knowing it in theory didn't make it easier when the target was her.
Or worse—when the target was them.
Inside Ethan's office, the air was calmer, cooler. He stood by the window, phone pressed to his ear, voice low and commanding as he closed a deal. The moment he saw her, his eyes softened—just a flicker, so quick most people would have missed it. But Clara caught it. She always did.
She placed the papers neatly on his desk, every motion precise, controlled, as though order on the outside might restore order within. But her chest still burned.
The rumor. The whispers. The way they made her loyalty sound like shame.
She busied herself with his schedule, checking and rechecking entries she had memorized long ago, because she couldn't let him see it—the way her hands trembled when she thought of what people were saying about them.
What they thought she was.
What they thought he saw in her.
Ethan ended the call, his gaze settling on her with quiet intensity. He noticed things no one else did—the way she pressed her lips together too tightly, the way her shoulders were pulled a fraction higher than usual, as though bracing herself for impact.
Something was wrong.
"Clara," he said, his voice even, steady, but edged with concern. "What happened?"
She looked up, startled. "Nothing, sir. Everything's fine."
The formality cut through him like glass. She only called him sir when she was putting up walls, when she was trying to bury whatever storm brewed beneath the surface.
He set his phone aside, taking a step toward her. "Tell me."
But she shook her head, her eyes darting down to the papers as though they could shield her. "It's nothing that concerns you. Just… office nonsense."
Office nonsense. He understood instantly. He'd seen the way the staff sometimes looked at her—too curious, too judgmental. He'd ignored it for as long as he could, thinking his silence would protect her. But now, seeing the faint tremor in her hands, the heat in her cheeks, he knew.
They were talking about her. About them.
His jaw tightened. Fury flared in his chest, sharp and protective. How dare they? How dare anyone take the woman who gave everything—her time, her loyalty, her heart—and reduce her to fodder for gossip?
But fury was dangerous. If he acted on it, if he confronted them, it would only confirm the rumors. And Clara would be caught in the fire.
So he did the only thing he could. He stepped closer, close enough that she finally met his eyes, and said quietly, firmly, "You don't listen to them. Do you understand me? You know the truth. That's what matters."
Her throat worked as she swallowed, her eyes shining with unshed emotion. For a moment, she almost believed him. Almost.
But the words still echoed in her mind. Why else would she stay late with him?
She dropped her gaze again. "Of course. I'll… I'll get back to work."
And before he could stop her, she slipped out of his office, her composure intact but her spirit raw.
The whispers spread faster than Ethan expected. He heard them as he walked the halls—silenced the moment he appeared, but never gone. He saw the way some staff lingered near Clara's desk, their smiles too thin, their words too sweet.
It enraged him.
But he was trapped. Every instinct in him screamed to protect her, to silence them, to tell the world that she was not what they thought—that she was more, infinitely more, than their small imaginations could ever comprehend.
But to do that, he would have to admit the truth.
And the truth was more dangerous than any rumor.
Clara held her head high in the days that followed, but inside she was unraveling. She had worked so hard to build a reputation of professionalism, of dignity. She had poured herself into her work, not for recognition, but because it was who she was.
And now, with just a few whispered words, it was all tainted.
She couldn't walk through the halls without feeling their eyes on her. Couldn't hear laughter without wondering if it was about her. She avoided the pantry, ate lunch at her desk, threw herself even deeper into her duties as though efficiency could erase suspicion.
But at night, alone in her apartment, she let the tears fall. Because it wasn't just her reputation at stake. It was Ethan's.
If the board ever caught wind of these rumors, if investors began to question his judgment… she couldn't be the reason his empire cracked. She couldn't be the weakness they accused her of being.
She told herself she should distance herself. Create space. Protect him, even if it meant hurting herself.
But every morning, when she saw him waiting by the window, his eyes searching for hers, she couldn't do it.
Because distance was its own kind of ruin.
Ethan watched her slowly change—watched the way she moved through the office with sharper edges, watched the way her laughter disappeared, watched the way she avoided his gaze when others were near.
It killed him.
Every night, he poured another glass of whiskey and cursed himself for his cowardice. For the mask he wore. For the silence that let her burn alone.
He thought of going to her apartment, thought of knocking on her door and telling her everything—telling her the truth he had buried so deep it had begun to poison them both.
But he never did.
Because the truth was the only thing more dangerous than the rumor.
And yet… each day, the weight grew heavier. Each day, his silence hurt her more. Each day, he wondered how much longer he could stand by and watch the woman he loved crumble under a burden she never deserved.
One evening, Clara stayed late again, long after most of the office had gone. She told herself it was to finish reports, but the truth was simpler: the quiet was easier when she was alone.
She didn't hear him approach until his shadow fell across her desk.
"Clara."
She looked up, startled. He was still in his suit, his tie loose, his expression carved with tension.
"You shouldn't still be here," he said softly.
"Neither should you," she replied, forcing a faint smile.
For a long moment, silence stretched between them. The city lights flickered through the glass walls, painting the office in silver and shadow.
And then, his voice dropped, raw and unguarded. "I know what they're saying. About us."
Her heart lurched. "Ethan—"
"No." He stepped closer, his hands braced on the edge of her desk, his eyes burning into hers. "Listen to me. They don't matter. Not one word of it matters."
She swallowed hard, her hands curling into fists. "It matters to me. It matters because it hurts you. Because it makes everything we've worked for look—cheap."
His breath caught, his jaw tightening. For a moment, it looked like he might break—might finally say the words that had been trapped between them for so long.
But then, he closed his eyes, pulling back just enough to reforge the wall between them.
"You're not cheap. You're the only thing in this place that has ever been real."
Her heart stopped. The words hung between them, sharp, undeniable, almost more intimate than a confession.
And then, before she could respond, he turned and walked away, leaving her trembling in the ruins of her composure.
That night, Clara lay awake, Ethan's words replaying in her mind. You're the only thing that has ever been real.
It wasn't a confession. But it was close. So close it burned.
And as sleep finally claimed her, she realized something terrifying.
The rumors weren't the real danger.
The real danger was how much truth they held.