The office buzzed alive as Rebecca Winters walked in, her heels striking a steady rhythm against the floor. Her fitted cream trousers hugged her figure, paired with a soft blush silk blouse that draped effortlessly across her shoulders. A thin gold chain rested at her collarbone, catching the morning light with every step.
But it wasn't the clothes that announced her arrival. It was her scent. Warm vanilla, threaded with jasmine, her signature. Heads didn't exactly turn, but people noticed. They always noticed.
From her desk near the window, Clara glanced up. Her eyes flicked over Rebecca, sharp and unreadable, before sliding back down to the reports in front of her. Not a word. Just observation.
Great. Clara's watching again. What does she see? Nothing. She sees nothing. Focus, Rebecca.
"Morning, Rebecca!" Jasmine sang from across the room, her bright earrings swaying as she waved.
"Morning," Rebecca replied, smiling.
Mark leaned back in his chair, coffee in hand. "You're early. Again."
She shrugged. "Old habits."
Kevin Lockwood emerged from his office just then, sleeves rolled to his elbows, holding a stack of files. He stopped to chat briefly with Maya, then Derrick, before his gaze traveled unhurried, intentional, toward Rebecca. She felt it before she even looked up.
Oh, for heaven's sake. Don't blush. He's just your boss. Just your boss.
"Rebecca," he said smoothly, his voice carrying across the hum of the office. "Can you bring the drafts into my office? I'd like us to go through them together."
Rebecca's pulse quickened. She gathered the reports, heels clicking softly as she crossed the room. Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Clara watching again, chin tilted, expression flat, as though recording every move.
What is Clara's deal? Does she think something's happening? God, nothing's happening. Nothing can happen.
Kevin held the office door open for her, stepping aside to let her pass. His cologne, cedar-wood and something darker mixed with the vanilla and jasmine of her perfume as she entered. The air shifted, thickened.
She sat across from him, placing the papers on his desk. Sunlight pooled over the glass surface, casting sharp lines across his jaw as he leaned forward.
"Here," Kevin said, sliding one of the drafts toward her. His sleeve brushed her arm, just enough to spark awareness. "Do you think this model holds up?"
Rebecca glanced down at the numbers, then back at him. Too close. Way too close.
Focus, Rebecca. It's just math. Not his lips. Not his jawline. Math.
"Yes," she said quickly, steadying her voice after a breath. "The data supports it. Strongly."
Kevin's eyes lingered on her a fraction longer than necessary. A flicker of something unreadable. Then…
His phone lit up on the desk.
Rebecca's gaze dropped involuntarily. One word glowed across the screen. Naomi.
Her stomach tightened.
Naomi? Who is Naomi? Girlfriend? Wife? Sister? No. he doesn't wear a ring. You've looked. Or… have you?
She risked a glance at his left hand resting on the desk. Bare. Not even the faint outline of a ring.
Kevin's expression didn't shift as he turned the phone face down. "Sorry about that." His tone was smooth, but there was something beneath it, a controlled evenness that only made her wonder more.
Rebecca forced a smile. Don't ask. Don't you dare ask. It's none of your business. But why does it feel like it is?
The rest of the review passed in a blur. Numbers and charts swam on the page while questions looped in her mind. Who was Naomi? Why did his brow crease before he smoothed it away? And why, for the love of God, did she care so much?
That evening, curled on her sofa with a glass of wine, Rebecca opened the group chat.
Simone: Ladies, midweek check-in! Who's drowning? 🙋🏽♀️
Lydia: Me. If one more client "forgets" their payment, I'll lose it.
Rebecca: My day was… complicated.
Three dots appeared instantly.
Simone: Complicated HOW? 👀
Lydia: Spill, Becca. Don't hold out on us.
Rebecca typed, deleted, typed again. Finally:
Rebecca: He's… good-looking. Sharp. Says things that stick with me. But today, his phone lit up. Naomi. Just Naomi. And he ignored it.
Simone: Naomi?? Okay but WHO is Naomi? Wife? Girlfriend? Secret lover? 👀
Lydia: Or just a sister. Don't spiral. Still. Interesting.
Rebecca chewed her lip, staring at the screen. I'm not spiraling. Am I spiraling?
A new message buzzed through.
Vanessa: Just catching up, been buried in depositions all day. But Becca… careful. "Complicated" men often come with complicated truths.
Rebecca set her phone down, staring into her glass. She could still smell her perfume faintly on her blouse, vanilla and jasmine, sweet and warm—and with it, the memory of sitting across from Kevin, his eyes unreadable, that name glowing between them.
Naomi.
The name followed her into the quiet of the night, shadowed and unanswered.
When she finally set her empty glass aside, Rebecca pushed herself off the sofa with quiet determination. Enough. She wasn't going to lose herself in Kevin Lockwood's secrets, not tonight.
Her heels had been abandoned at the door the moment she walked in, replaced by soft slippers that muffled her steps against the hardwood floor. She slipped out of her blouse and trousers, folding them neatly on the chair as she always did, and padded toward the bathroom.
Steam soon filled the small space, curling around the mirror as she let hot water beat down on her shoulders. Vanilla body wash mingled with the faint trace of jasmine shampoo, carrying her familiar scent back to her in waves. It calmed her, reminded her of who she was, disciplined, in control, untouchable when she chose to be.
She wrapped herself in a silk robe, tied at the waist, then moved to her vanity. One by one, her earrings, her chain, the thin bracelets she'd worn were tucked away in their cases. A ritual. A shedding of the professional Rebecca who navigated deadlines and bosses and unreadable stares.
In her bedroom, a single vanilla candle burned low, its flame flickering shadows onto the walls. She poured herself chamomile tea this time, trading wine for something gentler, something grounding.
She wrote a single line in her journal, neat and deliberate.
I can't pry into him. Control is mine.
Closing it, she leaned back against the pillows, breathing in the steady blend of jasmine and vanilla that always clung to her skin. Her scent. Her armor.
And as her eyes drifted shut, the unanswered name still lingered at the edges of her thoughts.
Naomi.