Zoe's eyes snapped open—panic hit like a tidal wave. Her gaze darted to the glowing red digits on her bedside clock: 8:00 AM.
"The summit," she gasped. "Oh hell—no."
She launched out of bed, heart pounding, adrenaline surging. The air felt thick, her breath short. No time for graceful mornings today.
In the bathroom, she splashed cold water on her face—twice, just to clear the fog—and dove straight into the shower. The spray was icy, but the jolt only heightened her determination. Ten frantic minutes later, she was dressed, tugging the skirt she laid out the night before into place while hopping on one foot to jam her shoes on.
She grabbed her bag, phone, keys—all in one blur—and bolted out the door.
Outside, the city was alive with chaos. Horns blared. Pedestrians swarmed. Taxi lights were off, all taken. Zoe scanned the road like a hawk.
Her watch read: 8:20 AM.
"Damn it," she muttered. "Come on, come on..."
No taxis. No rideshares nearby. Jogging turned into a full-on sprint. Her heels clacked against pavement as she weaved through the crowd, dodging commuters and half-spilled lattes.
Then—a blur. A child on a bike shot from an alley.
Zoe gasped, twisting to avoid impact. Her arm caught the handlebars. Rip.
She froze mid-step, the sound like betrayal. Her sleeve dangled loose, torn from elbow to wrist.
She glanced down. "Seriously?! Not today," she muttered.
The blouse wasn't salvageable, but the summit clock ticked louder than the fabric failure. She shook it off and sprinted the last block to the bus stop.
The moment she arrived, the bus screeched to a halt, its doors sighing open.
She scrambled aboard, breath heaving, heart thumping against her ribs. A couple of commuters gave her odd looks, but she didn't care.
As she sank into the plastic seat, she checked her phone: 8:25. Traffic was steady.
Thirty-five minutes to go.
She looked down at the sleeve again—barely holding on.
Not ideal. Not elegant. But she was moving.
Zoe exhaled. Torn sleeve or not, she was going to make it.
Meanwhile, Stacy stood just outside the summit venue, posture precise, arms folded like a barrier no one could breach. Her stiletto heel tapped rhythmically against the pavement.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Her eyes scanned the street with surgical precision, lips pressed into a thin line.
"Where the hell is she?" Stacy muttered, barely loud enough for the wind to catch it. "If she can't manage punctuality, what is she even managing?"
Her phone buzzed.
She snatched it up. Screen empty. No message. No call. No Zoe. Only an App notification.
"Brilliant," she breathed with icy sarcasm, shoving the phone back into her bag.
An event coordinator approached from the doors, headset resting against her cheek. "Ms. Holloway, we're beginning in five."
Stacy nodded with the restraint of someone suppressing a snarl. "Let's just hope she doesn't blow her credibility before the pitch even starts."
Then—movement.
Zoe turned the corner, half-jogging, breath ragged and face flushed. Her blouse—once crisp and elegant—hung unevenly, one sleeve ripped from elbow to wrist. Her hair was swept messily back, and she clutched her bag like it was the only thing holding her together.
Stacy's eyes locked onto her, the temperature in her gaze dropping a full degree.
"You're cutting it fine," she said, voice low and sharp.
Zoe slowed to a stop, panting. "I—yeah. Traffic. A ripped sleeve. A kid on a bike. It's been a morning."
Stacy's gaze swept her top, lingering on the torn fabric like it offended her personally.
"This isn't a coffee run," she said coldly. "Do you want people thinking we hired someone off a clearance rack?"
Zoe winced, color rising to her cheeks. She opened her mouth, but Stacy had already shrugged off her blazer in one swift motion and stepped forward.
"Hold still," she said, and with exacting grace, draped the tailored jacket over Zoe's shoulders.
Zoe blinked, stunned. "Ms. Holloway, I—"
"Don't thank me," Stacy snapped, adjusting the collar with a swift flick of her wrist. "Just stop looking like you fell out of a cab window."
Zoe's lips twitched—almost a smile.
Stacy stepped back, her arms once again folded. But her gaze was steadier now. Calmer. And for half a second, less guarded.
"Summit starts in three," Stacy said crisply. "Walk like you're supposed to be here."
Zoe nodded, heart thudding against the warmth of the blazer. "Yes, ma'am."
They stepped through the glass doors together, heels clicking, shoulders straight. And as they disappeared inside, it was hard to tell which one of them had just changed more.
Stacy led the way through the summit lobby, her stride clean and deliberate, eyes scanning the room with practiced precision. Not a smile. Not a flinch. Just clinical focus.
Zoe trailed beside her, trying to match the pace despite the rush still pounding in her ears. The warmth of Stacy's blazer wrapped around her shoulders—a gesture that clashed so starkly with the icy delivery, it almost didn't feel real.
"I didn't mean to mess things up," Zoe said quietly, her voice barely rising above the soft hum of conversations and clinking glasses.
Stacy glanced over, her expression unreadable. For a moment, Zoe thought she might not respond at all.
Then—
"Maybe you haven't," Stacy said, not unkindly. "Just... don't make it a habit."
Zoe blinked, caught off guard by the softness tucked inside the warning. A faint smile broke across her lips, fragile but honest.
They reached the reserved seats near the front row as the lights dimmed and the spotlight settled on the stage. The room hushed. Speakers gathered, papers shifted, and phones vanished into pockets.
As the keynote began, Zoe shifted slightly to glance at Stacy.
The boss was a statue—posture upright, eyes forward—but beneath the crisp lines of her suit, Zoe noticed her fingers tightening momentarily on the armrest when a new pitch strategy was introduced. Then a quiet inhale. Controlled. Precise.
Later, during a tense Q&A, a pointed question about brand identity sent murmurs through the crowd. Stacy stood and answered with signature poise, her voice sharp and confident. Applause followed. But as she sat back down, Zoe caught the faintest exhale—as if the veneer momentarily cracked.
During the break, Zoe leaned slightly toward her, the movement instinctive.
"Thanks... for the blazer," she said softly.
Stacy's gaze didn't shift right away. But then: a small, imperceptible curve at the corner of her mouth.
"Don't make me regret it," she replied, dry as ever—but not quite cold.
Zoe chuckled under her breath. "I'll do my best."
They exchanged insights as the summit progressed. Quick comments. A subtle nod here, a shared glance there. The language between them had changed—still formal, still careful—but the edges had softened. Just a little.
By the time the final speaker took the stage, Zoe wasn't just watching presentations anymore.
She was watching Stacy.
And for the first time, it felt less like studying a fortress—and more like watching the cracks form light patterns on the glass.
As the final panel discussion concluded, polite applause rippled through the crowd. The lights gently brightened, signaling an intermission. Attendees murmured to one another, rising to stretch, refill drinks, or sneak in discreet messages on their phones.
Stacy remained seated.
She was composed as ever—legs crossed, back straight, hands folded neatly in her lap. Her gaze didn't drift. Her expression didn't flicker. She looked like she had planned the summit down to its lighting cues.
Zoe sat quietly beside her, adjusting the borrowed blazer around her shoulders. It no longer felt just like a jacket—it was something else now. A symbol. A kind of shield. And maybe, a quiet promise.
After a pause, Zoe leaned slightly toward her, voice soft.
"That panel on executive restructuring," she said, "hit close."
Stacy's gaze shifted with the precision of someone calculating three moves ahead. "How so?"
Zoe hesitated, then exhaled. "My last job before this? I was let go during a reorg. Downsizing. No warning. No face-to-face. Just an email." She offered a thin, crooked smile. "I spent the next morning in pajamas, reading rejection letters."
Stacy's expression didn't change at first—but then her eyes softened, just slightly. "And yet here you are. Torn sleeve and all."
Zoe laughed under her breath. "Yeah. Guess I still showed up."
Stacy was quiet. Then, with the kind of tone that could almost be mistaken for warmth: "You hide it well."
Zoe looked at her closely. "So do you."
Stacy blinked—not dramatically, but enough that Zoe noticed. For a fleeting moment, something passed behind her eyes. Surprise, perhaps. Or the strange weight of being seen without permission.
Before anything more could be said, a voice echoed through the venue: "Next session begins in two minutes."
Stacy turned forward instantly. Her posture sharpened, spine lengthening like a soldier snapping back to duty.
But as the lights dimmed again, she leaned just slightly toward Zoe—so subtly the motion could've been missed.
"I expect you to keep up," she murmured, low and precise.
Zoe smiled. "I will."
And in that moment, beneath the hush of a resetting crowd and the hum of ambition in the air, the space between them shifted. They no longer felt like opposing forces—just two women, trying to hold it together in a world that expected perfection from both.
The summit had ended in a storm of handshakes, camera flashes, and echoing applause. Outside, the city simmered beneath a golden twilight, traffic weaving through amber-lit streets like veins pulsing with life.
Stacy had surprised Zoe earlier with a casual offer—"Nothing formal. Just food." Her tone had been dismissive, almost obligatory. But Zoe knew better.
Now, they sat opposite each other in a sleek corner booth of a minimalist restaurant not far from the venue. The lighting was low, casting soft shadows over warm wood and brushed steel. A quiet thrum of ambient music filled the air, just enough to fill the silences.
Zoe noticed that Stacy had slipped off her heels beneath the table, her bare feet tucked discreetly out of sight. The detail felt intimate. Vulnerable. But Zoe said nothing.
They sipped wine in quiet. Not uncomfortable. Just measured.
Then, Stacy broke the stillness—eyes on the deep swirl of her cabernet. "That thing you said... about being let go. You didn't have to tell me."
Zoe tilted her head. "You didn't have to offer your blazer."
Stacy looked up, and their eyes met—briefly, but fully. "I didn't like the idea of anyone judging you over something stupid like a torn sleeve."
Zoe smiled. "That's the nicest insult I've ever received."
Stacy's lips twitched into a faint chuckle. It was the kind you'd miss if you blinked. But Zoe didn't blink.
"You've got potential," Stacy said, her voice quieter now. "More than you probably know. But this world—" She paused, drawing in a breath, carefully placing each word. "—doesn't slow down. Doesn't forgive errors. People notice everything. Then they remember it."
Zoe nodded. "I know. I've lived it. I'm not asking for forgiveness. Just a fair shot."
Stacy leaned back, her fingers grazing the stem of her glass. "You're not as naive as you seem."
Zoe's response was gentle, but sure. "And you're not as cold as you try to be."
That landed.
Stacy blinked. A beat of silence stretched between them, long enough to feel loaded. Her lips parted slightly, as if to respond, but instead she glanced away—guard instinctively snapping back into place. Still, Zoe had seen it. That flicker. That moment when the fortress had briefly turned to glass.
After another pause, Stacy murmured, "I wasn't sure you'd make it today."
Zoe smiled softly. "Neither was I. But I wasn't going to let you down."
Their eyes met again—longer this time. Stacy's gaze remained unreadable, but something in her posture had softened. She swirled the wine once, set the glass down.
"Next time," she said, her tone dry but not sharp, "don't rip your blouse."
"Next time," Zoe replied, playful and light, "pick me up."
That earned a real laugh from Stacy—short, warm, layered. She shook her head, then reached discreetly under the table to adjust her foot against the booth cushion. A rare move for someone so composed.
For a moment, the memory of the summit dissolved. No expectations. No reputation to maintain.
Just two women in a quiet restaurant, lingering between glass and warmth, the walls not down—but no longer towering.
And outside, the night folded gently around them, carrying their silence into tomorrow.