It began with the pitch rehearsal.
Zoe had stayed up until dawn, every nerve wired on caffeine and conviction, crafting the Comprehensive Brand & Campaign Presentation Deck for Lumière Montclair. Every slide gleamed—bold, refined, purposeful. Not just work—a vision. Their vision. Hers and Stacy's.
She'd rehearsed it in her head a dozen times, imagined Stacy's slight nod, that subtle smile she gave when she was impressed. This was the kind of pitch that could shift everything—for the campaign, for their careers… for them.
The team filled the conference room, murmurs fading as Zoe stepped to the front. Her heart thudded, not with nerves but pride. She clicked to the opening slide.
"Alright," she began, steady. "Starting with the proposed brand reframing, we—"
Stacy glanced at the screen.
One glance.
A flicker of her eyes.
And then, with a voice so measured it could have been rehearsed:
"Stop."
Zoe froze.
The clicker went still in her hand.
Stacy didn't look at her—she looked past her, addressing the room instead.
"This isn't presentation-ready."
No why.
No what needs improving.
No guidance.
Nothing.
Just a verdict.
A few team members exchanged uncomfortable looks.
Someone shifted in their chair.
The silence crackled with secondhand embarrassment.
Zoe's throat tightened.
"I—can you clarify what—"
Stacy cut her off, tone cool enough to frost glass.
"Not now. We'll discuss it later."
She turned away, already closing her laptop as if Zoe's work wasn't worth another second of attention.
The dry run ended just like that—no corrections, no questions.
Just dismissal.
Later, the boardroom was empty.
Zoe slammed her laptop shut with a sharp crack. "Do you realize what you just did? You blindsided me in front of the team."
Stacy stood by the window, arms folded like armor. "This isn't personal, Rivera. It's business."
Zoe's jaw locked "Don't call me that." Her voice trembled despite the sharpness in her tone. "Not after everything I've done—for you. With you."
Stacy's gaze flicked to her, something flickering behind it. Not regret. Just calculation.
"You became too comfortable," Stacy said quietly. "I needed to reset the room."
Zoe stared at her, heart stammering.
"Reset?" she said slowly. "You didn't reset the room. You humiliated me in it."
Silence.
Cold. Final.
Zoe remembered the moments they weren't just boss and employee. The day her sleeve ripped right before the summit—how Stacy, without hesitation, slipped off her blazer and helped Zoe into it, fingers brushing hers with unexpected care. The evening Stacy uncharacteristically quiet, walls down, and Zoe had sat with her on her car, sharing ice cream in the dark, no words needed. The gala with the Richards, where Stacy had laughed—actually laughed. Even wore the ridiculous scarf she had given her. And all those long, late nights at the office, where their ideas sparked off each other, the air thick with possibility, and something more.
"Was I supposed to pretend we weren't becoming something?" Zoe whispered, eyes burning. "That it all meant nothing?" Her voice cracked as she fought to hold back tears. "Because it meant everything to me."
Stacy didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
She just held her posture like a wall.
"I warned you," she said quietly, coolly. "This job isn't about comfort. It's about control."
Something inside Zoe gave way—clean, final, like glass breaking.
She grabbed her bag with shaking hands. "You're not just cold," she said, breath trembling. "You're cruel."
Then she turned and walked out, heels striking the polished floor—sharp, echoing, each step like a gunshot down the empty hall.
Stacy didn't move. Didn't speak.
Only when the door clicked shut did the mask crack—just slightly.
Her jaw tightened. Her breath hitched. And before she could stop it, a single tear slid down her cheek.
She wiped it away quickly, almost angrily, like it had no right to be there.
You did what you had to do.
Control first. Always control.
Letting Zoe in had been a mistake. Letting her close… dangerous.
Not now. Not when everything was on the line.
She turned back to the window, spine straight, face unreadable once more.
Control restored.
But the silence that followed felt less like victory—
And more like loss.
--
Later that evening, Zoe curled into the corner of her worn couch, knees drawn tight to her chest. The city moved outside her window—cars passing, neon blinking, life continuing—but it all felt muted, distant, like she was trapped behind thick glass.
The whiskey in her hand glowed amber in the dim lamp light, catching tiny reflections that flickered like false hope. She lifted it to her lips, but the heat sliding down her throat couldn't reach the cold settling deep beneath her ribs.
A tear slipped free before she could swallow it back.
"I thought…" Her voice was barely sound, barely breath. "I thought there was something real."
Her fingers curled around the glass, knuckles white. She wasn't even crying the way heartbreak usually looked—messy, loud. This was quieter. More dangerous.
"Not just the project," she whispered to the empty room. "Not just the late nights and the ideas and the… closeness." Her voice trembled. "Stacy and I… I thought we were building something. Together."
A small, broken laugh escaped her. It hurt more than the tears.
"I thought she cared," Zoe said, shaking her head. "God, I thought she cared about me."
The truth slid into her chest like a blade—slow, precise.
"But I was wrong. I was so damn wrong."
Her breath hitched, and the tears finally broke through, warm trails down her chilled cheeks.
"To her… it was nothing. Just work. Just hierarchy. Just control." She squeezed her eyes shut. "And I was stupid enough to believe in us."
The word us shattered inside her like glass hitting tile.
"I believed in her," she whispered. "And she never even saw me. Not the way I saw her."
She set the whiskey down, unable to hold its weight anymore. Her hands came up to her face, trembling as she wiped at her skin.
"It wasn't the deck," she said softly. "It wasn't that room. It was everything I thought we were. Everything I thought we were becoming."
Her voice cracked—sharp, thin, helpless.
"She shattered it. All of it."
Silence settled over her apartment, heavy as a closing door. Zoe curled forward, folding into herself, breathing through the last of her sobs as something inside her finally, painfully clicked into place.
She was alone.
And realizing that—truly realizing it—hurt more than anything Stacy had said.
More than the humiliation. More than the dismissal.
It was the understanding that she'd been the only one holding the hope.
The only one in love.
And maybe, just maybe, that was the cruelest truth of all.
--
Days passed. No late-night coffees. No lingering glances.
They worked like strangers—professional, cold, and painfully distant.
The air between Stacy and Zoe thickened with silence. Hallway encounters were reduced to stiff nods, emails turned into curt commands, and any hint of casual conversation evaporated.
Zoe tried. She sent small messages—"Got a minute to review the deck?" or "How do you want to handle client feedback?"—but Stacy's replies were clipped, distant. Her usual fiery gaze was replaced by a cold, unreadable mask.
Frustration coiled tighter in Zoe's chest with every passing day. She couldn't shake the memory of that brutal boardroom moment—the sting of being dismissed publicly, the sudden laugh they'd shared, now feeling like a cruel joke, and the unspoken wall that slammed between them.