(Elara POV)
I don't hear my name all at once.
It reaches me in fragments, drifting through the half-open pantry door along with the smell of burnt coffee and citrus cleaner.
"…jumped levels way too fast."
"…from scheduling meetings to this?"
"…someone clearly helped her."
I slow without realizing it.
Two women stand inside, mugs in their hands, bodies angled close in the practiced intimacy of people who think they're being discreet. One leans against the counter, the other stirs her drink slowly, as if this conversation deserves time.
"She was his assistant," one of them says. "That's not exactly a pipeline to strategic analysis."
The other lets out a soft laugh. "Exactly. People don't move that fast unless someone's pushing."
My fingers curl at my side.
There's a pause. Then—
"Vivienne noticed."
The name lands heavy. Final.
"She wouldn't have let it continue anymore, honestly any sensible leader won't let it continue," the first woman adds. "This whole correction? Long overdue."
Correction.
The word echoes unpleasantly, like something clean used to justify something cruel.
I step back before they notice me, heart thudding loud enough that I'm sure they must hear it. I turn down the hall and keep walking, past my desk, past the conference rooms, until I reach the restroom.
Inside, I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection.
I look the same. Tired, yes. A little pale. But nothing about me looks scandalous. Nothing about me looks like someone who schemed her way upward.
Favored..
Pushed..
Corrected… the words echoed in my ear again and again and again.
By the time I leave the restroom, the words have already settled where they intend to stay.
Back at my desk, I force myself to work.
The spreadsheet blurs for a moment before I blink and refocus. Numbers have always been safe. Predictable. They don't care who gets credit for them.
Ten minutes later, Tessa appears.
She doesn't stop directly in front of my desk. She leans against the empty workstation beside me, scrolling through her phone, nails tapping softly against the screen. She speaks without looking up.
"Vivienne wants the updated compliance summary," she says. "Concise. No extra commentary."
"I'll send it," I replied.
She glances up then, slow and deliberate, eyes flicking over my desk the corner one she moved me to last week, away from the main aisle.
"This setup suits you better," she says lightly. "Less distraction."
Something tightens in my chest. I say nothing.
She doesn't wait for me to reply anyways.
An hour later, an email notification pops up.
Project Delta – Core Team Review minutes of meeting
Participants: Vivienne, Tessa, Senior Analysts
I scroll with a panick.
My name isn't there in the invite i didnt accidently missed the meeting i was never meant to attend it in the first place.
No explanation. No message. No acknowledgment that I've been removed from a project meeting that I helped build…
I sit very still.
Then I open my email and keep working.
That's the worst part. I do exactly what's expected.
I finish the compliance summary. Upload it. Send the notification.
A reply comes back almost immediately from Tessa.
Received.
One word. That's all I get as an acknowledgement for all the efforts I put in…
Later that afternoon, when i was passing through the conference room.
Through the glass, I see Tessa standing at the head of the table, gesturing confidently as she speaks.
I recognize the slides instantly.
The structure.
The sequencing of risk factors.
The mitigation framework I suggested weeks ago.
"Good approach," someone says. "Very clear."
Tessa smiles. "I thought simplicity was important."
My stomach drops.
She doesn't notice me. No one does.
I keep walking before my legs remember they're supposed to be steady. I was proved wrong to think that the day couldn't get any worse when Vivienne called me into her office just before four.
I softly knock at her cabin door before entering.
She finishes reading something on her screen before acknowledging me. Then she gestures to the chair across from her desk.
"Elara," she says calmly. "I want to address something."
I nod.
"There have been assumptions," she continues, folding her hands neatly. "About how certain responsibilities came to you."
"Assumptions?" I ask.
"I was assigned work and I am doing my best to deliver on the responsibilities given to me," I say quietly.
"Yes," she agrees. "And now that work has been reassigned."
The sentence lands clean. Finished.
"I didn't do anything inappropriate," I say.
"I didn't say you did."
"Then why am I being removed?"
She studies me for a moment. Not unkindly. Not warmly either.
"You are not being removed Elara, we are just restructuring to be more efficient that is all," she says. "This adjustment stabilizes the team. It prevents confusion."
Confusion about me.
"I've done everything that was asked of me."
"And you'll continue to," she replies. "Just not in a leadership-facing capacity."
The room feels smaller.
"Is this permanent?"
"For now."
I nod.
As I stand to leave, she adds, "Focus on consistency. Visibility isn't always helpful."
It isn't advice. It's instruction.
Back at my desk, everything continues smoothly without me.
Emails. Meetings. Decisions.
My work still moves through the system — just stripped of my name.
I realize I've been rewriting the same sentence for ten minutes.
My hands are shaking.
I close my laptop and press my palms against my thighs until the tremor fades. Somehow i manage to get through the day.
On the walk back home, I think about my mother's improving health. The insurance card that's almost within reach. The future I thought I was building quietly, carefully.
I don't cry.
I don't spiral.
I endure.
But something inside me shifts — subtle, permanent.
They didn't need proof to decide who I was.
They didn't need facts or explanations.
They just needed a story that made sense to them.
And once they chose it, everything I did fit.
When I reach home, I open my laptop again.
Not to work.
I open the shared drive.
I don't download anything. I don't send emails. I don't confront anyone.
I simply start keeping my own copies.
For the first time, I don't just endure what they decide about me.
I remember it.