(Elara POV)
Tessa doesn't raise her voice.
She doesn't need to.
"Elara."
It's said clearly. Firmly. Loud enough to travel.
I look up from my screen.
She's standing a few feet away, tablet tucked against her arm, fingers resting casually along the edge like this is just another routine check-in. Around us, the floor hums keyboards but I can feel the attention sharpening, the way it always does when someone with authority stops moving.
"Yes?" I say.
She glances at her tablet, scrolling once, then looks back at me.
"What made you think it was appropriate to edit a live file without running it past me?"
A few heads lift.
"I flagged a compliance issue," I say carefully. "The regulatory clause doesn't align with the updated—"
She holds up a hand. Not aggressively. Just enough to stop me.
"That wasn't the question," she says. "I asked why you thought you could make changes at this level without approval."
"They were comments," I reply. "Not edits. And I was assigned the review."
She tilts her head slightly, studying me like she's weighing how much patience I deserve.
"Elara," she says, turning just enough that her voice carries, "contracts and acquisition terms aren't brainstorming documents."
My stomach tightens.
"They're finalized frameworks created by people who understand the broader implications," she continues. "Experienced people."
I hear it then the quiet shift.
Someone behind me stops typing. Someone else swivels slightly in their chair.
"I followed the same process used on previous files," I say, keeping my tone even.
"The discrepancy could expose us to—"
"That's not your call," she cuts in.
The words are clean. Immediate. "You don't get to decide what's relevant here."
I open my mouth.
She doesn't let me speak.
"Let's be very clear," she says, her voice calm, precise. "Just because you were given exposure to higher-level documents doesn't mean you understand them."
Exposure.
The word lands heavier than it should.
"You moved into this space very quickly," she adds. "And that can create confusion."
Confusion about what, she doesn't say.
I feel heat creep up my neck.
"I wasn't trying to overstep," I say quietly. "I was doing the work assigned to me."
"And that's exactly the issue," she replies smoothly.
She taps her tablet, scrolling, then turns the screen toward me not privately, not discreetly. Anyone close enough can see.
There's my comment. - 'Section 4.2 references pre-amendment regulatory standards. Updated compliance requires adjustment before submission.'
And beneath it, her cursor blinks.
She types.
'Please disregard the comment above.
Elara does not have sufficient context on the contractual scope.
No action required.'
She uploads it. Right there.
The system chimes softly.
The notification pops up on my screen. Live. Logged. Permanent.
She lowers the tablet. "Going forward," Tessa says, "do not add notes or comments to live documents without addressing them with your team lead first."
She looks directly at me now.
"I won't take responsibility if something inaccurate comes back to me because a junior team member wanted to contribute beyond their understanding."
Junior.
"I'm not incompetent," I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
She smiles not kindly, not cruelly. Just satisfied.
"This isn't about competence," she says. "It's about knowing your place."
Then she steps back.
"No changes in your assigned tasks for today," she adds. "Proceedwith them. Business as usual"
And she walks away.
The floor exhales.
Conversation resumes, softer now, altered.
"Thats true..She jumped levels too fast.."
"Vivienne wouldn't allow something like that.With such important project, good thing Tessa noticed it before it escalated into anything big."
"She should consult her team lead before making any bold suggestions"
"What was she thinking? Doing all this commentary on live documents will make her a star employee." Someone said mockingly.
I sit down slowly.
My hands tremble as I place them back on the keyboard, but I force them still. I somehow finish the task at hand. I upload the file. I send the confirmation.
No one replies.
Later, I pass the conference room.
Through the glass, I see Tessa standing at the head of the table, tablet in hand, walking the room through the same structure I built. My phrasing. My sequencing. My logic, nothing new, it's like an everyday story now doesn't even bother me anymore.
"Clean framework," someone says. "Very clear."
Tessa nods. "We streamlined it."
She doesn't look at me.
By mid-afternoon, I get a message from Greta, Vivienne's Assistant
'Vivienne would like to see you.'
Her office is quiet, as always.
She gestures for me to sit without looking up from her screen.
"Elara," she says, finally meeting my eyes, "I want to set expectations."
I nod.
"Live files," she continues, "are managed through team leads. Any feedback, suggestions, or observations should be routed accordingly."
"I was assigned—"
"And you'll continue to be assigned work, but you need to decide how you excecute them…" she says, cutting in smoothly. "Within defined boundaries."
The words are polite. The meaning isn't.
"This isn't a reprimand," she adds. "It's a procedural correction."
Correction.
Again.
"You're still responsible for execution," Vivienne says. "But final judgment rests elsewhere."
I swallow. "Understood."
She inclines her head slightly. "Good."
That's it.
No discussion. No room for explanation.
When I leave her office, the floor feels colder than before.
Smaller even
.
As if I've been quietly relocated without anyone bothering to move my desk again.
I leave the building on foot.
It's only a ten-minute walk, but tonight it feels longer. The city hums around me — cars passing, footsteps on pavement, snippets of conversation that don't belong to me.
I keep my head down, arms folded tight against my body, replaying the afternoon in fragments I didn't ask for.
By the time I reach my building, my chest feels hollow. Entering the apartment, I drop my bag by the door and stand there for a moment longer than necessary, staring at nothing.
Today wasn't about being wrong. It was more about being placed. And now I know exactly where they've decided I belong.