(Elara POV)
The meeting room is colder than usual.
I notice it the moment I step inside not because the air conditioning is stronger, but because no one looks up when I enter. Chairs scrape lightly as people shift, settling into their places. Someone laughs quietly at something said a second too late for me to catch.
I choose a seat near the side. Somewhere in between, where I can see the screen without being directly in it.
Tessa stands near the display wall, tablet tucked under her arm, her posture relaxed in a way that suggests familiarity with being listened to. She's already mid-conversation with one of the senior analysts when I sit down.
"…no, that's already accounted for," she says easily. "We adjusted for delayed exposure rather than immediate volatility."
My fingers pause on my notebook.
Delayed exposure…
I've heard that sentence before. In my own voice, late at night, explaining it to an empty apartment while rehearsing how to make it sound simple.
The lights dim slightly, and the screen flickers to life.
The first slide appears.
It takes me less than half a second to recognize it. The layout. The spacing. The order of information.
It's mine….
Not copied verbatim no one is that careless — but restructured in a way that preserves the logic while disguising the origin. Enough distance to deny ownership. Enough similarity to carry the work.
Tessa begins.
"As you'll see here," she says, tapping the screen, "we've reworked the compliance risk framework to focus on long-term vulnerabilities rather than short-term disruption."
She doesn't stumble. She doesn't hesitate.
She sounds like someone who has practiced saying these words in front of a mirror.
I keep my gaze neutral, fixed on the screen, even as my chest tightens in that slow, familiar way the feeling of watching something leave you while still technically belonging to you.
Around the table, people nod.
A pen clicks.
Someone leans forward.
Someone else murmurs, "That makes sense."
"This approach allows leadership to anticipate pressure points without reacting prematurely," Tessa continues. "It's cleaner. More strategic."
Cleaner.
I swallow.
She moves through the slides explaining assumptions, highlighting mitigations, answering questions without looking at her notes. Every time she pauses, I know exactly what's coming next because I built the sequence to flow that way.
When she finishes, there's a brief moment of silence.
Then one of the senior analysts says, "This is solid. Really solid."
"Agreed," another adds. "Clear thinking."
Tessa smiles. "Thank you."
Daniel shifts in his chair.
It's subtle just enough movement to register if you're watching him. He leans back slightly, arms crossing loosely, his gaze returning to the screen instead of Tessa.
"This framework feels familiar," he says.
The room stills not completely, but enough.
Tessa turns toward him, smile unchanged. "How so?"
Daniel shrugs lightly. "I remember reviewing something similar a few weeks ago. Same sequencing. Same emphasis on delayed exposure over immediate reaction."
He pauses, thoughtful rather than accusatory.
"It worked well then, too."
There it is. Not an accusation.
Just a statement placed carefully on the table.
A few people glance around, uncertain. Vivienne watches from the head of the table, her expression unreadable, fingers steepled loosely in front of her.
Tessa recovers quickly. "We refined it collaboratively," she says. "Ideas evolve."
"Of course," Daniel replies easily.
Then, almost casually, he adds, "Elara, wasn't this part of the model you were developing last month?"
My heart stutters.
For a moment, the room seems too quiet.
I feel eyes turn toward me so much so that I can't pretend I'm invisible anymore.
"Yes," I say. My voice is steady, though my hands are not. "It was."
Tessa's smile tightens, just a fraction.
"Well," she says smoothly, "good work tends to echo. That's how progress happens."
No one challenges that. The meeting moves on.
But something has shifted not enough to correct anything, not enough to undo what's already been done just enough to leave a faint mark.
A question lingers where certainty used to be.
When the meeting ends, chairs scrape back and conversations resume. People gather their things, already moving on to whatever comes next. I stay seated for a moment longer, letting the room empty around me.
Daniel waits.
"You okay?" he asks quietly once we're out in the hallway.
"I think so," I say. "That was… unexpected."
He nods. "I didn't want to make it a thing."
"I know."
"But I also didn't want you thinking you imagined it."
I look at him then. Really look at him.
"Thank you," I say. It comes out softer than I intended.
"Anytime," he replies.
We leave together, the elevator ride quiet but not uncomfortable. Outside, the evening air feels cooler than I expect, the city settling into its after-work rhythm.
"Coffee?" he asks. "Or we could just walk."
"A walk sounds good."
We circle the block without any real destination, footsteps falling into an easy rhythm. For a while, neither of us said anything.
Then Daniel clears his throat.
"I got an email today," he says.
I glance at him. "Good news?"
"I think so," he says. "They want me in London. Just for a bit."
My eyebrows lift. "That's big."
"Three weeks," he adds quickly. "Support role. Acquisition wrap-up."
"That's really big," I repeat, smiling this time. "I'm happy for you."
He exhales, relieved. "Yeah?"
"Yeah. You deserve it."
He chuckles softly. He hesitates, then says, "You'll be okay, though."
"I will," I say. And for once, I believe it.
"Three weeks will pass fast," I said.
"They always do," he replied.
We stop near my building.
"Well," he says, adjusting his bag, "don't let them convince you you're invisible while I'm gone."
"I won't," I say. "And you better come back with stories."
"Deal."
He waves and heads off, his step lighter than it was this morning.
I watch him go for a moment, then turn toward home.
The apartment is quiet when I step inside. I kick off my shoes, set my bag down, and stand there for a second longer than necessary, letting the stillness settle.
Nothing dramatic happened today.
No confrontation.
No apology.
No justice.
But something stayed with me. The knowledge that someone noticed.
That someone remembered. That I wasn't wrong for feeling what I felt.
Tomorrow, things will continue as they have. But tonight, that's enough.