The door closes behind her with a sound that feels louder than it should.
Diane stands in the hallway outside the conference room for several seconds, staring at the polished wood as if it might open again—if not for her, then for the version of herself that walked in believing she could still fix things.
It doesn't.
Her knees give way without warning. She catches herself against the wall, palm scraping lightly against cool marble, breath coming in short, uneven bursts. The building hums quietly around her, indifferent to the small collapse happening in its corridor.
Joseph hadn't shouted.
That was the worst part.
He hadn't raised his voice, hadn't accused her with fury or disgust. He hadn't looked at her like she was a monster. He had looked at her like a conclusion—something already processed, already decided.
That calm finality hurts more than anger ever could.
