The office was still stretching into life—quiet footfalls, the soft hiss of espresso machines down the hall, the occasional ping of a calendar alert. Inside her office, Stacy was already deep in focus, back straight, eyes narrowed at the numbers glowing on her screen.
Her morning had been sharp-edged: two meetings, one delay, and an inbox full of chaos.
A soft knock at her door.
She looked up, mildly surprised to see Zoe stepping in, holding a slim folder of documents.
"Requested revisions from the client, and the other designs." Zoe said, setting them gently on Stacy's desk. "Everything's in order. Let me know if anything's off."
Stacy gave a small nod, professional and brisk. "Thank you."
Zoe hesitated like she wanted to say more—but then thought better of it. "Alright. I'll let you get to it."
And she was gone.
The door clicked shut.
Stacy sighed and reached for the folder, flipping it open as she sipped her lukewarm coffee. Pages of cleanly formatted edits, comments, and data. Efficient. Just as she expected.
Then she turned the last page and found it—a bright yellow sticky note, slapped almost proudly on the bottom right corner.
"Why did the marketing manager go broke?"
Because she lost her 'interest' in everything. >.<
(PS: You should laugh more often. It suits you.) —Z
Stacy blinked at it. Then blinked again.
And before she could help herself, a laugh—real, surprised, unguarded—slipped out of her. Short, quiet, but unmistakably hers.
She stared at the note a second longer, something oddly warm tugging at her chest.
It wasn't just the joke.
It was the reminder.
You should laugh more often.
Her fingers brushed the edge of the sticky note like it might vanish. Then, carefully, she folded it and tucked it into her drawer.
And for the first time in days, the corners of her mouth didn't just twitch…
They stayed lifted.
Later that night the office had gone still hours ago. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, casting a pale glow over the now-empty desks. Most of the team had left just after five. But not them.
Stacy shut her laptop with a quiet click, the sound oddly final. Across the floor, Zoe was slipping her tablet into her bag, yawning as she stretched her arms above her head.
They didn't say much as they gathered their things—just the natural ease that had returned between them. A few passing comments, a shared smirk about a client's confusing email, nothing too personal. But the air between them was no longer sharp—it was soft, aware.
They stepped into the elevator together, their reflections catching in the mirrored walls.
"I think we set a record for most productive silence tonight," Zoe said lightly, breaking it.
Stacy arched a brow. "Is that your way of complimenting my ability to ignore you for three straight hours?"
Zoe laughed. "Please. You'd miss me by hour two and you know it."
Stacy didn't answer—just gave a slow smirk that said more than words.
The elevator doors opened into the quiet lobby. The city outside was a wash of streetlights and soft traffic. It was late, but not too late. Just enough for everything to feel... quieter.
They walked side by side through the marble-floored lobby, neither in a rush to reach the door.
At the glass exit, Zoe turned to her, tugging her jacket tighter.
"Feels weird leaving this early" she said with a smile.
"Yeah" said Stacy then her phone buzzed sharply in her hand.
She glanced at the screen—her brother's name flashing.
"Hey," she answered, a flicker of surprise and sudden anxiety tightening her chest.
"Where are you? The client's mixer starts in an hour and a half," came the hurried voice. "They asked if you're bringing your plus one. You do have one... right?"
Stacy's mind raced. How had she forgotten? The party was important—a chance to seal a deal and keep the client invested. And more than that, she'd completely blanked on inviting her best friend—her intended plus one.
Swallowing the hesitation, she met Zoe's eyes. "Hey, would you…would you come with me? To a client's event. As my plus one."
Zoe's eyes widened. "Me? That's... I mean, are you sure? I'm not really a cocktail dress and canapé kind of girl. What if I say something weird or trip over their branding jargon?"
Stacy stepped a little closer, voice calm but pointed. "I expected you to argue. So let me sweeten it—come with me tonight, and tomorrow I'll cover your project deadline. No late nights. No stress."
Zoe hesitated, caught between the tempting offer and her nerves. After a moment, she nodded, a small smile breaking through. "Deal. But when I inevitably embarrass you, I reserve the right to say I told you so."
Relief and something warmer bloomed in Stacy's chest. "Trust me, you'll be perfect."
They shared a brief glance—no grand gestures, no declarations. Just something quiet threading between them.
Then the doors whispered open.
And together, they stepped out into the night, the city lights glittering around them like the beginning of something neither of them could name just yet.
As a quiet flex of her connections, Stacy managed Zoe's makeover with effortless precision. The moment she ended the call, things moved fast—alarmingly fast for Zoe. Within 20 minutes, a trusted makeup artist and hairstylist arrived at the door, having dropped everything the second Stacy's name appeared on their phones. They worked with practiced efficiency, hands moving with the speed of professionals used to last-minute VIP requests, enhancing Zoe's features with soft glam that still looked like her.
Meanwhile, a gown—sleek, sculpted, impossibly elegant— was delivered straight from a boutique just a few streets away. No fittings, no fuss; Stacy had already given Zoe's measurements, and the atelier sent over their best option without hesitation. It came wrapped in crisp tissue, still warm from being pulled off a mannequin moments earlier.
In under an hour, Zoe stood in front of the mirror transformed—not into someone else, but into a version of herself she'd never had the chance to see.
And all of it, every seamless miracle of timing, happened simply because Stacy willed it so.
Ten minutes before the host's arrival, a sleek black car rolled up to the venue entrance. Stacy stepped out first, her tailored suit crisp and commanding, elegance sewn into every seam. Zoe followed—her gown catching the light like soft rain, each shimmer a whisper of confidence she hadn't known she had.
At the foot of the grand staircase, Stacy extended her arm with calm grace.
Zoe paused—just for a breath—then slipped her hand into Stacy's.
Inside, the room bloomed with movement and music. Jazz curved through crystal chandeliers, and groups of polished guests hovered near champagne towers, trading laughter for networking.
But the moment Stacy and Zoe entered, the atmosphere shifted.
Heads turned. Conversation stumbled.
Not out of spectacle—but presence.
Eyes swept over Stacy's commanding stride, then lingered on the woman at her side. Zoe, radiant and composed, held the room with quiet strength.
Whispers floated like perfume.
"That's Holloway, isn't it? Who's the woman with her?"
"She looks... incredible. Confident. Like she belongs."
Stacy felt the glances. She tightened her grip slightly on Zoe's arm—a subtle gesture. Not of possession, but of support.
Zoe glanced up at her, expression unsure.
Stacy didn't speak. But the curve at the corner of her mouth said, You're doing just fine.
As they crossed the marbled floor, the grandeur became less daunting. Lights softened. Music swelled.
And together, they became part of the moment—not just attendees, but a magnetic force at its center.
What had begun as an obligation now shimmered into something else—a quiet triumph stitched between silk and silence.
Mr. Richards stood near the bar, impeccably dressed in a tailored tux, his arm loosely looped around his wife's waist. She sparkled beside him in deep emerald silk, both of them exuding the kind of effortless charm that came with money and years of networking.
As Stacy and Zoe entered, the air shifted—like someone had dimmed the room's background noise just to amplify their arrival.
"Stacy Holloway," Mr. Richards greeted, stepping forward with genuine warmth. "Right on time, as always."
Stacy met his handshake with practiced confidence. "Mr. Richards, good to see you. This is Zoe—she helped spearhead the creative direction we discussed last week."
Zoe stepped up, her smile polished but warm. "It's lovely to finally meet you both. I've heard excellent things."
Mr. Richards' wife leaned in with a curious glint, eyes sharp but friendly. "Zoe, is it? You two know how to make an entrance."
Zoe chuckled softly, motioning toward Stacy. "She's the reason I clean up so well."
The woman laughed, clearly entertained. Her gaze flicked between them like reading pages of a story. "And what exactly is your arrangement? Business? Or something with a little more... flair?"
Stacy didn't blink—her brow lifted with a glimmer of bemusement. "We work closely."
Zoe's smile curved just slightly higher. "You could say our ideas tend to spark best after midnight."
Mrs. Richards let out a playful laugh, swirling the champagne in her glass. "Well, however you work it—whatever you work—it clearly works."
As the couple drifted off to greet another cluster of guests, Stacy and Zoe lingered.
Stacy leaned in just slightly. "After midnight?"
Zoe smirked. "It got their attention."
They held each other's gaze for a beat longer than necessary—unspoken amusement, veiled intimacy, and the kind of chemistry that refused to be labeled.
Then Stacy turned smoothly toward the rest of the crowd, her voice low but clear. "Let's go charm some millionaires."
And with that, they slipped deeper into the party—together.
The party buzzed beneath glittering chandeliers—champagne flowed, laughter laced through soft jazz, and clusters of guests moved like constellations across the ballroom.
Stacy stood near the edge of the room, wine glass in hand, posture relaxed but deliberate. Beside her, Stephen sipped his scotch, eyes scanning the crowd.
"So," he said, casually nudging her shoulder. "Who's the knockout you showed up with tonight?"
Stacy didn't look at him. Her gaze remained fixed on the woman across the room.
"That's Zoe," she said simply. "She's on my team."
Stephen followed her line of sight and gave a low whistle. "On your team, huh? That dress doesn't exactly scream quarterly review."
"She looks... polished," Stacy replied, her voice quieter now.
Stephen smirked. "You were supposed to bring Lesley, weren't you? Bet you forgot again."
Stacy said nothing—didn't even blink—just kept watching Zoe, who was in mid-laugh, her hand gently gesturing as she spoke with Mrs. Richards. The joy on her face caught in the light, glowing brighter than the sequins on her gown.
Stephen glanced sideways at his sister, brow lifting. "Okay, so you really like her."
Stacy didn't flinch. But something softened at the edges of her expression—the slightest shift, like a window unlocking.
Her gaze lingered: the way Zoe tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear, the way her smile tilted like she wasn't trying too hard to charm—just being.
Stephen studied her quietly, voice low. "You never smile like that at board meetings."
Stacy exhaled slowly, took another measured sip of wine.
But she didn't deny it.
And her eyes never left Zoe.
The city had quieted by the time Stacy's sleek car eased to a stop in front of Zoe's apartment building. Streetlights shimmered against the windshield, casting fleeting patterns across the dashboard. Inside, the silence was rich—not awkward, not rushed. Just full. Like it had earned its place.
Stacy shifted into park, her eyes still on the road for a beat before turning slightly in her seat.
"Thank you," she said, voice lower than usual. Softer. "Really. You have no idea how much I owe you."
Zoe glanced over, brow raised, a playful tilt to her smile. "For what? Wearing a dress and charming people with small talk?"
Stacy let out a quiet laugh, the kind she rarely offered freely. "For keeping the conversation warm. For making an impression. For agreeing to a last-minute invitation." She hesitated, gaze lingering on Zoe. "Tonight was better than I expected."
Zoe's smile softened. "It was."
They sat there for a moment, the rhythm of distant traffic humming beneath the quiet.
"Well," Zoe said eventually, undoing her seatbelt with a soft click, "good thing you forgot to invite your original plus one."
Stacy smirked, her reply smooth but laced with meaning. "I didn't forget. I think I was just waiting to figure out who actually belonged next to me."
Zoe blinked, caught off guard. But the smile that spread across her lips was slow, and real.
"Good night, Ms. Holloway," Zoe said, her hand already on the door handle.
Stacy's head tilted—not sharp, but deliberate.
"You know," she murmured, "I'll only let you leave if you promise to call me Stacy from now on."
Zoe froze, eyes widening just slightly. For a heartbeat, she forgot how to breathe.
Stacy's gaze softened. "Just Stacy," she repeated, quieter this time. "At least… when it's you."
Zoe swallowed, the smallest smile tugging at her lips. "O-okay, Ms. Hol—" She caught herself. "I mean… Stacy."
A flicker of warmth passed through Stacy's expression, something almost shy beneath the usual composure.
"Good night, Zoe."
"Good night, Stacy," Zoe said—this time steady, certain, the name warm on her tongue.
For a moment, neither moved.
Then Zoe slipped out of the car, the door closing softly behind her, leaving Stacy sitting in the glow of the streetlights with a smile she didn't try to hide.
Stacy watched her walk toward the building—the hem of Zoe's gown catching the light, swaying with each step, her posture graceful but grounded.
Something warm curled in Stacy's chest. Not sudden. Just there.
She didn't reach for the gearshift. Not yet.
She stayed awhile longer—watching the door close behind Zoe, watching the quiet settle into something she couldn't name.
And for once, she didn't try.