It started subtly.
First, Stacy walked past the creative pod without her usual no-nonsense stare. No scowl. No icy silence. Just… a quiet nod. Neutral. Almost pleasant.
Then, she actually said "Good morning" to Amy from Marketing.
Amy nearly dropped her coffee.
By midweek, the change was impossible to ignore.
In the break room, Zoe sat at a small table, laptop open, half-focused on edits, when Noah dropped into the chair across from her, whispering like he was spreading classified intel.
"Okay, what did you do to her?"
Zoe looked up, startled. "To who?"
He tilted his head. "Stacy. Holloway. Ice Queen. Our very own office storm cloud."
Before Zoe could respond, Jenny slid into the seat beside them, eyes wide. "She held the elevator door open for me. Held it. And then—get this—she asked how my weekend was."
Zoe blinked. "Maybe she's trying out basic human decency?"
Noah leaned in dramatically. "No. Something's off. She didn't even eviscerate Tim for that typo in the client deck yesterday. She smiled at him. A real smile. With teeth."
Jenny gasped. "Do you think she's… happy?"
They all turned to Zoe, narrowing their eyes suspiciously.
Zoe raised her hands, feigning innocence. "Look, maybe she just realized being terrifying isn't sustainable."
Noah crossed his arms. "No. This started around the same time you started wearing her blazer."
Zoe tried to fight a grin and failed.
Jenny squinted. "Wait. Are you two…?"
"No!" Zoe said a bit too quickly. "Nothing like that. She just… steals my scarf. And I may have put a sequined cat scarf in her office. It's harmless."
"Harmless," Noah repeated flatly. "Right. Because pranking your boss is what normal employees do."
Zoe smirked into her coffee. "She started it."
They exchanged glances, then broke into laughter—half disbelief, half admiration.
Jenny leaned back. "Whatever you're doing, it's working. Keep it up. We haven't breathed this easy in weeks."
As they got up to head back to work, Zoe lingered for a moment, staring out the break room window.
A flicker of something passed through her expression—a mix of pride, confusion… and maybe something warmer.
Whatever was happening with Stacy Holloway, it wasn't just a game anymore.
Later that afternoon, Stacy stepped out of the boardroom, folder tucked under one arm, heels clicking a soft staccato down the corridor.
She wasn't trying to eavesdrop.
Stacy Holloway didn't eavesdrop.
But as she passed the break room, voices spilled out through the half-open door—familiar tones. Familiar names.
She slowed.
"…She actually laughed," Jenny was saying. "Laughed. I didn't even think she had teeth, let alone a soul."
Stacy froze.
"I'm telling you, it's Zoe," Noah whispered, dramatic as ever. "She's cracked the Holloway code. Like some kind of Stacy-whisperer."
"You think they're... a thing?" came a third voice.
A soft clang—a spoon dropped against ceramic. "No way. But still... she's different around her. Softer."
That word hit like a slap.
Soft.
It clung to her.
Her jaw locked, her grip on the folder tight enough to crease the edges.
She turned, the echo of her heels now muted, and walked—no, escaped—back to her office. The door closed behind her with a careful click, barely louder than her breath.
She didn't move. Just stood there, one hand still clenched around the folder, staring ahead.
Soft?
Absurd.
And yet…
Her gaze drifted to the red scarf hanging on the back of her chair.
Zoe's.
Still there. Still hers. Still warm with memory.
Stacy dropped into her seat, but her fingers didn't reach for the keyboard. They hovered. Lost.
What had she allowed herself to become? When had she stopped seeing red flags? The unspoken glances, the whispered touches of connection—harmless until they weren't.
She'd let down her guard.
Let someone in.
She pressed her palms to her face, blocking out the light, the sound, the possibility.
But the knock never came.
Instead, the door burst open.
"Stacy. We need to talk."
Her father strode in, no patience in his gait, no warmth in his expression. A crumpled printout dangled from his fist.
She straightened instantly. "Dad. I'm—"
He cut her off. "You lost the Newford account."
Her mouth parted. "It was a minor client. Difficult negotiation. I didn't compromise on—"
"No," he snapped. "You didn't close. You lost." He tossed the printout onto her desk like evidence in a trial. "Every client matters. This isn't charity, Stacy—it's the battlefield."
She felt the blood drain from her face. "I'm managing three major accounts, and—"
"You're managing," he repeated bitterly. "Not leading. Not dominating. Where's the woman who could bend boardrooms with a single pitch? What happened to the fire?"
She swallowed. "I'm trying."
He stepped closer. "Trying isn't enough. You don't get points for effort. You get points for results. And right now, I'm not seeing them."
Her nails dug into the underside of her desk. Shame simmered beneath the defensiveness. Rage. And something else—grief.
"I haven't changed," she whispered.
Her father's eyes narrowed, scanning her for proof. "You've softened."
She flinched.
He nodded like he'd found the answer he was looking for. "This world doesn't reward softness. It punishes it. Harden up, Holloway. Or get out of the way for someone who's still hungry."
Then he left.
The door clicked shut. Final. Cold.
The silence that followed was heavier than thunder.
She looked at her desk. At the red scarf.
At herself.
And slowly, she reached for the scarf—and folded it with mechanical precision. Tucked it into her drawer.
Out of sight.
Out of mind.
She closed the drawer slowly.
Her laptop screen blinked back at her, untouched. Projects. Deadlines. Executions.
Distractions.
Zoe.
And with that thought, Stacy's spine straightened.
She was awake now.
And she had work to do.
Zoe was carrying a neat stack of documents, the latest project reports she'd stayed late to finish. She knew Stacy had a packed schedule today, but she wanted to hand them over in person—figured it was better than flooding her inbox.
Approaching Stacy's office, Zoe hesitated a moment, then reached out to knock. But before her knuckles could meet the door, muffled voices stopped her cold.
Curiosity won out.
She pressed her ear gently against the wood.
"Stacy! We need to talk. Now."
Her heart sank at the urgency in the voice—it was familiar but harsh.
"Dad. I'm—"
The sharp edge in Stacy's voice surprised Zoe. She'd only ever known Stacy as the composed, in-control boss—not someone who snapped like this.
She stayed quiet, listening, as the conversation unfolded: frustrations over a lost client, demands for more, the weight of expectations.
Zoe's chest tightened when Stacy's voice softened, admitting she was trying.
It was the side of Stacy no one saw at work. The vulnerable, human side, beneath the strict exterior.
Zoe realized this wasn't just about business or deals. It was personal.
After a pause, Stacy's dad warned her, "This world doesn't reward softness."
Zoe swallowed hard, her grip tightening on the documents. She'd never imagined Stacy struggling like this.
Feeling a mix of sympathy and a fierce protectiveness, Zoe quietly stepped back and wait.
After Mr. Holloway left, Zoe hesitated outside Stacy's door for a moment, then gave a soft knock. When no answer came, she called gently, "Ms. Holloway?" Still no response.
Taking a quiet breath, Zoe pushed the door open just enough to peek inside. Stacy sat in her chair—but instead of facing her desk, she was turned away, gazing out the window, shoulders tense and still.
In that instant, Zoe knew: Stacy didn't want to be disturbed.
So, Zoe stepped inside quietly, placed the stack of documents carefully on the desk, and lowered her voice to a soft whisper, "I'm here if you need anything."
She lingered for a heartbeat longer, watching Stacy's silhouette outlined against the afternoon light, then quietly slipped out—hoping her silent support would reach where words could not.