The anniversary party shimmered with polished joy. Holloway & Brand was celebrating a decade of dominance—velvet ropes, crystal flutes, golden uplighting. Laughter swirled under chandeliers, and the room pulsed with prestige.
But Zoe felt hollow.
She'd nearly skipped it. The idea of small talk and champagne made her stomach turn. But guilt—and maybe the faint promise of wine—pulled her through the doors anyway.
Her heels clicked softly against polished marble. She stepped into the venue and froze.
There, by the grand entrance, stood Stacy.
Radiant.
Wrapped in a sleek black gown, her silhouette cutting clean lines in the crowd. Her laughter—light, effortless—floated to Zoe's ears like a memory she couldn't reach. Beside her stood a woman who looked like she'd materialized from a runway in Paris—tall, poised, the kind of charm that didn't ask for attention but claimed it effortlessly.
Zoe's heart sank.
Stacy leaned in to whisper something, hand brushing the woman's arm. They laughed again.
Zoe turned away, fast, swallowing the ache that caught in her throat.
"Zoe! Glad you made it."
Jenny's voice snapped her back. She stood across the room, waving, smiling like the world hadn't just shifted.
Zoe pasted on something resembling joy. "Hey. I was just... grabbing a drink."
Jenny followed her gaze, lips tugging uncertainly. "Stacy's probably just decompressing. You know how intense things have been."
Zoe nodded, but the scene had already branded itself in her mind—the way Stacy's smile didn't feel filtered. The ease. The warmth.
Later, Zoe found herself on the balcony, arms wrapped tight around herself, city lights flickering below. The music thudded softly through glass doors behind her.
She whispered into the wind: "What happened to us?"
-
Inside, Stacy stood at the marble countertop, a glass of champagne in her hand—untouched. She was composed, of course she was, but the celebration around her felt distant, like a play she'd wandered into halfway through.
Lesley slid in beside her, one brow raised.
"You've been off all night. Not your usual 'I own the room' energy."
Stacy's jaw tensed, but her expression didn't shift.
"I'm here. Just not wasting energy where I don't need to."
Lesley followed her gaze across the room—straight to Zoe.
"Is this about her? Because honestly, what's the actual risk in being softer with one person?"
Stacy's jaw tightened—barely, but enough for someone who knew her.
When she spoke, her tone was even, controlled, almost detached.
"It's not just her." She looked past Zoe, like the answer lived somewhere she could never quite reach. "I'm balancing responsibilities that don't give me room for... anything else. If I slip, even a little, the fallout isn't small."
Lesley was silent for a moment, watching the cracks behind the steel.
"I get that. But are you sure that's the whole story?"
Stacy didn't look away.
"I have to stay sharp. Strong. Ruthless, if I have to be. People expect me to hold the line. No exceptions."
Lesley glanced at Stacy's untouched drink.
"Even if it means pushing out someone who might've actually been on your side?"
Stacy hesitated—just long enough for the truth to pulse through the silence.
Her voice came out low, almost reluctant.
"If Zoe sees the soft part of me... she becomes the exception."
Lesley touched her arm, a gentle, grounding gesture.
"Or maybe that's exactly why you shouldn't fight it."
Stacy's gaze flicked toward the balcony—toward Zoe standing alone in the cold glow of city lights.
"I'm not afraid of her," Stacy murmured. "I'm afraid of what she could mean."
Lesley's smile tilted, knowing.
"And that scares you more than anything."
Stacy didn't answer.
She only lifted her glass, finally taking a slow sip—yet her eyes drifted back to the balcony, to the silhouette she couldn't ignore. And for the first time in years, surrounded by power she'd earned and pressure she could endure, she felt something unfamiliar settle in her chest—
a version of herself she didn't quite recognize.
**BETWEEN CONTROL AND DESIRE**
Late morning in the office buzzed with its usual rhythm: printers humming, keyboards clicking, coffee warming the corners of quiet conversations.
Stacy stepped out of the glass-walled conference room with her tablet tucked beneath her arm, heading toward her office. She didn't intend to linger. She had meetings stacked, emails blinking red. Efficiency was routine.
But as she rounded the corner near the break area, soft voices drifted down the hallway—just above the hum of the espresso machine.
Jenny and Noah.
She slowed.
Not to eavesdrop, of course.
But something in Jenny's voice caught her mid-step.
"...You missed it, Noah. The anniversary party was gorgeous. Swanky venue. Ridiculous food. They had these signature cocktails named after ad campaigns—can you imagine?"
Noah laughed softly. "Sounds wild."
"And the vibe was so different. Stacy was actually... relaxed. Smiling. And Zoe showed up, but barely stayed."
Stacy's pulse flickered.
"She left early?" Noah asked.
"Yeah," Jenny said, her tone tilting. "Didn't even finish her drink. Honestly? I think it was because Ms. Holloway showed up with that stunning woman—Lesley, I think? Designer heels, movie star cheekbones. You know the type."
Noah sounded intrigued. "Lesley as in... new girlfriend?"
Jenny scoffed. "Doubt it. She said they were best friends. But Zoe saw them laughing—close. And after everything that's happened lately? I wouldn't blame her for feeling... displaced."
Stacy stood frozen, eyes fixed on the hallway wall. Her grip on the tablet tightened.
Displaced.
The word landed harder than expected.
Jenny's voice lowered slightly. "It's just strange, you know? Ever since the pitch fallout, things feel... different. Zoe barely talks to her unless it's work. And Ms. Holloway—well, she's gone full business mode again."
Noah hummed. "Maybe it's easier that way."
Stacy didn't hear the rest.
She turned quietly, heels muffled against the rug now, and slipped into her office. The door clicked shut with practiced softness.
Inside, she stood still.
Tablet untouched. Coffee cooling. Walls holding.
She didn't know why the conversation hit so hard. She'd told herself this was necessary—focus, discipline, control. Emotional distance as currency.
But hearing Zoe had left the party early? Hearing it might've been because of her?
Something twisted inside.
A flicker of guilt.
Or regret.
Or both.
She sat down slowly; hands poised over her tablet without tapping a single key.
It wasn't about Lesley. It never had been.
But maybe Zoe didn't know that.
And maybe Stacy had let her believe it.
Outside, the hum of conversation returned to normal.
But in her office, Stacy remained quiet—caught between everything she said, and everything she hadn't.
-
After lunch time Zoe was buried in edits, hyper-focused on fixing visual inconsistencies in the campaign slides, trying not to think about the anniversary party, or the balcony, or Stacy's smile that hadn't belonged to her anymore.
Then—
The quiet shuffle of familiar heels stopped beside her.
She didn't need to look. She knew.
Stacy.
No sharp greeting. No clipped tone.
Just a quiet presence.
"You didn't stay long at the party," Stacy said, her voice low—almost hesitant.
Zoe kept her eyes on the screen. "Didn't see a reason to."
A pause. Longer than expected.
"The woman I was with..." Stacy's hands were loosely clasped. "Her name's Lesley. She's my best friend. Nothing more."
That made Zoe look up.
She blinked—surprised, unsure how to respond. "You don't have to explain."
"No," Stacy murmured, her voice softer now. "But maybe I want to."
Their eyes locked—briefly, but deeply. A flicker passed between them. Not heat. Not clarity. Just something unspoken and fragile.
A quiet thread.
Not a resolution.
Not a reckoning.
But it wasn't nothing.
And for now, even that felt like too much.
Then Stacy just left just like that.
-
Zoe stood by the office coffee machine, watching the dark liquid drip into her mug—slow, thick, almost mocking. Around her, the usual hum of the office buzzed on, but she felt miles away, trapped in a bubble of raw nerves and bruised pride.
She ripped open a sugar packet, teeth clenched tight enough she could taste the bitterness. The granules spilled across the counter. She didn't care.
"Now she wants to explain?" Zoe muttered, voice sharp and low. "After a whole damn week of silence. After humiliating me in front of everyone."
Her fingers trembled as she stirred the coffee, the clink of the spoon too loud in the quiet corner.
Her breath hitched, but this time it wasn't just hurt—it was confusion twisting in her chest. She swallowed hard, hating how much the words stung and how much she wanted to understand.
Why now? Why bother explaining about the plus-one after a whole week of silence? Stacy made it clear—the woman was just her best friend, nothing more.
But does that really settle anything?
Or is this just Stacy trying to put distance between us, to make sure I don't read too much into it?
If that's the goal—to squash any jealousy—it's too late.
Because yeah, maybe I was jealous. But I can't be. Not now. Not anymore.
She leaned back against the counter, jaw tight, eyes burning with a mix of anger and reluctant curiosity.
"Why do I still care?" she whispered, voice rough and raw. "After everything... why does it still hurt?"
Zoe drew in a shaky breath, trying to steady herself, but the ache in her chest only sharpened. Nothing was clearer now—only messier.
If anything, Stacy's explanation had cracked open more questions than it closed.
And Zoe wasn't sure she was ready for the answers.
-
Later that night, the city outside yawned into its nighttime lull—streetlights flickering, traffic thinning to a whisper. For most, the day had ended. But for Stacy Holloway, the evening refused to close.
Stacy sat alone in her study, the amber swirl of whiskey catching the warm lamplight as she slowly brought the glass to her lips. The day's emails were closed. Her laptop screen dimmed to black. But her mind? Still racing.
She leaned back in the leather chair, exhaling through her nose, letting the silence press in.
Zoe.
Her name had become a presence—quiet, persistent, unshakable. No matter how far Stacy tried to push her away during the day, she returned at night, like a ghost stitched into every thought.
"Ridiculous," Stacy muttered, setting the glass down a little harder than necessary.
This wasn't the time for feelings. Not now. Not with the biggest project of the year entering its final stretch. Investors watching. Her father watching. The pressure mounting by the hour.
She couldn't afford to lose focus—not for anyone.
And yet...
Zoe's eyes, the way they lit up when an idea landed. Her stubbornness. Her fire. The unexpected softness that crept in when Stacy wasn't bracing for it.
Stacy ran a hand through her hair and sighed.
What the hell are you doing to me, Rivera?
She reached again for the whiskey, letting it burn down her throat before whispering, just loud enough for the quiet room to hear:
"Zoe, you'll be the death of me."
There was no smile on her lips—only a weary kind of honesty. The kind that tasted like surrender.
But tomorrow, she'd lock it all away again.
She had to.
Didn't she?