The next morning, Stacy arrived earlier than usual.
Her heels struck the office floor like punctuation, the sound slicing through the stillness. Her blazer was immaculate, her expression composed—but her eyes? Tired. Wired. Too much caffeine, too little sleep. Too many thoughts she hadn't allowed to speak.
As she rounded the corner into the break area, she saw Zoe at the espresso machine—humming softly, loose strands of hair curled around her face, back turned.
And before logic could intervene, the question slipped out:
"Who was the woman you were with last night?"
Zoe turned, startled. "Wow. Good morning to you, too."
Stacy folded her arms, voice trying for casual but landing somewhere brittle. "I saw you. Outside the café. You looked... close."
Zoe blinked, catching the sharpness behind the words. "Oh—Trina? She's my ex."
Stacy didn't flinch.
But she froze—just for a moment. A flicker in the jaw. A subtle tightening of her shoulders.
"I see," she said. Clipped. Cool. Instant armor.
Zoe studied her carefully, the tension lacing through the silence. "Are you okay?"
Stacy turned her back and began fixing her coffee—measured, mechanical motions. Stir. Sip. No tremor in the hand. But her silence spoke louder than words.
"Of course."
Zoe didn't move. She let the silence breathe. Then, carefully, teasing—but gently:
"Wait… are you jealous?"
Stacy turned.
Her eyes were sharp. Her voice was too fast. Too flat.
"No. Why would I be?"
A wall, built mid-sentence. Seamless.
Zoe's smirk faded. Her tone softened, unsure whether to retreat or stay.
"Okay," she said quietly. Not pressing. Not dismissing.
As Stacy turned away, her grip tightened slightly around the mug—just enough to show what she hadn't said.
And Zoe saw it.
She saw all of it.
Stacy cared.
And Stacy despised that she did.
-
Stacy walked briskly down the corridor, coffee in hand, steps clipped and precise as always. But inside, everything felt a little too loud.
"Are you jealous?"
Zoe's voice echoed in her head like a taunt—but it hadn't been mocking. It had been… curious. Soft.
The worst part?
She didn't know how to answer.
She'd shut it down, of course. Instinct. Defense. The only way she knew how to keep things in order.
No. Why would I be?
A lie. Smooth, practiced, and hollow.
She reached her office and closed the door behind her, letting out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding.
She wasn't the type to get jealous. She didn't do jealous. She did efficiency, control, clarity. She didn't spiral over espresso machines and ex-girlfriends with perfect skin and easy smiles.
And yet…
The image of Zoe laughing in the glow of the streetlamp, leaning into someone else's space, someone else's familiarity—it burned in her mind.
She set her coffee down too hard, the porcelain clinking against the desk.
This isn't the time, she reminded herself. The project deadline is in two weeks. Investors are circling. You have a legacy to protect. Focus, Stacy. Focus.
But all she could hear was that question.
"Are you jealous?"
And worse—her silence after.
Because maybe, in the smallest, most inconvenient part of her heart… the answer wasn't no.
It was terrifyingly yes.
-
**EYES THAT DON'T MEET**
It was a midweek celebration—low stakes, just a few rounds of drinks to toast a successful rollout for one of the smaller clients. The team had taken over a cozy back corner of a rooftop bar, buzzing with casual energy, laughter, and the easy relief of something finished.
Stacy was already there, sipping a champagne, her posture relaxed but her eyes always watching—quietly surveying the room like a general at ease, but never off duty.
That ease evaporated when the elevator doors opened.
Zoe stepped out, fashionably late, dressed down in a black leather jacket and boots that made her look every bit like she didn't have to try. The kind of entrance that drew eyes without asking for them.
But she wasn't alone.
Beside her was her. The same woman from the café. Trina.
Zoe was smiling, mid-laugh, brushing a hand along Trina's arm as they crossed toward the table.
Stacy didn't flinch. She didn't stare.
She simply turned back to her drink.
Jenny leaned in, nudging Noah. "Is that the ex?"
Noah whistled under his breath. "I guess that's who Zoe was catching up with. Damn."
Jenny glanced at Stacy. "Think she's gonna—"
"She's already watching," Noah muttered.
But Stacy wasn't watching. Not exactly. She was simply... aware.
She stood up a moment later, smooth and calm.
No announcement. No smile. No goodbye.
Just a brief, practiced nod to Lesley across the table as she slid her clutch under her arm.
Lesley, already sensing something, caught her by the elbow. "You're leaving?"
"Early morning," Stacy said lightly. "And nothing left here that needs my attention."
Zoe noticed the movement, the way Stacy disappeared without so much as a glance in her direction.
And it landed heavier than she expected.
She turned back to Trina, trying to stay present, but her laugh came a little slower now. Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes.
--
Stacy stepped into the quiet sanctuary of her sleek, minimalist luxurious penthouse. The soft click of the door behind her sounded unusually loud in the stillness. She slipped off her heels with practiced efficiency, every movement sharp, controlled.
The champagne buzz from the party lingered faintly, but the warmth felt miles away now.
She poured herself a glass of water, pausing to glance out the floor-to-ceiling window. The city lights twinkled below—distant, indifferent.
Her phone buzzed on the counter. A message from Lesley: "You home now? Everything okay?"
Stacy typed back swiftly: "Yes. Just tired."
She set the phone down and stepped into the living room, the quiet space a sharp contrast to the day's chaos. As she reached for the stack of documents on the table, a few photos slipped from between the pages and fluttered to the floor. Stacy bent down to gather them, and her fingers paused over a candid shot—a moment captured at an office event, where she and Zoe were both smiling, caught off guard in genuine happiness. For just a fleeting second, the usual hardness in Stacy's eyes softened.
But she blinked it away.
Her hand clenched into a fist.
"No distractions," she muttered to herself. "Not now."
The whiskey bottle caught her eye. She poured a stiff measure, lifting the glass with a slow breath. The burn steadied her, but it didn't erase the ache.
She was the boss. She was in control.
And yet, tonight, control felt like a fragile mask, barely holding together the cracks underneath.
Stacy turned from the window, shadows swallowing her silhouette as the city hummed beneath, oblivious to the quiet storm inside.