Rumors did not arrive loudly.
They never did.
They seeped.
Like steam under a closed door.
Like grease through clean linen.
Like a smell that clung no matter how often the floor was mopped.
Hilary felt them before she understood them.
It started with pauses.
Conversations that stopped a fraction of a second too late.
Footsteps that slowed when she entered a room.
Voices that softened—not with kindness, but caution.
Pity had a sound.
It hovered.
She stood in the private elevator with Gerard beside her, red ribbon tied carefully around her wrist. His presence was solid, grounding. Yet even there, even wrapped in his familiar scent, something felt… off.
The doors opened to the executive floor.
The air shifted immediately.
Expectation.
Curiosity.
Judgment.
A cluster of staff stood near the corridor, clipboards hugged too close to their chests. Hilary sensed their attention snap toward her—then scatter quickly when Gerard's footsteps drew nearer.
"Good morning," Gerard said, his voice calm but edged.
"Good morning, Mr. Vale," came the chorus.
Hilary smiled politely.
She didn't know who she was smiling at.
That used to terrify her.
Now, it just exhausted her.
They walked on.
Behind them, voices resumed—too quickly.
Relief.
*They were talking about her.*
She knew it with the same certainty she knew the weight of Gerard's hand when it hovered protectively near her back.
She kept walking.
In the kitchen wing, the rumors had already taken shape.
They moved faster here, sharper, seasoned with ambition and resentment.
"She can't see faces," one voice whispered—not quietly enough.
Another responded, hushed but thrilled. "Is that true?"
"I heard she froze during a meeting."
"No, worse—she almost hugged the wrong man."
A soft laugh followed.
Cruel.
Hilary's fingers tightened around the counter as she passed her station.
Her breathing stayed steady.
She had learned that panic fed rumors.
Calm starved them.
She focused inward.
Fast speech—excitement.
Short breaths—fear.
Hushed tones—guilt.
She cataloged it all.
Information.
Still, it hurt.
She began prepping ingredients, knife gliding through vegetables with practiced ease. Her hands remembered what her eyes could not.
A presence lingered nearby.
Too close.
Hovering.
Anxiety wrapped in curiosity.
"She's still brilliant," someone murmured. "You can't deny that."
"Yes, but for how long?" another replied. "These things get worse."
Hilary didn't look up.
She sliced.
Chopped.
Breathed.
"She's the CEO's weakness now."
The knife stopped.
Just for a heartbeat.
Then resumed.
That one landed.
Across the room, Bianca listened.
She didn't speak.
Didn't lean in.
Didn't smile.
She simply stored.
Rumors were seeds.
They only needed patience.
—
By midday, the whispers had climbed floors.
Hilary sensed them in the elevator again—this time sharper, more structured.
A woman entered and hesitated.
Hilary felt it.
Recognition struggling with uncertainty.
Then—
"You're… Mrs. Vale, right?"
Hilary smiled.
"Yes."
The woman flushed.
"I'm sorry, I just—" She stopped herself. "It's an honor."
Honor carried tension.
Fear.
Distance.
Hilary nodded politely.
When the woman exited, Hilary's shoulders sagged slightly.
"She was afraid of saying the wrong thing," Hilary murmured.
Gerard's jaw tightened.
"She shouldn't have to be."
"They all are," Hilary replied softly.
The boardroom was worse.
She didn't attend—but she felt it from afar.
Through Gerard.
When he returned home that evening, he carried silence like a coat he couldn't take off.
"You didn't tell me they questioned your leadership," Hilary said quietly, standing by the window.
Gerard froze.
"You felt that?"
"Yes."
"How?"
"You stopped breathing for a second when I mentioned the board yesterday," she explained. "And today… you smell like steel."
He sighed.
"They're nervous," he admitted. "Investors don't like uncertainty."
Hilary turned toward his voice.
"Neither do people," she said. "That's why they talk."
He stepped closer.
"They won't touch you."
"They already have," she replied. "Just not directly."
Her voice didn't shake.
That frightened him more than tears would have.
"They're not cruel," Gerard said.
Hilary smiled faintly.
"No," she agreed. "They're just afraid. That's worse."
Later that night, Hilary stood alone in the hotel restroom.
She washed her hands slowly, counting each motion.
Water on skin.
Soap.
Rinse.
Grounding.
From a stall nearby, voices drifted—unaware of her presence.
"Did you hear she can't recognize people anymore?"
"Then how does she even function?"
"I'd quit if that happened to me."
Silence.
Then—
"I heard the CEO turned down Europe for her."
A pause.
"That's… excessive."
"Yes," another voice replied. "Men don't do that forever."
Hilary closed her eyes.
The mirror meant nothing now.
But the words—
They cut.
She exited quietly, unnoticed.
In the corridor, she leaned against the wall, breathing carefully.
I am not weak, she told herself.
But the doubt slithered anyway.
What if they're right?
What if love has a limit?
At home, Jessica sensed it immediately.
"You're sad," she said simply, climbing into Hilary's lap.
Hilary hugged her tightly.
"Just tired," she replied.
Jessica frowned.
"Did someone say something bad?"
Hilary hesitated.
Jessica pulled back, studying her mother's face with fierce concentration.
"They think you're broken," Jessica said suddenly.
Hilary stiffened.
"Who told you that?"
"Nobody," Jessica replied. "But I can feel it when people think wrong things."
Hilary laughed softly.
"You're too young to worry about that."
Jessica shook her head.
"Then they're wrong," she declared. "Because broken things don't cook like you."
Hilary kissed her hair.
From the hallway, Gerard watched them, chest tight.
He understood now.
The rumors weren't about Hilary's illness.
They were about control.
And they were spreading.
Across the city, Bianca typed carefully.
Not lies.
Questions.
Curiosity framed as concern.
*Is Chef Vale still fully capable?*
*Should leadership consider contingency planning?*
She hit send.
Rumors didn't need villains.
They just needed silence.
And Hilary Vale, standing alone in the dark, felt the walls closing in.
Not with hatred.
But with doubt.
That night, sleep refused to come.
Hilary lay on her side, facing the window, listening to the distant hum of the city. Cars passed. Somewhere, a siren wailed faintly. Life went on with brutal indifference.
Gerard lay behind her, close but careful—close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body, careful enough not to trap her.
"You're awake," he said quietly.
"Yes."
Silence settled again.
She spoke before she could talk herself out of it.
"Do you know what scares me the most?" she asked.
Gerard shifted slightly. "Tell me."
"That they're not wrong," she whispered. "Not entirely."
He stiffened.
"I am… harder to manage now," she continued. "I take more effort. More explanation. More patience."
She turned slightly, fingers brushing the sheet.
"In their eyes, I used to be an asset. Now I'm a variable."
Gerard reached for her waist, hesitant.
"And variables make people nervous," she finished.
"They don't get to reduce you to that," he said firmly.
She gave a small, tired smile.
"They already have."
Her voice cracked then—not loudly, not dramatically—but in a way that felt more dangerous.
"I can handle being pitied," she said. "I can even handle being underestimated."
She inhaled shakily.
"But I don't know how to survive being… discussed."
Gerard pulled her gently closer, wrapping an arm around her.
She allowed it.
"That's the cruelest part," she murmured. "They don't say it to my face. They say it *around* me. Like I'm already gone."
He pressed his forehead to the back of her head.
"You're here," he said again, as if repetition could build armor.
She nodded—but her eyes burned.
"I feel them watching," she admitted. "Waiting for me to fail. For you to get tired."
His hold tightened.
"I won't."
"I know," she whispered. "But they don't."
A long pause.
Then she said, very softly, "If one day you hear them talking… and part of you agrees with them…"
He cut in immediately.
"Stop."
She flinched—not from anger, but from intensity.
"I will never agree with a world that thinks losing sight means losing worth," he said.
Her breath trembled.
"But what if I lose more than sight?" she asked. "What if I lose… competence?"
He didn't answer right away.
That scared her.
"I don't need you to lie," she said quickly. "I just need to know you'll tell me."
He kissed her shoulder.
"If that day ever comes," he said slowly, "we'll face it together. Not in whispers. Not in corridors."
She closed her eyes.
Corridors.
The word echoed.
She knew them now—not by sight, but by sound. By how voices bounced. By where conversations felt hidden.
Tomorrow, she would walk those corridors again.
And the rumors would still be there.
Waiting.
Gerard stayed awake long after her breathing evened out.
He stared at the ceiling, jaw tight.
They thought rumors were harmless.
They thought silence was polite.
They were wrong.
And somewhere deep inside the hotel walls, the building that had once crowned Hilary as its queen began, quietly, to turn.