The distance started the next day.
It showed in small ways.
A meeting reassigned.A calendar invite removed.An email sent by someone else instead of her.
I told myself it was temporary. Logical. Necessary.
Still, it felt deliberate.
At noon, a document landed in my inbox—revised project allocations. I skimmed it quickly, already knowing what I'd find.
My name was no longer attached to her department.
At the bottom of the page, a digital signature stood out.
Evelyn SheldonChief Executive Officer
I stared at it longer than I should have.
So that was her name.
I'd heard others say it before—Ms. Sheldon, the CEO, her—but seeing it written like this felt different. Final. Official. Untouchable.
That afternoon, she passed my desk without stopping.
"Good evening, Ms. Sheldon," someone called.
She acknowledged them with a nod.
When her eyes met mine, it was only for a moment. Just long enough to confirm what we were both pretending not to feel.
Nothing.
After work, I stayed behind longer than usual, reorganizing files that didn't need it. The office thinned out, lights clicking off one by one.
Then her door opened.
"Lucas."
I froze.
She never used my name.
I turned slowly.
She stood there, composed as ever, but her voice had given her away. Quiet. Careful. Too intentional.
"Yes, ma'am?"
She gestured toward her office. "Come in."
The room felt smaller than it ever had.
She closed the door behind us—not locking it, not hiding—but sealing the moment from interruption.
"I wanted to be clear," she said. "About the changes."
"I understand," I replied. And I did.
She studied me, her expression unreadable.
"This isn't punishment," she said. "And it isn't rejection."
I didn't respond.
"Your work hasn't gone unnoticed," she continued. "But visibility creates risk."
"For you," I said.
"For us," she corrected, then stopped herself.
A pause.
She exhaled slowly. "For the company."
There it was again. The line. Carefully redrawn.
"I won't let speculation damage your future here," Evelyn said quietly. "Or mine."
Hearing her name in my own thoughts unsettled me more than I expected.
"I didn't ask for special attention," I said.
"I know," she replied. "That's why this is difficult."
Silence stretched between us—thick, restrained, honest.
"Lucas," she said again.
I met her gaze.
"This distance… it doesn't mean I don't trust you."
I nodded once. "Then we're clear."
She held my gaze a second longer than necessary.
"Yes," she said. "We are."
I turned to leave.
At the door, I paused. "Ms. Sheldon?"
She looked up.
"Thank you," I said. "For protecting what matters."
Something flickered across her face—relief, regret, or something dangerously close to both.
"You're welcome," she said.
I left without looking back.
That night, I realized something important.
Names made things real.
And now that I knew hers,and she knew mine—
keeping distance wasn't going to be easier.
It was going to be harder.