THE PASSWORD
The final slide vanished from her screen.
Elara tapped 'send' on the six-figure contract.
The soft click of the keyboard was the only sound in the quiet apartment.
Her secret offshore account pinged a second later.
A silent, sterile confirmation.
She closed the laptop.
She looked at the clock.
7:02 PM.
A real smile, small and private, touched her lips.
Six months.
She moved to the small kitchen. Her fingers traced the chipped laminate counter she'd cleaned three times already.
The ingredients for coq au vin were laid out with military precision.
A modest bottle of red wine breathed on the table, next to two simple candles.
Her reflection flashed in the microwave door.
The girl staring back had dark hair in a messy bun. Oversized glasses. A soft cotton dress from a high-street store.
Normal. Simple.
Lara.
Her hand went to her earlobe, to the single pearl stud she'd worn today.
Cool. Smooth.
A secret.
Her only concession.
She'd just negotiated a deal that would fund this entire apartment block for a year.
She'd used a vintage Bordeaux comparison to choose this twelve-dollar bottle.
The key turned in the lock.
Her head came up. Her spine straightened.
Early.
The door swung open.
Diego's laugh boomed into the space, too loud, too sharp.
It wasn't his after-work laugh.
"—absolutely savage. I told him his projections were a fantasy."
Another laugh followed. Higher. Strained.
Familiar.
Elara's hand, reaching for a knife to chop parsley, froze above the handle.
Two sets of footsteps.
Not just his.
Diego stepped into the narrow hallway, his suit jacket slung over his shoulder. He didn't see her immediately.
He was half-turned, his body a welcoming curve toward the woman following him.
The woman.
She filled the doorway. A sleek sheath dress the color of blood. Hair perfectly blown out.
She stepped in. Her eyes scanned the living room, the IKEA sofa, the second-hand bookshelf.
Diego finally looked up. His eyes found Elara in the kitchen doorway.
His smile didn't falter. It just… calcified.
"Lara."
His voice was flat. A statement. Not a greeting.
Sofia turned. She pretended surprise, a delicate hand fluttering to her collarbone.
"Oh!"
Her eyes, dark and shrewd, took in Elara's dress, her bare feet, the steaming pot on the stove.
"We're interrupting."
Elara didn't speak.
The air was thick with the smell of garlic, wine, and Sofia's oppressive jasmine perfume.
Her eyes tracked Diego's hand, resting possessively on the small of Sofia's back.
The way Sofia leaned into the touch.
"I thought you had your finance seminar tonight," Diego said.
He didn't move his hand.
"It ended early."
Elara's own voice sounded distant. Hollow.
"We had a brutal closing at the Versailles deal," Diego said, as if explaining the weather. "Sofia needed a proper drink after dealing with those animals. I told her my place was closer."
My place.
The words hung in the air.
Sofia sighed, a performative sound of pity. She detached herself from Diego.
Her finger trailed over the back of the sofa, coming away dustless.
"It's… cozy, Diego."
Then she looked directly at Elara. Her smile was a scalpel.
"Diego's told me so much about you. Your… dedication. It's really quite touching."
Elara's fingers found the edge of the counter.
Diego shifted his weight.
"Lara. Maybe you should… go for a walk. We need to talk later."
Sofia laughed, a tinkling, ice-cube sound. She wandered toward the dining table.
Her eyes were on the set dinner.
Two plates. Two wine glasses. Two candles.
She picked up the bottle of wine, read the label, and set it down with a definitive clink.
"Oh, darling," she said, not looking at Elara.
She examined her own perfect, manicured nails.
"He's trying to be kind."
She turned her head, her gaze locking onto Elara's.
"Diego told me all about your… situation. The student loans. The grind."
She paused.
"It's admirable, really. But sentimentality…"
She finally turned fully, linking her arm with Diego's again. Her voice dropped to a whisper that carried perfectly.
"Does it actually pay the rent here?"
The silence that followed was absolute.
The simmer of the pot on the stove was a roar.
Elara saw Diego's jaw tighten.
Not in anger at Sofia.
In annoyance. At the scene.
Something in Elara's chest snapped.
Not her heart. Something older. Colder.
She didn't look at Sofia. She looked only at Diego.
Her hand moved.
Not toward the knife.
She reached for the laptop, still warm. She flipped it open. The screen glowed to life.
Her fingers flew across the keyboard, a staccato rhythm in the dead air.
"What are you doing?"
Diego's voice was sharp, a crack in his cool facade.
Elara didn't answer. She navigated to a banking portal. The one for their shared account.
She typed. Three swift commands.
A soft ding came from Diego's pocket.
He pulled out his phone, frowning.
His face drained of color, patchy and gray.
"You… you just emptied the joint account. That's my money for the—"
"It was never your money."
Elara's voice was quiet. Clear. It didn't shake.
"It was mine. Every cent. The 'freelance editing' jobs. Remember?"
She closed the laptop. The click was final.
She untied the apron. Let it fall in a heap on the floor.
She walked past them, toward the small hallway closet.
Elara pulled out a small, worn duffel bag from the top shelf. It was already packed.
It always had been.
"You're leaving?"
Diego finally found his voice, laced with incredulous anger.
"Over this? It's business, Lara! You wouldn't understand the pressure!"
Elara stopped at the door. She didn't turn back. Her hand was on the cool brass knob.
Sofia found her voice, a sneer in it.
"A dramatic exit? How very… middle-class."
Elara's eyes fixed on the scuff mark on her clean floor.
Then she turned her head, just enough.
She looked past Sofia. She looked only at Diego.
"The password for the Wi-Fi," she said, her tone utterly flat, "is 'Harvard20.' You might want to change it."
She opened the door.
The last thing she heard as she stepped into the anonymous hallway was Diego's phone hitting the wall.
And Sofia's sharp, furious gasp.