Silent Calm: Sterling's Obsession

than a reality show apology. Her excuse just sorta hung there, limp, like a soggy tissue in the rain-no shot anyone was buying it. Panic hit her h

every idiotic thing she'd ever done. He didn't even bother to play nice. Just called her out, businesslike, voice flatter than last week's soda.

y step just hammered in how royally she'd messed up. Guilt? Oh, it was there, clinging to her ribs like static. And then that "Project El

nto a snowdrift. The whole office vibe was off. Nobody talked, just shuffled around like sad little ghosts. Elara kept her head down, trying to swallow the knot of stress in her throat, half-convinced she was about to get the

she'd pictured. He actually talked to people. Cracked jokes. Sometimes even laughed at her worst puns (which, let's be real, was a miracle). He seemed to know everything-who wa

s she'd deleted-gone for real, like they'd never existed. She'd catch coworkers whispering, then pretending she was invisible when she walked by. It all piled up, making her skin itch. Was Henry just the

skipping on repeat till she wanted to bust a window. Eventually she just thought, screw this, waited for the coast to clear, and slid back into that haunted excuse for an office. The place was so dead, it might as

ercial-hell, not even a sad coffee stain survived. She just stood there, hope shriveling like a raisin in the sun, ready to call it. But then-hold up. Something glinted below. She drop

laptop, probably swea

ted cat on the keyboard. She probably could've handed it to a squirrel and gotten further. So, yeah, time to eat some humble pie and

s, mysterious puppet-masters galore. And the best part? Elara was front and center in their sights. Someone had been tailing her every move-lunch choices, nervous breakdowns, you name it. Paranoid? She was basically chugging it like energy drinks. Every shadow twitched, ever

Rossi's "I'm richer than you" perfume. The kind of smell that slaps you with a gold-plated glove. It hung there, flashing warning lights. Suddenly, it all clicked. Isabella-Damien's big secret client. Always lurking, always just out of focus. E

he small talk. Money practically dripped off her, but not in that "look at my shiny new bag" way. Nah, she was the vintage-champagne type, the sort who probably has a family cr

ib. For once, Elara's nerves weren't in the driver's seat. Isabella's answers? About as clear as mud. She dropped these cryptic little nuggets, each one landing with a thud, and somehow made them sound like prophecies. According to her, the whole circus

a world full of creeps itching to exploit her. Classic move-"we're the heroes, trust us"-except she never actually said wh

at least, she faked it. Like, what else was she supposed to do? The whol

ny trench coats and mirrored sunglasses. Elara wasn't just another nobody anymore-she was suddenly the freaking main character in a story nobody bothered to give her the script for. Only thing guaranteed? She w