Chapter 4

The sound of Chloe's voice echoed in my head for days. "She was just telling me yesterday how stressed she's been feeling." A lie, so simple and so effective. It painted me as unstable, unreliable. It planted a seed of doubt in Mr. Davenport' s mind.

A week later, I was called into a meeting for the new waterfront development project. It was my design, my concept from start to finish. I had poured my soul into it. But as I started my presentation, the words felt foreign in my mouth. My hands trembled, rattling the papers I held. I saw the faces around the table, their polite smiles barely concealing their pity. I faltered, losing my place, my confidence crumbling under the weight of their stares.

Mr. Davenport stopped me gently. "Ava, perhaps we should pause here."

He called me into his office afterward. The afternoon sun streamed through the large window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the air.

"Ava, I'm concerned," he began, his voice kind but firm. "You've been our top architect for years, but lately... you seem distracted. Mark mentioned you were having some personal issues."

Mark. Of course. He was controlling the narrative, framing my departure as an emotional breakdown.

"With all due respect, sir, my personal life is not affecting my work," I said, my voice tight.

"I'm not so sure," he countered. "The waterfront project needs a steady hand. I'm assigning Mark as the lead on it. I'd like you to assist him. And I'm also adding Chloe to the team. Her fresh perspective could be valuable."

The room tilted. My project. He was giving my project to Mark and forcing me to work under him, with her. It was a demotion. A public humiliation.

My colleagues were furious on my behalf. "That's completely unfair!" Sarah from drafting muttered as I walked back to my desk. "Everyone knows the waterfront is your baby."

"Davenport is just trying to keep Mark happy," Tom from accounting whispered. "Mark brings in the big clients. It's all about the money."

Later, I overheard Mr. Davenport on the phone. "I know, I know it's not ideal," he was saying, his voice low. "But if I don't keep Mark Johnson happy, he'll walk, and he'll take the Sterling account with him. My hands are tied."

I felt a bitter taste in my mouth. It wasn't about fairness. It was about power. And I had none.

I packed the few personal items from my desk into a small box, my movements stiff and robotic. I would serve out my two weeks' notice, assisting on my own project, and then I would be free.

I waited by the elevators, my box in my hands. The doors opened, and there they were.

Mark and Chloe. He was laughing, his head thrown back, a sound that used to make my heart leap. She was looking up at him, her eyes shining with adoration. His arm was casually draped around her shoulders.

He was showing her the same affection, the same easy intimacy he had once shown me, in the very same hallways where our own story had begun. He was holding her hand exactly how he used to hold mine, his thumb drawing lazy circles on her skin.

I felt a sharp, searing pain, so intense it was physical. It was like watching a movie of my life with another actress in my role. They were living my past, and I was just a spectator to my own ghost.

They saw me then. Mark' s hand dropped from her shoulder instantly. His face, which had been open and happy a second before, became a mask of guilt and panic. He looked like a thief caught in the act.