Cora
When I opened the break room door and saw Ethan pacing with a coffee cup in each hand, I knew something was wrong. Ethan never paced. He was too laid-back, too calculated for that.
He turned the moment he saw me, handing me one of the cups without a word. It was my usual—black with a splash of vanilla. He was such a gentleman that he had noticed and remembered this preference.
"Let me guess," I said, cradling the warmth. "This is about Kingston."
“Yeah,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “And the photo.”
I flinched. Even hearing the word photo was enough to make my stomach twist. That cursed image had followed me like a shadow all week. It was everywhere: online, in whispered conversations at the office, in the way people looked at me when they thought I wasn’t watching.
