RHEA
I spend the rest of the day working paid overtime.
I want to slouch. I want to peel myself out of this chair and lie flat on the floor until my spine forgets what responsibility feels like. Instead, I don’t. I finish notes. I sign off decks. I answer questions no one would dare ask me twice.
By the time I shut down my computer, the office has thinned to ghosts and glowing screens.
I’d already called Ernest, told him I’d be working late. It took more effort than it should have to convince him to go home early and see his grandkids. I can get myself home just fine. I’ve survived worse than a quiet walk.
I pack my bag and lock the office.
The executive elevator hums as it descends, smooth and silent. I count the floors without meaning to. Not because I’m nervous—because I’m waiting
