The air smelled like containment: the kind that keeps rumors from spilling into files, the kind that tightens not around a throat, but around a life.
Clara Jensen from HR found her at ten. Clara’s expression was all professional concern—crisp blouse, clipboard, the posture of someone whose job was keeping things adherent to policy. But her eyes lingered along Ava’s neck, the slight discoloration at the collarbone, and Ava felt exposed again, raw as a wound.
“Quick word?” Clara asked. The hallway was quieter than usual.
Ava forced a smile and followed. She had rehearsed answers—concise, contained, plausible. But words felt small against what had happened and what could happen.
In HR, Clara closed the door and folded her hands. “We’ve had some reports,” she said. “Strictly procedural. Se
