Lori

I wake up to sunlight slicing through the blinds like an interrogation light, sharp and unforgiving. My head feels like it’s being crushed in a vice, each throb a reminder of how stupid I was last night.

The tequila clings to me like a bad decision I can’t shake off, its sharp tang still lingering in the back of my throat.

My mouth tastes like regret—stale lime, salt, and something I can’t place but wish I could forget.

My tongue is dry, my skin sticky, and the faint ache in my neck suggests I slept wrong—if you can even call what I did sleeping.

I squint at the ceiling, the sunlight only making my headache worse, and groan into the quiet room.

Why do I do this to myself? Why do I let her—no, not her, the thought of her—drive me to this?

The space next to me is empty, which feels like the cruelest irony. After everything, I went home alone.

I push myself upright, wincing at the sharp protest in my knees from dancing in heels that weren’t designed for anything beyond walking.

My clothes from last night are crumpled on the floor—blazer, blouse, and pants—all smelling of sweat and spilled liquor.

My phone is face-down on the nightstand. I grab it, dreading what I might see.

No missed calls. No texts. Just a single notification from Zoey, sent hours ago: Hope you’re okay. Call me when you up.

I toss the phone back onto the bed. Marcel’s name isn’t in my inbox, which shouldn’t sting as much as it does.

What was I expecting? That she’d text to apologize? To ask if I made it home?

Marcel doesn’t do guilt.

In the bathroom, I splash cold water on my face, trying to scrub away the remnants of last night—both physically and mentally. But it’s impossible to wash away the thought of Marcel. She’s stuck in my head like a song I can’t stop humming, even though I hate it.

By the time I’m dressed—blouse steamed as much as possible and hair tied back into something vaguely professional—it’s nearly 8:30 AM.

I’m already late, but rushing feels pointless.

I toss back three Advil, and stumble outside. The city feels too loud, too bright, like it’s mocking my hangover. I manage to flag down a cab and collapse into the back seat.

The driver eyes me through the rearview mirror. “Rough night?”

I glare at him. “Just drive.”

At the office, I find Landon leaning against the doorframe of the conference room, his arms crossed as he scrolls through his phone. He looks up when he hears my footsteps and arches an eyebrow.

“Rough night?” he asks, not bothering to hide the smirk.

I glare at him. “What gave it away?”

He shrugs. “The eyeliner smudges. Or maybe the fact that you smell like tequila and bad decisions.”

“Charming as always,” I mutter, brushing past him into the room.

He follows, pulling out a chair across from me. “You sure you’re up for this? We’re running out of time to fix the presentation.”

I called him last night to let him know would be working here today and I needed his help to fix something.

Partly because I feel guilty for not hanging with him for a while now and partly because I would rather walk into a dragons fire breath than face Marcel.

“Just show me what you've done,” I snap, dropping my bag onto the table.

Landon doesn’t flinch, though his smirk fades. “You’ve got a lot of fire this morning. Something happen with the ice queen?”

My jaw tightens. “How did you...what?”

He shrugs. “People are talking about how awfully close you two have gotten. We all think it's more than just project partners.”

I want to protest but there's no point. Instead I snap, “Drop it, Landon.”

“Hey, I’m just saying,” he says, holding up his hands in mock surrender. “You seem...tense.”

I don’t respond, focusing instead on the laptop in front of me. The presentation stares back, uninspired. I start editing, tweaking slides and rearranging talking points, anything to make it feel like I’m accomplishing something.

Landon watches me for a moment before leaning back in his chair.

“You know, if you keep ignoring whatever’s going on with Marcel, it’s only going to get worse.”

I slam my hands on the table. Enough with this bullshit already.

“Can we focus on the presentation?”

“Fine.” He holds up his hands again, but there’s a knowing look in his eyes. “But for the record, I’m always here to listen.”

I don’t need him to listen. I need Marcel to answer the text I sent her hours ago: We need to talk.

By lunchtime, there’s still no response. Landon steps out to grab food, leaving me alone in the room.

I check my phone again. Nothing. The knot in my stomach tightens.

For a moment, I consider sending another message, something more urgent, but I stop myself. Marcel doesn’t like being pushed, and I refuse to give her the satisfaction of thinking she has control over me.

Instead, I bury myself in work, reviewing the presentation slides until the words blur together. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t stop replaying our last conversation in my head.

Her voice, cold and cutting: I regret this.

Fuck that hurt.

Landon returns with two sandwiches, setting one in front of me.

“You’re welcome,” he says, sitting down and unwrapping his own.

I pick at mine, my appetite nonexistent.

“You know,” Landon says between bites, “if you’re going to let her get in your head like this, maybe you should just talk to her. Clear the air.”

“She hasn’t answered my text,” I admit, staring at the untouched sandwich.

“Then march into your office and make her listen,” he says, as if it’s that simple.

I shake my head. “I’m not chasing after her, Landon.”

He shrugs. “Your call. But just so you know, avoiding her isn’t going to make this any easier.”

The rest of the day passes in a haze. I  rehearse my part, talking points, and try not to think about Marcel. But she’s always there, lurking at the edge of my thoughts, a ghost I can’t shake.

By 5:00, I’ve had enough. I pack up my things and head for the elevator, ignoring Landon’s concerned glance as I pass him.

Outside, the air is cool compared to the suffocating tension of the office. I pull out my phone one last time, half-hoping to see a reply from Marcel.

Nothing.

I take a deep breath, steeling myself.

Maybe it’s better this way. Maybe silence is the answer I needed.

This is okay. I'm okay.