Head to work

You do not stay for another word. The rage and the fresh seed of revenge are too loud in your head. You turn on your heel, leave the kitchen, and walk straight out of the house without looking back. The front door closes harder than it needs to. You start the car and pull away while the morning is still early, the familiar route to the office now carrying the full weight of everything Natasha just laid out.

The drive passes in a blur of gritted teeth and replaying accusations. Cheryl. The looks at staff socials. The late meetings twisted into proof of an affair that never happened. Four months of Ruby in your house built on a foundation of misread glances and office tension. By the time you park and take the lift up to the floor your jaw is locked and your shoulders are tight.

You step out into the open-plan space and see Ruby almost immediately. She is on the far side of the floor near the HR section, head down over a file, cycling-toned posture steady and unremarkable. She does not look up. From this distance she could be any other colleague starting the day. The knowledge of what she has been doing in your kitchen and your bedroom on Tuesdays and Thursdays sits behind your eyes like a brand. You force yourself past the impulse to walk straight over and keep moving toward your desk instead.

You have only just sat down and opened the laptop when Cheryl appears at the edge of your cubicle. She is already dressed for impact, blouse fitted, expression sharp with the usual competitive focus. She drops a revised folder on the desk without preamble.

“Friday’s numbers still need tightening on your side,” she says. “I ran the updated conversion projections last night. If we do not lock the regional gaps today the partners will have questions and I am not carrying the whole presentation because you left soft spots. We should go through them this morning before the rest of the floor gets noisy.”

She waits for the usual pushback or the usual reluctant agreement. When neither comes she looks at you properly for the first time. Whatever she sees in your face makes her pause. The professional edge softens by a fraction.

“You look like someone ran you over,” she says, quieter. “Something wrong?”

The question hangs there. Ruby is still visible in the distance. The morning’s confrontation is still burning under your skin. The false story about you and Cheryl is still sitting in the centre of everything. Cheryl stands at the edge of your desk, waiting, the folder of numbers forgotten for the moment, and the choice of whether to open any of it to her remains completely unresolved.