Mr. Kingsley

The phone buzzed in Isabel’s trembling hands, the glow of the screen displaying a name that stopped her breath cold: Mr. Kingsley.

She hesitated for only a moment before swiping to answer. Her coworkers leaned in from their cubicles, curious, whispering behind their hands.

“Hello?” she said, voice catching. In the split-second scramble to steady the phone, her grip on the borrowed shirt loosened. The hem slipped apart at her chest. Gasps rippled across the room as the fabric fell just far enough to expose the curve of her bare breasts.

“Oh my god, is she topless under that thing?” someone hissed.

“Unbelievable, in the office?” another muttered, just loud enough to be heard.

“Bet she lost a bet,” one of the men chuckled, though his voice was tinged with disbelief.

Isabel’s heart crashed in her ears. She pressed the shirt closed again, ignoring the rising tide of voices, the sound of whispered gossip and suppressed laughter stinging sharper than any slap. She could not, she told herself, could not react. Not while Mr. Kingsley’s voice boomed in her ear.

“Ms. Torres,” he said, firm and deliberate, “I just got off the Zoom call. You handled yourself impressively. Very impressively. You kept calm, you were prepared, you made a statement. I like that.”

The praise was almost enough to steady her, but then his tone shifted, weightier, demanding.

“I need you to meet me, immediately,” he continued. “There’s something important I want to discuss with you. Not here, not over the phone. In person.”

Her throat tightened. “Where, sir?”

“My parking space,” he said without hesitation. “Lower level of the garage. You know where it is. Come down now.”

Isabel froze in her chair. Around her, the murmurs thickened into a buzzing cloud. She could feel her coworkers’ eyes crawling across her exposed legs, her half-open shirt. Some whispered about her bra being gone. Others whispered her name like it was scandal. She wanted to vanish, dissolve into the carpet, but the phone in her hand was an anchor.

“Yes, Mr. Kingsley,” she managed, the words coming out smaller than she wanted.

“Good,” he said, clipped. “Do not delay.”

The line went dead.

For a moment, Isabel just sat there, her chest rising and falling too quickly, the room tilting around her. Then the wave of whispers turned sharper, louder.

“She’s completely lost it.”

“No wonder Ryan’s going to get the promotion.”

“Or maybe she knows exactly what she’s doing…”

A laugh broke out at that last comment, and Isabel clenched her shirt tighter, cheeks burning hot enough to sting. She rose from her chair, ignored the catcalls, ignored the hissing whispers of her name trailing behind her like smoke.

One step, then another, carrying her toward the elevator. The gossip followed her like a shadow, but she **** her face into stillness, her focus fixed on the polished metal doors ahead.

The question churned inside her, louder than the voices, louder than the pounding in her chest.

What does Mr. Kingsley want in the parking garage?

The elevator chimed. Isabel stepped forward, the knot of dread in her stomach pulling tighter, and the doors slid open.