No. The next morning

The fluorescent lights hummed, a low drone that vibrated in Nicole's teeth. She arrived at eight, her heels clicking a frantic rhythm against the marble floor. Every time the elevator chimed, her shoulders jerked. She waited for the summons—the brief, cryptic email or the sharp knock on her cubicle wall that signaled the start of her daily penance.

By eleven, the silence felt oppressive. The air in the office grew thick, tasting of ozone and stale coffee. Sarah from accounting leaned over the partition, her expression pinched with concern.

"You look like you've seen a ghost, Nicole. Everything okay?"

"Just a lot of reports," Nicole replied. Her voice sounded brittle, a thin sheet of glass ready to shatter.

"You're shaking. Maybe take a walk? Get some air?"

"I'm fine, Sarah. Thanks."

Nicole turned back to her monitor, but the spreadsheets blurred into grey smears. Lunch arrived, and the office emptied, leaving a hollow quiet in its wake. She stared at the frosted glass of Jefferson's corner office. He hadn't called her once. No demands. No threats.

The lack of attention felt like a trap. Was he bored of the game? Was he finally planning to send those photographs to John? The image of her husband's devastated face flashed through her mind, and a cold sweat gathered at her hairline.

She gripped her phone, the screen reflecting her wide, panicked eyes. Her thumb hovered over the glass before she opened their encrypted chat.

Nicole exhaled a jagged breath. The tension in her chest loosened, only to be replaced by a familiar, sinking dread.

Nicole stared at the message. The power dynamic shifted back into place, heavy and suffocating. She stood up, her legs feeling like lead, and began the long walk toward the Oakdoor.