Ever the pragmatist

The door to Matt’s office closes behind you with a solid click. The moment it does the restraint you have been holding onto collapses.

“Four months,” you start, voice rising as you pace the small space between the desk and the window. “She has been in my house four months. Tuesdays and Thursdays. Kitchen counter. Sofa. Our bed. All of it built on the complete fiction that I have been fucking you. Natasha looked me in the eye this morning and told me she stopped wanting me because of the way I look at you at staff socials. Because of late meetings. Because Ruby made sure every competitive word between us sounded like an affair. And the entire time I was walking around rejected and hard and thinking the problem was me.”

You turn back toward Cheryl. She is watching you with clear compassion, the usual sharp edge softened, though underneath it there is a slight hint of inconvenience, the practical part of her already calculating how this mess collides with the work still sitting on both your desks.

She lets the last of the venting land, then speaks in a steady, lower voice.

“First things first. I will help make sure Ruby gets what is coming to her. That kind of calculated interference does not get to slide. But right now the figures and breakdowns for Friday still need sorting. Duncan needs to see them this evening before he locks the presentation. You are never going to be able to focus while you are in this frame of mind. You are firmly on damage control. So let me help you focus up enough to plan and sort the situation.”

As she finishes the sentence she reaches up and starts gathering her brunette hair, pulling it back and twisting it into a neat ponytail with practised movements. The shift is small but deliberate, the competitive marketing lead settling into a different kind of readiness while she waits for your answer in the quiet of Matt’s empty office.