The elevator doors slide open and my heart performs an Olympic-level gymnastics routine. Julian Hale stands inside, phone in hand, looking like he stepped out of a catalogue for men who have their lives together.
His navy suit is immaculate. His hair is artfully tousled. He probably woke up looking like that, the bastard.
I step in, clutching my bag like a lifeline, and offer him a small smile.
Not too eager, not too desperate—just the right amount of "hey, remember yesterday when you saved me from spreadsheet purgatory and I fell a little bit in love with you?"
He glances up from his phone, nods politely and returns to scrolling.
That's it. That's the whole interaction. A nod.
The same nod he'd give the janitor or the potted plant in the lobby or literally any inanimate object. Neutral. Distant. Like last night never happened, like he didn't sit at my desk and tell me to go home with actual warmth in his voice.
My smile dies a slow, humiliating death. The elevator climbs, floor by floor, each ding a tiny dagger of embarrassment.
Of course he doesn't remember. Why would he?
I'm forgettable in every way. Last night was probably just corporate obligation—can't have employees dying at their desks, bad for morale.
The doors open on my floor and I escape, cheeks burning, feeling like the world's biggest idiot for thinking a single act of decency meant anything.
My cubicle welcomes me with its usual beige embrace. I drop my bag, slump into my chair, and that's when I notice it—a tiny origami cat perched on my keyboard, folded from printer paper with whiskers drawn in blue ink.
The detail is remarkable, each fold precise, the little paper ears perfectly triangular.
"Morning."
I nearly launch out of my skin. Leo stands behind me, cap slightly askew, brown eyes crinkle-smiled and nervous.
In his hands, he holds a delicate paper flower crafted from a pink Post-it note, its stem twisted from a paperclip with surprising artistry.
"I, uh... noticed you have that cat calendar." He gestures vaguely toward my desk, where indeed a calendar featuring various cats in ridiculous poses hangs on my cubicle wall. "Figured you might like cats. So. Yeah. This is for you."
He extends the flower like it's made of glass, his olive skin flushing slightly beneath the fluorescent lights. He's nervous. Actually nervous.
To give me, Rory Kane, a paper flower.
Warmth spreads through my chest, unexpected and sweet. Nobody notices things like that. Nobody pays attention to what calendar the invisible office mouse hangs in her cubicle. But Leo did.
Leo, with his easy smile and wavy dark hair and kind eyes that seem to actually see me.
"That's really thoughtful," I say, and I mean it. My fingers brush his as I take the flower, and electricity zings through the contact. "Thank you, Leo. Really. It's beautiful."
His smile blooms like I've handed him the moon. "How's your day going so far? Besides finding tiny cats on your keyboard?"
I open my mouth to respond when I hear it—the whispers. They ripple through the office like a disease, cubicle to cubicle, desk to desk. I don't have to look to know what they're saying.
Two losers flirting. How cute.
The delivery guy and the office mouse, what a perfect match.
The warmth in my chest curdles into something sour.
I see heads turning, smirks exchanged, eyebrows raised in that universal language of office cruelty. They're watching us like we're entertainment, like our interaction is a comedy show for their amusement.
Leo deserves better than this. Better than being mocked for talking to me. Better than having his kind gesture turned into break room gossip.
"Thank you, really," I say again, but my voice has gone quiet, retreating. "I've got a lot of work though. Maybe another time?"
The words taste like betrayal. His smile falters, the brightness dimming in those warm brown eyes, and I want to take it back immediately. I want to tell him yes, let's talk, let's ignore them, who cares what they think?
But the whispers float around us like poison, and I'm too much of a coward to stand in that spotlight.
"Sure, yeah. Of course." He nods, trying to hide the disappointment that flickers across his features. "Same time next week, maybe?"
I nod, and he walks away with his shoulders a little lower than when he arrived.
I watch him go, hating myself, hating this office, hating every person who made me feel like talking to him was something to be ashamed of. Or vice versa.
The paper flower sits in my palm, delicate and perfect. I set it carefully next to the origami cat, two tiny monuments to a man who actually sees me.
Not Viola. Me.
The rest of the morning crawls by in a haze of spreadsheets and self-loathing.
I keep glancing at the paper flower, then at the elevator doors, replaying Julian's dismissive nod like a film reel of my own delusions. Stupid. So incredibly stupid to think he cared.
During my lunch break, I check Viola's secret email on my phone, tucked into a bathroom stall like a teenager hiding from hall monitors. Most messages are the usual—thirsty DMs, generic compliments, the occasional creep asking for things I'd rather not think about.
But one email stops my scrolling dead.
The subject line reads: Partnership Opportunity with LuxeGlow Beauty.
My finger hovers over it, trembling slightly as I tap to open:
Dear Viola,
We at LuxeGlow Beauty have been following your social media presence with great interest. Your aesthetic perfectly aligns with our upcoming campaign launch, and we would be honored to have you represent our brand at an exclusive corporate event. This would include professional photography, full makeup artistry, and compensation commensurate with your influence.
I read it twice. Three times. The words blur and sharpen, blur and sharpen.
A beauty brand. Wants Viola. For a campaign. An actual campaign with actual compensation and professional recognition.
This is everything I never dared to dream of.
Someone wants the woman I pretend to be. Someone sees value in the fantasy I created, the confident goddess who doesn't exist except in carefully angled photographs and flattering lighting.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, common sense warring with desperate longing. This is dangerous. This is insane. Viola isn't real—she's smoke and mirrors and a platinum wig I bought on clearance.
What if they realize? What if they see through the costume to the mousy disaster underneath?
But then I think about Julian's polite nod. About the whispers when Leo tried to give me a flower. About Greg's laughter echoing through an office that sees me as nothing more than a punchline.
My fingers find the keys before my brain can stop them while my heart pounds against my ribs.
Dear LuxeGlow Team,
I would be delighted to discuss this opportunity further. Please send additional details at your earliest convenience.
Warmest regards, Viola.
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it. The email whooshes away into the digital void, carrying my secret identity toward something terrifying and thrilling and completely unknown.
Someone, somewhere, wants the woman I pretend to be.
And for once, just this once, that feels like enough.