Discipline. That was my brilliant strategy for not combusting into a million pieces of professional inappropriateness.
My master plan involved keeping my head down, maintaining distance, and focusing solely on work like some kind of corporate monk who'd taken a vow of sexual celibacy. No more stolen glances that made my pulse forget how to behave. No more lingering in hallways hoping for encounters I definitely shouldn't want but absolutely fucking did.
Just professionalism, productivity, and the soul-crushing safety that came with being invisible.
It felt wrong. Like wearing shoes on the wrong feet, like speaking a language that wasn't mine. I'd spent my whole life being the warm one, the bright one, the person who smiled first and meant it.
Now I was teaching myself to dim.
I entered the studio that morning with the kind of purpose usually reserved for people storming beaches or conquering nations. Spine straight, expression carefully neutral, ready to win the Oscar for "Most Boring Employee Ever."
I greeted coworkers with those polite nods and brief smiles that said 'I'm friendly but not friend-ly, professional but not personal, available for work discussions but not emotional intimacy.'
A junior engineer waved at me from the coffee station — Maya, who'd helped me fix a mixing issue last week. I started to smile, really smile, and caught myself just in time.
The confusion on her face as I nodded and kept walking made something twist in my chest.
My laptop bag felt like it was carrying actual rocks instead of electronics. I'd stayed up until three AM like some kind of productivity psychopath, finishing every track, every demo, every piece of work that might be scrutinized by anyone with functioning eyeballs and an opinion.
If I was going to be a boring, invisible employee, I was going to be the most competent boring, invisible employee in the history of corporate mediocrity.
At the studio lounge, I set my laptop down like I was defusing a bomb and attached a yellow sticky note: 'Demos ready for review - J.H.' Then I disappeared faster than dignity at a college party.
The writers' bullpen became my refuge. Tucked away with the junior songwriters and session musicians, I felt invisible in a way that had once frustrated me but now provided blessed relief.
Or it should have.
But even here, I caught the sidelong glances. The whispers that stopped when I walked past. Two coordinators huddled by the water cooler, and I heard my name die on someone's lips as I approached.
So much for invisible.
Adelyn's poison was spreading, and no amount of professional behavior could scrub the stain she was leaving on my reputation.
I'd grown to dread Liam's looks especially.
With Finn, I could pretend it was just attraction — heat without weight, a game we were both playing. With Asher, the walls he kept up made it easier to keep my own.
But Liam looked at me like I was something precious. Something worth protecting. And every time those green eyes found mine across a room, I felt the careful distance I was building start to crack.
He made me want to be found. That was the problem.
But what if I was wrong about him?
The thought had kept me up last night, twisting through my mind like smoke I couldn't grasp. Adelyn had been with him once. She knew him in ways I didn't. What if she wasn't just jealous — what if she was trying to warn me?
What had happened between them? Had he promised her things too? Looked at her with those earnest green eyes and made her feel like the center of his universe — right up until he didn't?
I didn't know. And not knowing was eating me alive.
Because if Liam could discard Adelyn, he could discard me. If he could make her feel special and then leave her bitter enough to hunt his next conquest, then everything I thought I saw in him might be a lie.
Or maybe Adelyn was the lie. Maybe she'd wanted something he couldn't give, and now she was punishing anyone who got what she couldn't have.
I didn't know which version was true. And until I did, I couldn't afford to let him close.
So I avoided him. All of them. Like they were walking, talking temptations designed specifically to destroy my life.
When Liam's voice carried across the bullpen, discussing arrangements with one of the producers, I kept my eyes superglued to my screen and my headphones firmly planted like armor against auditory seduction.
When Asher paused at the bullpen entrance, those steel-gray eyes sweeping the room in search of someone — me, probably — I hunched lower in my chair and pretended to be completely absorbed in scheduling emails.
Finn's text arrived around two PM like a guided missile aimed directly at my resolve: 'You're being suspiciously professional today. Did someone replace my bunny with a corporate robot? Blink twice if you need rescue.'
I stared at the screen, something aching behind my ribs.
Finn noticed. Of course Finn noticed — beneath all that playboy charm, he saw more than he let on.
I wanted to text back something light, something that would make him laugh and keep things easy between us. That was what Finn and I did. We kept things easy.
But easy felt impossible right now. And if I answered him, I'd want to answer Liam too. And answering Liam meant feeling things I couldn't afford to feel — not until I understood what had really happened with Adelyn.
So I closed the message without responding, and tried not to think about how Finn's humor was just another way of checking if I was okay.
Lunch was supposed to be a quiet affair at my makeshift desk — corporate hermit, remember? — but hunger drove me to the break room, where a group of junior staff were already clustered around the table.
The conversation dimmed when I entered. Not stopped — that would have been too obvious — but dimmed, like someone had turned down the volume.
I ignored it. Grabbed a container from the fridge. Kept my expression neutral.
"So, Jasmine," said a voice I vaguely recognized. Derek from Marketing, the one who'd witnessed Adelyn's lobby performance. "Working late nights again? Must be exhausting, keeping up with all those... executive demands."
The snickers around the table were barely concealed.
Something snapped.
"You know what's exhausting?" I turned, and my voice came out cold in a way I barely recognized. "Listening to people who've never created anything in their lives speculate about people who actually do the work." I looked directly at Derek, watched him shrink back. "If you have questions about my schedule, submit them through HR. Otherwise, maybe focus on your own job performance. I hear Marketing's Q3 numbers were really impressive."
The silence was deafening.
I grabbed my food and walked out, heart pounding, hands shaking. That wasn't me. That sharp, cold woman who cut people down — that wasn't who I was.
But maybe it was who I had to become to survive this.
The afternoon stretched on in deliberate isolation. Every smile felt forced. Every conversation was carefully monitored for potential landmines.
The easy camaraderie. The sense of belonging. The music I'd started to believe I was allowed to make.
The brothers had given me something I'd never had before — permission to stop being the person who fixed everything, carried everyone, sacrificed herself so others could be okay. For the first time in my life, I'd felt wanted. Not needed. Wanted. For me, not for what I could do.
And now I was hiding from the only people who'd ever made me feel that way.
Because I was terrified of losing them. Terrified of losing this — the music, the opportunity, the way I'd finally started to feel like I belonged somewhere. If I let myself fall deeper and it all collapsed, I wouldn't just lose a job.
I'd lose the first version of myself I'd ever actually liked.
By early evening, the silence around my work had become deafening. When I returned to collect my laptop from the lounge, I found it exactly where I'd left it, but the sticky note was gone.
Someone had reviewed the demos but chosen not to seek me out for discussion. The absence of contact felt like both relief and rejection.
As I prepared to leave, I caught sight of Adelyn near the elevator bank.
She was leaning against the wall, phone in hand, but her attention wasn't on the screen. Her eyes tracked my movement with calculating precision, cataloging every detail like I was evidence in a case she was building.
I wondered what she saw. A rival? A target? Or just a woman who'd stumbled into something Adelyn believed should have been hers?
She'd had him once. And she was going to make sure I didn't get to keep him.
I forced myself to walk past her with confidence I didn't feel, heart hammering against my ribs. I didn't acknowledge her presence, didn't meet her gaze, didn't give her any ammunition. But as the elevator doors slid closed, I caught her reflection in the polished metal — still watching, still assessing.
The descent to the lobby felt endless, each floor marking another small victory in my campaign of avoidance. I'd made it through an entire day without compromising myself, without giving anyone reason to question my professionalism.
So why did it feel like losing?
Tomorrow I'd do better. Tomorrow I'd be stronger.
Tomorrow I'd probably hate myself just a little bit more for choosing safety over the things that made me feel alive.