Miles walked in without knocking. He looked at me, then at the empty spot on the table where the orchid had been, then back at me.
"Anna just walked past my office holding a plant and crying. What happened?"
"She brought an orchid into the office."
Miles closed his eyes for a second. "I should have put the allergy in her briefing pack," he said. "That’s my fault. The last assistants already knew, so I got lazy with the paperwork." He rubbed the back of his neck. "But that’s not why she was crying, is it?"
I didn’t answer.
"Jace." He waited until I looked at him. "She didn't know. She was trying to do something nice for you. That's all it was."
He pulled a chair over and sat down across from me. Not too close. He always knew exactly how much room I needed.
"I know what happens when your chest gets tight." His voice dropped, steady and unhurried. "I know where your head goes."
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees.
"And I know that when you're scared, you get mean, because mean makes people leave, and people leaving is the only thing that makes you feel safe."
He held my gaze. Patient. Like he'd said some version of this before and would say it again as many times as it took.
"But she's not a threat, Jace. She's a woman who bought you a flower."
I looked at the cube in my hands. Turned it once. The colors blurred.
"You don’t have to like her," Miles said. "You don’t even have to be nice. But you can’t keep doing this."
He stood. The door closed, and I was alone.
I sat with the cube for another thirty seconds. Then I put it down.
"Bloody hell."
I stood. Walked out of my office. Crossed the floor.
The entire room went quiet. Heads turned. Every pair of eyes tracking me, and I hated it, the exposure, the visibility.
"Where did Ms. Wilson go?" I asked the first employee I reached, a woman from the art department whose name I knew was Priya even though she probably didn’t know I knew.
She looked at me like I’d asked for directions to the moon. Because in seven years, I had never crossed this floor looking for another person. "She was walking toward the elevator," she said. "Maybe five minutes ago."
I walked to the elevator bank, pressed the button to open before the door could close.
She was inside. Far corner. Arms crossed over her chest. Eyes red.
I stepped in.
Her gaze came up. Met mine. She said nothing, just watched as I walked in and stood on the opposite side, maximum distance, like we were two magnets with the same charge.
The doors closed. The elevator started moving.
I wanted to say something. I didn’t know what. Apologies weren’t something I’d had much practice with. People didn’t stay long enough to earn one, and I’d never cared enough to offer. I opened my mouth.
Suddenly the elevator jolted and the lights died.
Darkness. Total darkness. It consumed me whole. I felt the weight against my skin, inside my lungs. The walls pressed closer. My hands shot out and hit cold metal on both sides, and the elevator wasn't an elevator anymore. It was a box. Sealed, lightless, and shrinking.
My body knew before my brain caught up. Heart rate through the roof. Breathing gone. The air was disappearing the way it always did in my memory of the basement, tasting like concrete dust and the sweat of two men who didn’t care that I was only eight years old and couldn’t stop shaking.
