Rysa barely sleeps, haunted by the afterimage of Caelix’s mouth on her skin and the way Zevan’s eyes had shattered when he learned the truth. She moves through the day phantom-like, her maroon blouse perfectly pressed, lips painted the deepest plum—a shield against the storm. She can’t stop glancing toward Zevan’s office. He avoids her gaze, posture rigid, jaw square, beautiful in his silent suffering. When she passes him in the hall, she sees the dark crescents beneath his eyes, the tight set to his mouth. His voice, when it comes, is clipped—each syllable a wound reopening.

Caelix isn’t any softer. He lounges at the edge of her desk, white shirt unbuttoned just enough to tempt, but his smirk has lost its bite. “Did you miss me?” he asks, tracing the rim of her coffee cup with his fingertip, but she hears the hardness beneath the flirtation. Their chemistry flickers, dangerous and electric, but now it’s threaded with regret. When their hands brush, sparks fly—a reminder that desire and heartbreak can smolder in the same touch.

The sex tape leaks that afternoon. Phones vibrate across the floor, faces pale. An email pings—subject line blank—a grainy video attached. Someone’s hands in Rysa’s hair, fingers digging into Caelix’s perfect shoulders, her own laugh turning frantic. The sounds—their sounds—fill the air, impossible to deny. Zevan stands frozen by the printer, his reflection fractured in the glass. She rushes after him, grabbing his sleeve. “Zevan, it wasn’t—” But he wrenches away, eyes bright with pain, voice raw: “Don’t. You already chose.” She wants to scream that she hasn’t, that she can’t, but the words stick tight to her throat.

The world tilts on its axis. Miris Falco swings by, wild hair tumbling from a chaotic bun, clipboard clutched like armor. “Did you people ever consider locking a door?” they quip, trying for levity, but their gaze lingers on Zevan, reading the devastation beneath his stony exterior. “HR’s not built for this much drama,” they mutter, half-serious, half-protective.

Theron lingers at the periphery, his posture hunched, shirt rumpled, anxiety flickering across his features. He clutches a flash drive so tightly his knuckles blanch. When Rysa, quieter than usual, finds him in the stairwell, he startles. She offers a trembling smile. “You okay?” Her kindness is cautious, a lifeline offered but not demanded. For a moment, Theron is brave. “I have proof, Rysa. Real proof. But I’m scared.” His voice barely a whisper. She squeezes his arm, gentle but desperate. “You’re not alone. Not anymore.”

Obi shadows Theron, burly presence silent but vigilant, a subtle warning to anyone who might threaten the fragile intern. Obi’s gaze is unreadable, but when he claps Theron on the back, it’s with unexpected gentleness, as if promising sanctuary.

Zevan finds Rysa in the empty conference room, her hands trembling over her phone. “Do you regret it?” he asks, tone softer now, grief seeping through the cracks in his armor. She meets his eyes, tears shimmering, pride battling heartbreak. “I regret what I’ve done to you. To us.” He flinches, then pulls her close, their embrace fierce and wounded. She breathes his scent—coffee, iron, longing. “I need you, Zevan,” she admits, voice breaking. “But I can’t let Caelix go.” His lips brush her temple—a bittersweet benediction, the promise of love when all is lost.

Behind glass, Caelix watches, fists clenching as jealousy twists inside him. His smile, when Rysa finally leaves, is dazzling and cruel in equal measure. Alone, he dials a number, voice low and dangerous: “If she wants war, I’ll give her one.”

As night falls, Jelia’s message explodes across everyone’s screens—her voice icy and triumphant: “Tomorrow the truth comes out. All of it. You have until morning to decide who you want to save.”

To be continued...