Zevan barely hears the frantic murmur of voices slithering through the glass walls of Luminex. His shirt is untucked, tie askew—red-eyed, haunted. He stares at the notification flashing across his phone: “JELIA DANE HAS SHARED A FILE.” His jaw clenches so hard it aches. He staggers into the conference lounge, fists jammed in his pockets, avoiding every gaze. Every breath feels razor-sharp; sweat prickles down his spine.

Caelix explodes into the room, tailored suit rumpled, hair pushed back with a trembling hand, blue eyes storm-dark. “You couldn’t just keep it together, could you?” His voice slashes the air. Zevan meets his gaze—equal parts accusation and desperation reflected back at him.

“Don’t start,” Zevan spits. His lips are bitten raw. “You think I wanted this?”

Behind them, the company’s chat bubbles pop wild with Jelia’s leaks—lines of scandal, Zevan’s exposed mistake, the blackmail, Rysa’s data theft. Zevan’s secrets, ripped out and raw, feel like open wounds. A cold, toxic embarrassment pools beneath his skin. All eyes on him, on Caelix—two golden boys turned lepers in real time.

Rysa pushes through the crowd, cheeks streaked with mascara, eyes burning. Her crisp blouse is crumpled, lips swollen, jaw set. She moves like everything in her world is breaking, and she’s determined not to shatter—shoulders squared, hands shaking only when no one’s looking.

“You did this,” she hisses at Caelix, but her glare swings to Zevan—betrayed, lost. “Both of you. You made me believe I could trust you.”

Caelix’s laughter is bitter. “Says the woman who stole her whole resume. Don’t try the saint with me, Rysa.”

Rysa bares her teeth. “You think seduction is absolution? You think being clever makes you better?”

He looks at her, something wounded flickering behind the arrogance. “No. But I thought you’d choose me.”

The silence churns between them, sticky and electric. Zevan’s gaze flickers to Rysa, then back to Caelix—a thousand ugly questions spinning, words choking. “Is there anything left that’s true?” His voice breaks, a tiny, childish plea hidden in the gravel.

Rysa drops her eyes, trembling. The grief is palpable, radiating from her—the kind that hollows you out. She wheels away, heels striking the floor like accusations, and vanishes.

Caelix’s hands fist around the edge of the table. “She was never going to stay.” He laughs, but it sounds like a sob. He stalks out.

Later, the parking garage air is cold and damp. Rysa sits on the hood of her car, hair wild, blouse half-unbuttoned, staring at nothing, legs curled up. Caelix finds her, footsteps echoing. He stops a foot away—collar open, tie loose, his eyes so blue they look almost bruised.

“Why are you here?” she whispers, voice gravelly with hurt.

He leans in, aching. “Because you see me. And I need to be seen tonight—by someone who knows how to break me.”

The air quivers. She reaches for him, and their mouths collide—violent, desperate. Her nails sink into his scalp. He presses her back against cold metal, hands mapping bruises into her thighs. Every kiss is an accusation, every moan threaded with anger, need, regret. Lightning flashes from outside, brief illuminations shimmering across sweat-slick skin. She rakes her teeth down his jaw; he gasps, hips bucking forward, breath breaking into a whimper.

“Tell me you hate me,” she growls against his mouth.

He chokes out, “I wish I could—god, Rysa, I can’t—” Words dissolve, replaced by tangled limbs, flesh pressed to steel, tension unraveled and rebuilt in the rhythm of their bodies—fighting, surrendering, mourning everything they never said. Release is a sob that echoes in the empty garage, followed by silence thick enough to drown them.

Above, the entire company’s chat pings, a relentless notification. Theron’s trembling hands have sent everything—every file, every fraud, every blackmail—into the open. Zevan, alone at his desk, stares at the screen as the firm’s rot explodes across every device, every rumor now truth. Rysa pulls her knees to her chest, sobbing into Caelix’s shoulder. He strokes her hair, numb, shell-shocked, ashamed.

Dawn creeps into the empty office. Zevan finds Caelix slumped in a chair—shirt untucked, tie forgotten, the swagger gone from his posture, replaced by exhaustion and defeat. Their eyes meet—old friendship twisted and broken. Will they fight? Forgive? The air vibrates with the threat of both.

A final notification flashes: “All hands mandatory. Immediate consequences.”

Nobody knows what’ll be left standing.

To be continued...