Days pass in a tense dance of avoidance and anticipation. Elena's texts are scarce but pointed, each one leaving me off-balance. I catch sight of her once in the executive corridor, talking quietly with Mr. Vasquez outside his corner office. She's in a form-fitting pencil skirt, hair pinned back. When our eyes meet, she holds my gaze for a single charged second—then returns to her conversation as if I don't exist.
But that evening, a surprise: my desk phone rings after most people have gone home. I almost ignore it, but curiosity wins. "Lucas speaking."
Her voice is soft, subdued. "You're working late again."
I glance around the dim office. "So are you," I counter, pulse creeping higher. "Is… everything okay?"
A pause. "Not sure." She exhales. "I—I was thinking about what you said… about me dropping bombs. Maybe I'm pushing too hard."
My tension loosens just a fraction. For the first time, she sounds uncertain. "Elena, I just… it's complicated."
She gives a humorless laugh. "You think I don't know that? I'm tangled in a life I'm not sure I want anymore. And now you're here, looking at me with those eyes that say you might be trapped, too."
I swallow, my mind reeling at the rawness in her tone. Before I can respond, she cuts the call. I stare at the silent receiver, her words echoing in my ear. Trapped. Maybe we both are. But is she offering me freedom—or dragging me into her own snare?