The flash of a camera hit me as I stepped out of the elevator.
It surprised me. Just one photographer, probably a freelancer. But by the time I crossed the street, two more had shown up.
They didn't call my name or ask questions. Not yet. But their cameras followed me like I was something to chase.
I walked faster.
Inside the office building, everything felt different. The usual feeling of safety was gone. The woman at the front desk, someone I had spoken to for months, gave me a long look. Not friendly. Not curious. Just... unsure. Like I was a stranger now.
I stepped into the elevator, avoiding everyone's eyes. The walls were mirrored, and my reflection looked strange. My face was pale. My shoulders were tense. I didn't look like myself.
When the doors opened on our floor, it was worse.
Silence.
Keyboards stopped. Conversations ended. For one strange second, the entire floor paused. I could feel it. Everyone knew. Even the ones who pretended not to look still knew.
I kept walking.
Jordan met me at my desk. Her face looked worried. "Hey," he said gently. "You've seen it, right?"
I sighed and sat down. "Which one?"
She handed me her phone.
I stared at the screen. The headline was cruel.
"Aidan Blackthorne's Mysterious Disappearance: The Woman in the Center of the Storm."
Right underneath, a photo of me. Not a nice one. I looked tired, like I was running from something. Eyes wide. Hair messy.
My stomach turned. "I didn't say they could use this."
"You didn't have to," Jordan said, voice low. "They're running with whatever makes a good story."
I scrolled down the article. Some of it was guesswork. Some of it was flat-out lies. It said I had been at Aidan's place late at night. That I got my job because of him. That I knew all his business secrets.
"This is insane," I whispered. "They're making it sound like I planned this whole thing."
Jordan leaned in closer. "You know how it goes. You're the woman. He disappears, and people don't blame the billionaire. They blame the one who can't fight back."
Before I could say anything else, someone knocked on the conference room door behind me.
"Sophie," said a voice. It was Miranda, our communications director. "You have a moment?"
She didn't say it like a question.
I followed her inside.
Miranda stood by the big windows, her arms crossed. She wore bold red lipstick, her face calm but sharp. The sky behind her was gray.
"You're trending," she said.
"I noticed."
Her lips moved, just slightly. Almost a smile, but not quite. "The board is concerned."
I sat down. My fingers gripped the chair. "About me?"
"About everything," she said. "About how it looks. About Aidan vanishing. About whether you're a risk."
That word stung. Risk.
"I didn't do anything wrong."
"I believe you," Miranda said, her voice softer. "But this isn't about what's true. It's about the story people believe. And the story right now… isn't on your side."
I looked at her, silent. My hands were tight in my lap.
"So what happens now?" I asked.
"You lay low," she said. "No press. No events. No public statements. If anyone calls, it goes through me. Do you understand?"
I nodded slowly, biting my cheek.
Miranda paused. Then she added, "And Sophie… if you know where Aidan is—if he's contacted you—you need to tell us. We're in the middle of a storm, and if lightning is coming, we can't be surprised."
I didn't answer.
Not because I was hiding something.
But because I didn't know. And even if I did… a part of me didn't want to share him. Not like this. Not with people who only saw him as a headline.
When I went back to my desk, the weight of everything crashed down on me. I felt like I was standing in the middle of a crowded room with no place to hide.
Even people I had worked with for years looked at me differently.
They didn't say much.
But I could hear the whispers.
She must've done something.
People don't just disappear.
Maybe she was more than just his campaign manager.
The worst part? I didn't have answers either.
I sat through meetings, nodding at words I barely heard. Every time my phone buzzed, my heart jumped.
Maybe it was him.
It never was.
By late afternoon, I escaped to the office bathroom and locked the door. I looked in the mirror. My eyes were red. My skin was pale. My shoulders looked like they were carrying bricks.
I didn't cry. Not yet.
But I wanted to.
That night, in my apartment, I turned the TV on without thinking. A news anchor was already talking.
"Blackthorne Enterprises is facing chaos after CEO Aidan Blackthorne vanished without warning. Now, attention turns to a woman close to his campaign team, seen with him several times in recent weeks…"
They didn't even bother using my name anymore. Just "the woman."
I turned the TV off.
And then, in the quiet, my phone lit up.
It wasn't Aidan.
It was my father.
"I saw the news. You don't have to go through this alone."
I stared at the message.
And then I cried.
Not because of the media. Not because people were whispering or because Miranda called me a "risk."
I cried because the one person I was hoping to hear from—the person who mattered—still hadn't reached out.
And someone I thought I didn't need anymore… showed up.
I curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket. The apartment was quiet, but my mind wasn't. It was full of questions. Noise. Silence. Doubt.
Aidan Blackthorne was out there somewhere.
And I was here—on display.
That was what hurt the most.
I had let him in. Trusted him. Opened up in ways I hadn't in years.
And now? I wasn't sure if I'd made a mistake.
The ground under my feet didn't feel steady anymore. I didn't know what to believe.
But I knew one thing for sure.
This story wasn't finished.
Not even close.