The bus jerked forward as they found their seats, the weight of everything that had just happened pressing heavily on Sofia's shoulders. She stared out the window, fists clenched in her lap, still trying to make sense of it all.
"Hey," Anne said gently, nudging her side, "you don't have to be so angry. At least you're not losing the house anymore."
Sofia blinked, turning slowly toward her. "Is that supposed to make it okay?"
Anne winced. "No, but... it means you still have a roof over your head. That has to count for something, right?"
Sofia didn't respond. Her throat felt tight—too tight for words. Gratitude curled somewhere deep inside her chest, but it was tangled with something hotter, sharper.
She hadn't asked for Adam Ravenstrong to interfere. He didn't even tell her. He just—did it. Cleared the debt. Saved the house. As if it was nothing more than a line item on a spreadsheet. As if she was someone who could be bought.
Elise, seated across from them, leaned forward, her voice low and laced with fury. "He was trying to buy her out, Anne. That's what this is really about."
Anne frowned. "What do you mean?"
"The marriage." Elise spat the word like it left a bad taste. "This whole thing—it's a transaction to him. Pay off the debt, and take the girl. Like she's some kind of... prize for good behavior."
Sofia's nails dug into her palms.
She wanted to scream. She wanted to cry. She wanted to find Adam and ask him why he did it—why he made her feel both rescued and trapped in the same breath.
She was grateful, yes. Deep down, so deeply grateful it hurt. But gratitude wasn't love. And it damn sure wasn't consent.
She turned toward her friends, her voice low and shaking, but steady.
"He may have saved the house," she said, eyes dark with restrained fire, "but that doesn't mean I owe him my life. I won't be his charity case—or his wife."
And with that, she turned back to the window, holding her tears at bay as the city blurred past.
"See you at the house later tonight, okay?" Anne said cheerfully, trying to inject some warmth into the heavy air before hopping off at her stop.
Elise squeezed her hand gently before stepping down at the next. "Don't let them get to you. They're not worth it."
Now she was alone.
And the building loomed ahead like a steel cage.
Sofia dreaded the moment her feet hit the ground. The bus ride had felt both too short and too long, a limbo between safety and another public unraveling. Her hands trembled slightly as she clutched her bag tighter, heart pounding beneath her blouse.
She inhaled slowly. One step. Then another. Like walking into the lion's den—but this time, she had no armor left.
Every corridor whispered yesterday's shame. Every glance from her coworkers felt like a spotlight, even when no one said anything. Especially when no one said anything.
Still, she kept her chin high and walked with purpose, as if the echo of laughter from the day before wasn't still ringing in her ears.
She sat at her desk, eyes on her monitor, ignoring the stares, the whispers, the barely-hidden smirks.
Just as Sofia gathered her things, ready to slip into the background for her morning break, her desk phone rang.
"Mr. Craig would like to see you in his office."
Her breath caught. For a second, the ground beneath her seemed to shift. Was this it? Was she about to be reprimanded—asked to explain the rumors she had never started, the humiliation she never invited?
With stiff legs and a heart pounding against her ribs, she made her way to the glass-walled corner office, swallowing hard as she knocked on the door.
"Come in," came the familiar voice.
She entered slowly, already rehearsing how she would defend herself—what words to use to salvage what little dignity she had left.
But instead of judgment, she was met with a warm, familiar gaze.
"Hey, are you okay, Sofia?" Mr. Craig asked gently, motioning for her to sit. His voice wasn't cold or clipped. It was kind—genuinely concerned.
Her lips parted in surprise.
He had always been good to her. Fair. Professional. He promoted her to supervisor two years ago, not because she asked, but because she earned it. Still, that didn't stop the whispers—jealous co-workers muttering that she must've charmed him, and flirted her way into his favor.
She had heard the rumors, of course.
She just never let them define her.
"Yes, sir," she said quietly, folding her hands on her lap. "I'm okay."
A lie—but one she clung to out of habit.
Mr. Craig leaned forward, elbows resting on his desk, eyes soft with concern. "Sofia... I've seen the way people have been looking at you today. I heard the noise."
Her chest tightened.
"You don't need to explain anything to me," he continued. "I've worked with you long enough to know your character. You've never been anything but respectful, responsible, and sharp as hell. You've handled pressure most people would crumble under. That doesn't go unnoticed."
Sofia blinked, her throat suddenly tight.
"You can always talk to me," he added. "Not as your boss—just... as someone who cares."
She hesitated, the words lodging in her chest. She wasn't used to being believed. Or defended.
And in that moment, with everything else in her life unraveling—this quiet show of trust nearly broke her.
"Thank you, Mr. Craig," she said, her voice barely above a whisper. "I really am fine. I promise."
He nodded, not pushing, just offering a small smile.
"Then just know this—you don't owe anyone an explanation. Not about rumors. Not about flowers. Not about anything."
Sofia nodded slowly, standing to leave—but a weight had shifted, just slightly.
There were still storms ahead, but somehow, knowing someone in that building saw her clearly—without judgment or doubt—gave her just enough strength to face them.
And then, just before lunch, it arrived.
Another bouquet.
Smaller this time. Simpler.
White blooms—elegant, full, and quietly expensive. Not ostentatious, but deliberate. Intentional. Like a whisper instead of a shout.
Tucked among the petals was a single white card.
No grand declaration. No apology. Just one name.
Adam.
Not Adam Ravenstrong.
Just Adam.
The intimacy of it sent a strange chill through her.
Sofia stared at the bouquet like it was another grenade—silent, poised, and ready to blow her day apart all over again.
The air around her shifted. The silence became sharp.
Her coworkers stopped pretending to work. Eyes flicked up from screens. Fingers stilled mid-typing. A few phones tilted subtly under desks. Someone gasped. Someone whispered.
The second act of the performance had begun.
But Sofia didn't move, blink, didn't even smile.
She stood slowly, her movements measured, and lifted the bouquet with careful hands—as if touching it too suddenly might detonate something fragile inside her.
Then, with quiet precision, she placed it in the far corner of her desk. Like a document she hadn't requested. Like something irrelevant.
And she sat back down.
No drama. No theatrics. But this time, she didn't throw it away. She left it there. Let it sit.
Not because she welcomed it.
But because destroying it wouldn't erase the noise. And maybe, a part of her didn't want to destroy it.
The hours blurred by after that, her screen a blur of numbers and words she barely processed. But she kept typing. Kept breathing.
Her pride stayed in place like armor, polished and gleaming. Her work was the only part of her day she could still control.
And as the white petals quietly watched from the edge of her desk—Sofia reminded herself: she would not break.
When it was finally time to clock out, she gathered her things and made her way to the lobby—ready to disappear.
But she never made it to the door.
Carla was waiting.
Leaning against the wall like a snake waiting to strike, arms folded, a smirk already painted across her face. Her voice cut through the lobby like a blade.
"So, the princess got another bouquet? Must be nice having a fantasy life delivered daily."
Sofia tried to walk past her, but Carla stepped directly into her path.
"You're really milking this delusion, huh? Hoping he shows up and sweeps you off your feet in front of everyone?" She looked around with a fake laugh. "Guess what, everyone—our Sofia here thinks she's dating Adam Ravenstrong."
Gasps and murmurs rippled around the lobby.
Sofia clenched her jaw. "I never said that. I never claimed anything."
Carla tilted her head mockingly. "Then why are you still accepting his gifts? Oh wait—maybe he doesn't know you exist, and you're just forging his name on cards again."
Sofia's hands trembled. "I didn't forge anything."
"You need help," Carla said, her tone sharp and cruel now. "Maybe you're confused. Maybe your breakup with John really messed you up—"
"That's enough." Sofia's voice cut through the air, firm and clear. "Say whatever you want about me, Carla. But don't act like you're above it. We both know who you are."
That's when John stepped forward.
From the edge of the gathering crowd, he emerged, looking annoyed and cold. His arm slid around Carla's waist like a declaration.
"Sofia, let it go," he said. "Stop making this about you. We're together now. Whatever we had is over. You should move on. Stop embarrassing yourself."
The words hit her like a slap.
But before she could speak—before she could defend herself again—the lobby doors opened.
And there he was.
Adam Ravenstrong.
Tall. Sharp-suited. Eyes like steel.
And in his hands: another bouquet. This one white lilies and deep crimson tulips—elegant, commanding.
In his hands, of all things, were Sofia's favorite flowers.
The lobby went silent. He didn't say a word.
He walked straight past the whispers, past the stares, past John's shocked expression and Carla's open mouth.
And stopped right in front of Sofia.
Without hesitation, he reached out and pulled her into his arms.
The bouquet pressed gently between them, his voice low but firm in her ear.
"You don't have to explain anything to anyone."
Sofia stood frozen, heart slamming against her ribs. Her hands didn't rise to return the hug, but she didn't pull away either.
She was confused. Angry. Grateful. All at once.
And even more lost than before.