Page 92 of The Secretary Volume II

I excuse myself.

And when I get back to my desk, I don’t open email.

I open internal logs.

Timecards.Trail data.Access history.

And I start digging.

52

Gillian

Ellis walks in like he just left the gym or a woman—shirt still wrinkled at the sides, sleeves half-pushed up.

No tie.

He doesn’t wear one when he’s finished.Nothing about him is unintentional, not even the wrinkles—he wants you to know he didn’t have to try.

He doesn’t look at me right away.

He doesn’t ask me to sit.

He pours a drink instead.One-handed, practiced.Two fingers of something I’m not allowed to want.

I brace for cruelty, but it doesn’t come—not at first.He’s too calm.Too pleased with himself.That’s the tell.

“I had her over last night,” he says.

He lets it hang there.

I don’t ask who.That would give him too much.

He keeps going anyway.“She said no, you know.The first time.Thought that meant something.”He smiles.“It didn’t.”

He studies me.Waiting for the flicker.The drop.The thing I can’t hide.And maybe he gets it, because he shifts—just a little—and adds, “She reminds me of you.Not this version of you.The version of you before.The one I liked.”

That gets closer.

“She loved it,” he says.“Same as you.”

There’s nothing in his tone.No pride.No cruelty.He’s just sorting the facts out loud.

“Why am I here?”I ask.

He shrugs.“Felt appropriate.”

There’s a file on the table.Red binder.The same kind they used to bring me every quarter, back when they still pretended I had a role.He doesn’t hand it to me.Just taps it once, like a bell.

“Your replacement,” he says.

I already knew, but it stings anyway.

He picks up the glass.Doesn’t drink.

“Most of them don’t make it to twenty-one days,” he says.“But who knows with this one?She’s adaptable.You were too, once.”

He says it like a compliment.Like something I should be proud of.

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