Page 37 of Their Arrangement
It landed like a verdict.
Final.
Brutal.
True.
And the worst part?
It cut deeper than anything else he could have said.
He turned. Walked past me. His shoulder brushed mine. Not accidentally. Not hard. Just enough to make me feel it. And then he was gone. Gone before I could answer. Gone before I could fall apart.
But I did. Inside. Silently.
I didn’t go back to my desk. I couldn’t. Not after that. Not with his words echoing in my skull like scripture.
You’re not meant to be seen.
It wasn’t just humiliation.
It was recognition.
A mirror I hadn’t asked for, held up by the only man in thebuilding who looked at me like I was something to be dissected—not desired.
Not claimed.
Not loved.
Just… noticed.
Long enough to be dismissed.
I pushed open the bathroom door and locked it behind me.
The lights were too bright.
Artificial.
Merciless.
The tile was too clean. It didn’t feel comforting. It felt clinical. Like a place meant to sterilize mistakes.
The mirror didn’t lie.
That was the worst part.
I stood there for a long second, gripping the edge of the sink with both hands, my knuckles going white against the porcelain. I wanted to look away. I didn’t.
Because the reflection mattered.
My curls had flattened on one side. Frizz at the edges. My eyeliner was smudged, mascara clinging to the lower lash line like bruises. My lipstick was gone except for a dark stain on the corners of my mouth.
The cheap blouse I’d ironed twice this morning clung to the wrong places—too tight around the chest, too loose around the waist. My skirt had twisted, riding high at the waistband, cinching at my hips like a warning sign.
I didn’t look seductive.
I looked scraped together.
