Page 40 of Their Arrangement
A woman in perfect Balenciaga heels sidestepped with surgical precision and never made eye contact.
Cloe flinched anyway.
Apologized under her breath like she was the one who’d done something wrong.
She kept walking.
The box dipped in her hands. She readjusted it mid-step. The strain showed in her arms. In the hitch of her shoulder. Then the heel of her right shoe gave slightly—worn too thin—and the edge of the box slammed into the hallway table.
Papers scattered.
She froze.
Crouched fast.Clumsy.
Her skirt pulled tight across her hips. A run in her stocking stretched higher as the fabric bunched around her knees. She scrambled to gather the papers, fingers fumbling. She reached under the table. Hair slipping from the clip at the nape of her neck. Her breath uneven.
From where I stood, I had a perfect view.
The slope of her back. The soft curve of her ass beneath cheap fabric. The sheen of sweat at the base of her spine.
My jaw clenched.
I didn’t move.
Neither did anyone else.
One assistant stepped over her papers like they were debris.
Another looked through her.
Cloe was invisible here.
Just like she was supposed to be.
Not with her secondhand clothes.
Not with her biteable lower lip she kept trying not to chew.
Not with the guilt that lived in her eyes and followed her like a second shadow.
She didn’t belong.
Not here.
Not anymore.
She gathered the last paper, shoved it into the box with more force than necessary, and stood too fast. Her body wobbled. Her breath caught.
She didn’t look up.
She didn’t want to see who had seen her.
I stayed hidden behind the curve of the glass, fingers twitching in my pocket. Not because I wanted to help. Because I didn’t know what I’d do if I did.
She straightened her back. Kept walking. Head down. Shoulders square. Like she hadn’t just been reminded that this place would chew her up and spit her out.
She passed beneath me. Didn’t know I was watching. Didn’t know I hadn’t stopped. Because I hadn’t.
