The office was too quiet. So quiet that Maxine could hear the distant humming of the AC vents and the faint clicking of keyboards across the room. It was the kind of silence that pressed into her chest, amplified the heaviness she had tried to tuck away before walking in.
She greeted the receptionist with a soft smile, nodded to the staff in passing, and carried herself with that same graceful composure she'd perfected over time even with a heart that refused to stop aching.
No message from Troy this morning. Not that she was expecting one. There's none to expect anyway. But he was already inside his office. She exhaled, slow and steady. Then walked to her desk.
She dove into work, sorting out the paperwork she had left from the day before. Every signature line, every stapled set, she arranged them all from most urgent to least. She answered international calls in Troy's stead, took notes from their overseas branch, and found out that he had a business trip scheduled for next week. Without hesitation, she opened the portal and booked his flight like she always does.
And, as always, she made his coffee. Exact ratio. The right sweetness and perfect temperature. A ritual she never planned, but never forgot. A routine that felt intimate and pointless all at once.
It was strange. How she used to imagine working in fashion studios, creating fabric designs, collaborating with artists. She had graduated Magna Cum Laude in Fine Arts, with a major in Fashion Design. She and Danica both wore their medals proudly that day—Danica with her skill in tailoring, while she with her talent in textiles and visual styling. They used to dream of runways of their names on glossy covers.
Now here she was. Brewing coffee for a man who barely looked at her. She winced when the heat of the cup nipped her skin. She almost laughed. Maybe the universe wanted to wake her up. She picked up the cup and walked toward Troy's office, knocking once before stepping in.
"Good morning," she said, her voice light, practiced.
Troy didn't look up. "Just leave it."
The words landed colder than she expected. Still, she didn't flinch. She'd grown used to his indifference. Sometimes, she wondered if being this foolish had become a habit. Out of all the men who once offered her affection, why did she fall for the one who never offered her certainty?
"Okay," she said quietly, placing the cup gently on his desk.
She turned to leave.
"You got home late last night." It wasn't a question which made her paused mid-step. Her pulse skipped but her expression didn't.
"I had dinner," she said evenly. "With a friend."
"Friend," he repeated, as if the word offended him.
She met his gaze. "Do I need to start asking for your permission now?"
His jaw tensed. But she didn't back down.
He had no right. Not when he still entertained the woman who broke him, who tore him apart and who now seemed to be slipping back into his orbit.
"No. You don't," he muttered.
She nodded once and walked out, her chest tight, not from guilt, but from all the words she had to bite back just to keep herself composed. By noon, the office buzzed with the usual rhythm of a post-contract meeting. Maxine was reviewing the slide deck when the elevator chimed.
She glanced up instinctively then froze.
Trina.
Wearing a beige dress, two-inch heels, and that signature smile that fooled the world but will never fool her. Her wavy hair framed her delicate face, accentuating the charm she wielded like a weapon.
"Hi," Trina said sweetly, waving at the receptionist. "I'm here for Troy."
Maxine straightened, professional mask intact. "Do you have an appointment?"
Trina laughed lightly, flipping her hair. "Do I need one? We go way back."
Before Maxine could reply, Troy's door opened.
"Trina?" His voice lifted in surprise.
She smiled brightly. "Surprise."
And before Maxine could brace herself, Trina walked up to him and hugged him. It wasn't casual. It was the kind of hug meant to be seen.
Her throat tightened as she watched Troy place a hand lightly on Trina's back and guide her inside.
"Let's talk inside," he said.
Trina glanced over her shoulder, locking eyes with Maxine. There it was—the smug, mocking smile she wore like perfume.
Then the door shut.
She stood still. A staff member came to her with a document, and she nodded absently, ears ringing.
So, this was the reality. To serve the coffee, prepare the meetings and be the one who stays behind the curtain while someone else takes center stage the moment she arrives.
Hours passed.
Trina never left. The door never opened and the blinds stayed closed. Troy didn't call her but she… just kept working. She wanted to scream. To rip the blinds open, storm in, and demand answers. Ask him why she kept showing up. Ask him why she wasn't enough.
But she didn't.
Because she already knew that her questions would be met with silence. He wouldn't have the answers. Maybe he never did.
That night, she didn't wait for him to reach out. Instead, she typed:
To: Troy
I left the finalized papers on your desk. Everything's ready for tomorrow.
Then another:
Don't worry. I won't be late.
She stared at the screen for a long second, then clicked on a different thread.
To: Seymour
Are you free for lunch tomorrow? I'd like to continue our conversation.
She dropped the phone beside her, leaned back into the couch, and stared out the window. The lights outside flickered. The world kept moving. And for once, she allowed herself to wonder: what if she did too?