Chapter 98 Distant
Violet
The break room is the quietest place in the entire building, and even that feels like a lie.
Phones are still ringing somewhere out in the office. The muffled sound travels through the walls like a constant pulse, a reminder that the world outside this small room is still spinning out of control. Reporters calling. Investors calling. People calling just to hear themselves say something ugly to whoever answers the phone.
Which lately has been me.
I sit at one of the tables near the back of the room, staring down at the plastic bottle of orange juice I pulled from the vending machine like it personally betrayed me. The bottle is sweating slightly against the laminate table, leaving a damp ring that slowly spreads outward while I try to remember the last time today felt normal.
I twist the cap slowly but don’t drink it.
Across the room, the microwave beeps and someone else quietly slips out the door without making eye contact.
Everyone is avoiding me.
Or maybe they’re avoiding the chaos attached to my name.
The door opens again and Camille walks in, pushing it shut with her hip while she carries two paper cups of coffee and a bag of something that looks suspiciously like powdered donuts. Her expression is somewhere between concerned best friend and exhausted coworker who is one bad phone call away from lighting the entire building on fire.
She spots me immediately and walks over.
“You look like you’re planning a murder,” she says as she drops into the chair across from me.
I sigh.
“That would require energy.”
She slides one of the coffees toward me.
“You should drink something besides vending machine vitamin C.”
“I’m emotionally attached to this orange juice now,” I mutter.
Camille snorts softly before leaning back in the chair and studying my face. “Are you okay?”
The question sits in the air for a second.
I stare at the bottle again, turning it slowly between my hands before answering. “Is it too late to resign?” I ask quietly. “Like… right now. Just stand up, walk out of this building, and look for another job. Maybe move to another city. Or another state. Possibly across the fucking country.”
Camille stares at me.
Then she reaches across the table and flicks the bottle lightly with her finger. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” she says simply, “we’re best friends and I need you here.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“And Rowan needs you,” she adds.
I groan softly and lean back in the chair. “That is the least comforting sentence you could have possibly chosen.”
“Well it’s true.”
I run a hand down my face. “I’m serious, Camille. My accounts are frozen. The press is treating me like I’m some kind of corporate puppet. Internal Affairs probably thinks Rowan scripted my testimony like we’re in a bad courtroom drama. And somewhere out there is a detective who apparently decided stalking me was a personality trait.”
Camille takes a slow sip of her coffee. “When you say it like that, it does sound bad.”
“Thank you for the emotional support.”
“You’re welcome.”
For a moment neither of us speaks. The building noise hums faintly through the walls and somewhere down the hall someone laughs nervously before a door shuts.
I take a sip of the orange juice finally and immediately regret it.
Camille watches me for a moment before deciding I’m too close to spiraling.
“So,” she says casually, tearing open the bag of donuts, “new candidates for the fifth floor interviews today.”
I blink at her.
“What?”
“Human resources is bringing in the next wave of hires.”
“Camille.”
“What?” she says innocently, already chewing on powdered sugar. “Some of them are really cute.”
I stare at her.
She grins.
“I swear to god,” I say, pointing a finger at her, “if Theo hears you talking like that you’re going to get an earful.”
Camille sighs dramatically and leans back in her chair. “Honestly? I think he’s going to break it off with me anyway.”
I frown.
“What?”
She shrugs, but there’s something tight in the movement.
“He’s been distant,” she says. “Like… really distant.”
“Distant how?”
Camille stares into her coffee for a moment before answering. “We’re literally living in the same temporary room at his brother’s house and he barely talks to me anymore.”
“That seems inconvenient.”
“It’s extremely inconvenient,” she mutters. “The man will walk into the room, throw his jacket on a chair, stare at his phone for ten minutes, and then suddenly remember I exist.”
I blink slowly.
“That sounds like Theo.”
“Yes but worse,” she says, throwing her hands up slightly. “Because when he does remember I exist it’s just sex and touching.”
I nearly choke on the orange juice.
Camille continues like she’s discussing the weather. “No conversations. No late night talking. No stupid jokes. Just stress and—well—other things.”
“That sounds emotionally complicated.”
“It’s been a nightmare,” she says bluntly. “Why isn’t he the sweet soul he usually is?”
I stare at her for a second.
Then I sigh and lean forward, resting my elbows on the table. “Maybe it’s the stress.”
Camille looks up.
“Think about it,” I continue. “Rowan is preparing for a political war with a city councilwoman who clearly wants him burned at the stake, there’s a missing detective, the press is circling the building like it’s feeding time at the zoo, and Theo has been running around the building all day looking like he might commit a felony if someone breathes wrong.”
She nods slowly.
“Also,” I add, “Rowan and I might be responsible for half of that stress.”
Camille’s mouth twists slightly.
“That’s what I thought too.”
I glance toward the door for a moment.
Earlier I watched Theo sprint past the glass wall outside Rowan’s office for the fourth time in twenty minutes, his jaw tight and eyes sharp in a way that made three employees suddenly remember urgent work in the opposite direction.
Theo under pressure looks a lot like Rowan.
Sharp. Focused. Dangerous.
Camille sighs again, rubbing her temple. “I just… I don’t know. He’s been different.”
“Different how?”
“He looks angry all the time,” she says quietly. “Like he’s holding something back.”
I shrug slightly.
“Maybe he is.”
She glances up.
“Look at everything that’s happening,” I say. “Rowan’s reputation is on the line, the company is under attack, and someone inside this building is leaking information to the press.”
Camille nods slowly.
“Yeah,” she mutters. “That part is terrifying.”
We sit there for a moment, the weight of that reality settling between us.
Then Camille suddenly pushes the bag of donuts toward me.
“Eat one.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“Eat one anyway.”
I sigh but grab one. The powdered sugar explodes across my fingers like a tiny edible crime scene.
Camille grins.
“You’re going to survive this,” she says.
“You don’t know that.”
She shrugs.
“No,” she admits. “But Rowan will probably burn down half the city before he lets anything happen to you.”
I stare at her.
“That is somehow both comforting and deeply concerning.”
Camille laughs softly.
“Welcome to the Ashcroft experience.”