The blister on my heel burst just as I wrapped up the final oncamera interview of the afternoon.

Russell—my boyfriend of three years, who insisted we keep our relationship strictly confidential at the network—walked right past my desk holding a fresh BandAid and headed straight for Whitney’s cubicle. "You torture your feet just to show off in fourinch stilettos," he muttered, though his voice lacked any real bite. "Serve you right if it stings." A chorus of knowing chuckles rippled through the bullpen. "Our supervising producer is such a softie," someone teased. "If you care about her, Russell, just say it.

Why play the grumpy protector?" "Right? When it gets chilly, she gets his cashmere cardigan. When her blood sugar dips, he produces artisan dark chocolate.

Whitney says she’s exhausted, and suddenly mandatory overtime is canceled!" "I’ve got fifty bucks on them dating secretly," another voice piped up.

The whole department dissolved into goodnatured whistles and cheers.

Whitney’s cheeks flushed a delicate petal pink. "Oh, stop it, you guys!" she scolded playfully before turning around and holding the adhesive strip out to me. "Here, Chloe.

Mine doesn't hurt that badly. You take it." I slowly drew back my hand, which had hung awkwardly in the midair between us, and forced a thin, brittle smile. "Keep it.

I don't need charity." To avoid any hint of favoritism toward me, Russell hadn't spared me a single glance.

Instead, he placed a firm hand on Whitney’s shoulder, guided her down into her chair, knelt on the linoleum, slipped off her pump, and pressed the bandage over her blistered skin with practiced tenderness.

The bullpen practically exploded with dramatic gasps and wolf whistles.

Standing there on my throbbing foot, a quiet realization settled in my chest: Keeping our relationship a secret had stopped being about office professionalism a long time ago.

He had simply fallen for someone else. … By the time I managed to limp over to the elevator banks, Russell came hurrying after me. "Don't be unreasonable, Chloe," he said in a hushed, guarded tone, keeping a strict threefoot perimeter between us, hands stuffed deep into his slacks. "I only had one BandAid.

I gave it to her to maintain our cover." I stared at him, a dull ache blooming behind my ribs. My mind flashed back to our catered lunch during the midday editorial break.

Russell had picked up extra takeout for the team.

The garlicfree beef tenderloin bowl was what I had explicitly asked for, yet he carried it across the room and set it on Whitney’s desk.

Then, he tossed a container of garlicbutter shrimp balls onto mine. Whitney had leaned into his side then, her shoulder brushing his chest. He hadn’t pulled away.

In fact, right in front of everyone, his hand had reached out to affectionately ruffle her loose curls. I had watched that intimate gesture until my eyes burned.

Sensed my gaze, he had glanced over, lifting his brows as if to ask what my problem was.

I pointed at the minced garlic floating in the sauce and shook my head. "I can't eat this before an oncamera segment.

You know that." Russell had frozen for a fraction of a second, staring down at Whitney’s lunchbox, saying nothing. "Oh, goodness, I ordered the shrimp!" Whitney had chimed in, offering the container back. "I forgot to ask for no garlic.

Chloe, why don't we just share yours?" Russell immediately pushed her hand back. "Nonsense.

You know your gastritis flares up if you don't eat a full meal!" Then he turned to me, pointing at a surplus iced matcha on the counter. "Just drink that to hold you over." Not once during that exchange did his fingers graze mine.

He treated me not like a longterm partner, but like an inconvenient contagion. He remembered Whitney’s delicate stomach.

Yet he completely forgot that I was on the first day of my cycle, that cold drinks gave me debilitating cramps, and that skipping meals sent my blood sugar crashing into dizzy spells.

I had powered through the afternoon on pure adrenaline.

In the end, it was my final guest—a hedge fund titan—who noticed how pale I was and handed me a wrapped chocolate bar from his briefcase. "Ms.

Lewis," he had observed quietly, studying my credential badge. "You hold a master’s in quantitative finance. Working as a midtier field reporter here is a waste of your intellect.

Have you considered transitioning to private wealth management? My firm is expanding." In the past, out of loyalty to Russell’s career, I would have politely declined on the spot.

But today, I took the embossed card, looked the man in the eye, and told him I would give it serious thought. Someone from our team must have caught the exchange.

Within minutes, whispers began snaking through the cubicles: "Looks like Chloe’s hunting for a new sponsor since she couldn't hook Russell..." "Some people don't have Whitney’s talent, so they resort to sleeping their way through the Wall Street Rolodex.

It’s pathetic." I had turned on my heel, ready to confront them, when Whitney grabbed my arm. I thought, for a fleeting second, that she was going to defend my integrity.

Instead, she lowered her voice in performative concern: "Chloe, please don't play games with those billionaire types...

Don't demean yourself just to secure a lead producer spot." Any lingering doubt among the eavesdropping staff vanished. "Hear that? Even her best friend is confirming it.

Gorgeous face, cheap morals." Russell had been standing by the water cooler. He heard every syllable. He chose silence.

Whenever an editor dared suggest that Whitney lacked the investigative background or credentials for her promotion, Russell would leap to her defense with fiery corporate rhetoric.

But when I was being dragged through the mud? Deafening neutrality.

Remembering that, I curled my fingers into fists, my nails digging into my palms until the pain eclipsed the throbbing in my ankle. "Are you still sulking?" Russell’s voice dropped to a cajoling murmur by the elevator doors.

His hand twitched, instinctively wanting to reach for mine, only to hesitate midair and retreat back into his pocket. "I’ll make you that handrolled tomato fettuccine tonight, alright?

To make it up to you." It was his signature move: hurt me under the banner of discretion, then soothe the wound with a bowl of homemade pasta.

A brutal blow, followed by a spoonful of sugar. Except three nights ago, I saw that exact same bowl of pasta on Whitney’s private social feed.

The heirloom tomatoes stewed to a silky reduction, the broth rich and golden, topped with a fried egg cut into a neat heart.

Her caption had read: "Woke up from a deadline nap to a soulfood breakfast made by the best boss in the world." No matter how sweet the sugar is, it cannot mask the taste of rot accumulated over three years.

I looked down at the blood seeping through my nylon stocking and quietly shook my head. "No, Russell." I lifted my eyes to meet his. "Let’s end this.

We're done." He blinked, caught off guard, taking a few seconds to process the words. He didn't argue, nor did he panic.

He simply gestured toward the dinging elevator doors. "Go home first," he said dismissively. "I need to drive Whitney back across town.

We’ll talk when I get there." A heavy, suffocating wave of exhaustion washed over me.

I had just shattered our threeyear relationship, and he treated it like a mild inconvenience, prioritizing a ride for my socalled friend.

Without waiting for my reply, he turned sharply on his heel, leaving me with nothing but the rigid line of his back.

I let out a breath that sounded like a laugh and stepped into the descending car. Outside, a lateautumn rainstorm had turned the city into a gray blur.

The groundfloor lobby was packed with stranded commuters trying to hail rides.

Nearby, a couple of production assistants were huddled over their phones, swooning: "I swear, Whitney is living a romance novel!

When her foot started hurting, Russell literally scooped her up in his arms and carried her down the VIP stairwell!" "Carried her right to his car, fastened her seatbelt, and handed her a thermos of warm oat milk before shutting the door!

Talk about toptier treatment. And to think Chloe came to the city with her... the difference is wild." Listening to them, memories unspooled in my head like an unwanted film reel.

This wasn't the first time he had carried Whitney. Months ago, Whitney caught a fever after getting caught in a drizzle and fainted during a staff meeting.

Russell’s face had gone paperwhite; he practically kicked open the double doors as he carried her out to the emergency clinic.

Back then, I foolishly thought Russell was just being a wonderful partner by taking such good care of the friend I had brought from our hometown.

Until the day Whitney was discharged, when Russell sat me down and said, "Chloe, Whitney gets motion sickness in Ubers. I’ll be driving her to and from the studio from now on.

You can just expense your cab fares." I had voiced my discomfort, but he had smoothed it over with smooth reason: "She moved all the way to Manhattan on your recommendation.

We owe it to her to help her settle in." I had swallowed my objections like broken glass. Gradually, their office flirtation became open canon among the staff.

And I—the woman who shared his bed every night—became the desperate outsider supposedly trying to wedge herself between them.

A sudden shove from the shifting crowd broke my reverie.

My injured foot buckled on the wet marble steps, and I went tumbling down the granite incline, crashing straight into the greasy curb puddle below.

Laughter and snide remarks floated down from the dry shelter above: "Whoa, look at that dive.

Very dramatic." "Is she trying to throw herself in front of the director's car for attention?" Not a single soul came down to help.

I pushed myself up from the freezing puddle, my palms scraped and stinging. One of my heels was gone, lost somewhere in the gutter.

Through the sheet of rain, a dark Maybach glided toward the curb. The driverside window rolled halfway down, framing Russell’s handsome profile against the storm.

A desperate, primal instinct flared in my chest. I opened my mouth, my voice raspy and choked with rain: "Russell!" Russell rested one wrist casually on the steering wheel.

He looked right at me, soaking wet and bleeding in the gutter. Then, his expression hardening into cold indifference, he pressed the switch.

The tinted glass rose smoothly, shutting me out completely.

The luxury car pulled away into the traffic without tapping its brakes. … By the time I dragged myself into our apartment, Russell was already lounged on the leather sofa, scrolling through market tickers on his tablet.

Seeing me dripping wet, he stood immediately.

He bent down to trade my ruined stockings for soft fleece slippers, then wrapped a thick, plush bath towel tightly around my shivering shoulders.

A quiet, familiar grumble tumbled from his lips: "How did you manage this? Whitney always said you were absentminded, but this is ridiculous." I kept my head down.

My gaze locked onto the faint, unconscious warmth that softened his eyes whenever he said her name. Something inside me gave out. A quiet, final snap.

For the first time in six years, I didn't offer a playful defense.

I simply shrugged off the warmth of his towel and walked straight toward the bathroom. "Chloe?" he called out behind me. I didn't stop. And he didn't follow.

When the scalding water hit my open scrapes, it burned with a fierce, numbing shock.

Leaning my forehead against the subway tile, I gasped for air, feeling the fog slowly clear from my brain.

I couldn't pinpoint when it started, but Whitney’s presence had quietly colonized our lives.

When we grocery shopped, I’d reach for peach yogurt, and he’d add three packs of lowsugar berries, remarking, "Whitney loves these for breakfast." At the department store, I tried on a pair of silver kitten heels and asked for his opinion.

He was already holding a pair of soft beige loafers. When I said I had plenty of flats, he swiped his card without looking at me: "These are for Whitney.

She’s on her feet all day." Later, the two place settings at our dining table became three because "Whitney might drop by after editing sessions." The smart lock on our front door was updated with her fingerprint because "it’s safer if she doesn't have to wait in the hall." Whitney.

Whitney. Her name was an unvetted ghost that haunted every corner of the life I had built with Russell. If he wanted her so badly, I was done standing in the hallway.

When I opened the bathroom door, Russell was waiting with the firstaid kit.

He lifted me gently, just as he used to, laying me across the mattress before resting my bruised foot in his lap.

He dipped a cotton swab in antiseptic, murmuring softly, "This will sting a bit.

Hold still." I listened to that gentle cadence, watched the curve of his eyelashes as he worked, and felt an unbearable ache in my throat.

Years ago, when he graduated top of his class and landed a fasttrack role at the prestigious network, I couldn't bear the long distance.

I resigned from my promising position as a securities analyst to follow him to the city.

When he picked me up from the train station, he held me so tightly I could barely breathe, his eyes rimmed with red. "Chloe, give me a few years.

Once I make executive director, I will give you the wedding you deserve." I had been intoxicated by his promises.

When he suggested keeping our romance under wraps so human resources wouldn't stall his corporate ascent, I readily agreed. I had planned our beginning.

I never anticipated this ending.

After taping a sterile gauze pad over my heel, Russell set a steaming mug of gingerhoney tea on the nightstand. "Whitney said it's best to drink something warm after getting caught in the rain," he said casually. "She and I each had a cup at the café.

There was some left in the pot, so I brought it for you." Whatever tender nostalgia had lingered in my chest vanished in a heartbeat.

My eyes moved from the leftover tea to the sharp, handsome line of his brow. "Sometimes," I said quietly, voicing the thought that had rotted in my mind for months, "it feels like Whitney is your actual partner." Russell paused, then let out an incredulous scoff, reaching out to pat my hair. "What are you talking about?

She’s your best friend.

I only look out for her because—" "Russell, we are both female journalists in your division," I cut in, my tone completely even. "Why is it that you only enforce strict 'professional boundaries' with me, while letting the whole office celebrate you and Whitney as a couple?" He parted his lips to retort, but I didn't give him the room. "Don't tell me 'innocent people have nothing to hide.' You two enjoy the perks of office romance rumors, while I absorb all the venom and humiliation." Being cut off twice chipped away at his patience.

His expression darkened, though he kept his voice tightly modulated. "Chloe, what do you want from me?

Precisely because there’s nothing inappropriate between Whitney and me, I don't have to walk on eggshells! But with you, I might slip up.

You know I'm up for the Vice President of Programming seat next month.

Can you stop burdening me with these petty, domestic insecurities?" "Petty insecurities." My humiliation was petty. My physical pain was deserved. Only Whitney’s blisters mattered.

Only Whitney’s fevers, gastritis, and tender feelings were boardroomlevel emergencies. I clamped my mouth shut and let the silence stretch until the air turned cold.

I exhaled slowly. "I want to break up, Russell. I'm entirely serious." Russell’s composure shattered.

He rose abruptly to his feet, glaring down at me with cold fury. "Chloe, enough! I’ve explained myself a hundred times.

What more do you want?" he snapped, his chest heaving. "Why can't you be more like Whitney? Why can't you be supportive for once?

You refused to pull strings with your Wall Street mentors to help my division's corporate sponsor drive, and now, at the most critical juncture of my career, you're trying to sabotage me from behind!" He took a sharp breath, his words slicing like razors. "I am breaking my back trying to build a future for our home, and all you care about is your fragile ego.

You are unimaginably selfish." With a violent sweep of his hand, the metal firstaid kit was knocked off the dresser, clattering against the floorboards.

A moment later, the front door slammed with a concussive boom that rattled the windowpanes. The bedroom clock clicked to midnight.

The warmth of his earlier care felt like a cheap hallucination. My ankle had stopped aching, but my chest felt hollowed out, scraped raw. His parting words echoed in the quiet room.

He had no idea. The comprehensive industry dossier sitting in his desk drawer—the one that secured his division's quarterly pitch—was compiled by me over weeks of sleepless nights.

The premier corporate sponsors backing his programming were relationships I had built, walking through midtown until the soles of my shoes wore thin.

Yet when the network announced nominations for lead producer this quarter, Russell submitted only one name: Whitney.

In the executive review, my investigative drafts bore Whitney’s byline. The highvalue ad packages I negotiated were filed under her account.

The fintech founders and legacy fund managers I brought in through my graduate school connections all became feathers in Whitney’s cap.

By the end of the fiscal review, my performance score as a senior investigative journalist was marked as zero.

Whitney, an associate reporter who hadn't been with the network for a year, boasted a stellar ninetynine.

After that meeting, Whitney had thrown her arms around me in the private restroom, weeping with theatrical guilt: "Chloe, I’m so sorry! I never wanted your points.

I wanted to earn this on my own merit! But Russell insisted on reassigning the files to me... I couldn't say no to our boss!" I hadn't known how to react then.

A mountain of betrayal had blocked my throat, choking off any scream.

I had even forced myself to attend her celebration dinner, sitting silently while Russell stood beside her, downing drink after drink on her behalf to keep the senior executives from pressuring her.

When the room got rowdy and colleagues chanted for them to link arms for a toast, Russell had glanced across the table, catching my eye for a fraction of a second.

I had looked away, grabbed my coat, and slipped out into the cold night. Back then, I naively thought that making our relationship public would fix everything.

Now, glancing at Whitney’s latest post—a photo of our living room window in the pouring rain with the caption "Midnight rescue from my hero"—I knew there was nothing left to salvage.

Before turning off the lamp, I pulled out the embossed business card from my bag and typed a short message: "Mr. Aldridge, good evening.

If the offer at your fund is still open, I would like to accept." … Early the following morning, I walked into the HR suite to submit my formal resignation.

The director glanced at my file and smirked dismissively. "Well, with a zeropoint production rating this quarter, an automated portal exit is standard.

You don't even need Russell’s signoff." "Understood. Thank you," I said evenly. As I turned the corner back toward the bullpen to pack my things, Whitney intercepted me.

A vivid, angry red palm mark was stamped across her cheek.

She grabbed the lapel of my trench coat, bursting into theatrical sobs. "Chloe, what on earth did you do to those Wall Street guests?

Why did some executive’s wife just corner me in the lobby, calling me a homewrecking whore and slapping me?!" Before I could process her words, a violent shove struck my shoulder from behind.

Offbalance and favoring my injured heel, I slammed hard against the structural glass wall with a sickening thud. No one moved to catch me. No one asked if I was alright.

Around us, the bullpen erupted into malicious murmurs: "Did you hear?

A woman was screaming downstairs, claiming Chloe used private interview bookings to sleep with married fund managers!" "Poor Whitney got mistaken for her.

She just stepped out of the elevator and took two hard slaps to the face!" Slumped against the glass, the pain in my back made it hard to draw breath. "That's... a lie," I managed, my voice raw. "I never did that." Whitney sank to her knees in front of me.

She didn't offer a hand to help me up; instead, she leaned close, her eyes brimming with sorrowful tears. "Chloe, please, just stop!" she pleaded loudly enough for the whole floor to hear. "If you want the lead producer title that badly, I’ll give it to you!

I’ll transfer all my performance credits back to you!

Just stop destroying yourself and humiliating our department!" Her words sounded like an olive branch, but they drove an iron nail into my reputation, confirming the baseless accusations as established fact.

Underneath the hem of her tailored trousers, the sharp point of her pump came down deliberately, grinding into my bandaged, wounded ankle. My eyes widened in shock.

The pain was blinding, a whitehot spike traveling straight to my skull. My voice caught in my throat, unable to even form the word "why".

Whitney gave me a flicker of cold, triumphant malice, then let out a sharp cry and threw herself backward onto the floor.

At that exact moment, Russell burst through the double doors. He immediately swept Whitney into his arms, his eyes blazing with icy fury as he glared down at me.

I parted my lips, desperate to say: "It’s a setup. None of it is true." Before the words could form, a furious woman in designer clothes stormed through the security gates.

Without a word of warning, her diamondringed hand swung through the air and struck my cheek. "Crack." The sound echoed through the highceilinged room. "You cheap little snake!" the woman shrieked, spitting venom. "Using company press passes to seduce my husband!

Did you really think you could crawl into his penthouse without consequences?" My face went entirely numb.

A trickle of metallic warmth escaped the corner of my mouth, dripping steadily onto the collar of my white blouse. One drop. Two drops. "Serves her right.

A highend escort posing as an investigative journalist!" "I knew those advertising numbers were too good to be true.

She traded her dignity for corporate accounts!" Laughter, camera shutters, and cruel jeers closed in like barbed wire.

Someone grabbed a fistful of my hair, pinning my head against the cold glass. I curled into myself, trembling, unable to move or shield my face.

Three feet away, Russell’s jaw was clenched so hard the muscles jumped. A flicker of torment and hesitation crossed his eyes.

He shifted his weight, preparing to take a step toward me. In his arms, Whitney shifted slightly.

She looked up at him with wide, teardrenched eyes, whispering in a broken whimper: "Russell... don't interfere.

Let Chloe learn her lesson before she ruins the whole network..." That single whisper paralyzed him. The foot Russell had lifted slowly withdrew.

He held my gaze for one long, agonizing second, his fingers tightening around Whitney’s frame.

Then, with absolute finality, he turned his back on me and carried her toward his private office.

Over his shoulder, in a blind spot he couldn't see, Whitney tilted her head and offered me a faint, mocking smile. "I won." Seeing Russell walk away, the enraged woman looked around, grabbed a heavy brass award statuette from an adjacent desk, and raised it above my head, aiming straight for my skull.

Suddenly, the heavy glass entrance doors were kicked wide with a deafening crash. "Bring that down," a commanding, razorsharp voice cut through the room like thunder, "and if a single hair on her head is harmed, I will see you ruined before sundown."