Just silence.

I felt eyes drift toward me—then away. No one spoke up. No one defended me. Lena’s smile softened, as if she understood the cruelty of the moment and accepted it anyway.

I stood.

My voice was steady. “Congratulations.”

I walked to her and extended my hand. She hesitated before taking it. Her grip was uncertain.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

I nodded once and left the room. No tears. No scene. Just the sound of my heels echoing down the marble hallway.

An hour later, my phone wouldn’t stop vibrating.

Thirty missed calls. All from Richard.

But I was already gone—and everything was about to change.

I didn’t go home. Home held too many quiet rooms and a husband who had taught me how fragile trust could be. Instead, I drove until the city faded and parked near a small café by the river. I ordered black coffee and waited for the phone to stop buzzing.

Richard’s voicemails stacked quickly. First irritated. Then confused. Then desperate.

“Claire, call me back. There’s been a misunderstanding.”

“HR has questions.”

“Let’s handle this professionally.”

Professionally. After eight years reduced to a comment about “new energy.”

I didn’t respond. I opened my laptop instead.

When you’re the person who quietly keeps everything running, you learn where information lives and how power really moves. I still had access—not through hacking, but because no one imagined I’d leave without warning. My credentials were still active.