Lauren got there twenty minutes early because late would have killed her.
A receptionist in a green sweater smiled and offered her water.
Nobody looked her up and down.
Nobody made the pause she had learned to fear.
Nobody asked if she was “more comfortable in a support role.”
At 10:02, Ethan came out himself.
No suit jacket today.
Just a button-down with the sleeves rolled and tired eyes that still hadn’t fully recovered from six days of terror.
But there was warmth in his face now.
Real warmth.
“Lauren.”
She stood.
“Hi.”
He gestured down the hall.
“Come on back.”
The office wasn’t huge.
That calmed her.
Cubicles would have felt cold.
This place had open desks, whiteboards, old carpet, soft hums of conversation, and the look of people too busy working to care much about performance theater.
A man in headphones waved at Ethan.
A woman by a printer called, “Maddie okay?”
