Author's Preface
[Annie]
Monday morning is back to the usual office noise.
The steady hum of air conditioning blends with the click of heels against polished floorboards.
I walk up to my desk, my stomach tight with anticipation.
I expect the subtle wall of professional distance Kai usually puts after anything personal crosses between us—the shadow of Sunday night hanging awkwardly over our morning routine.
But when he steps out of his glass cubicle at the far end of the floor for the team sync, he seems completely unaffected.
He runs through the quarterly timeline in his usual calm voice, moving from one spreadsheet to the next as if Sunday never happened.
As the meeting dissolves, he walks down the central aisle, stopping right at my desk.
Without a word, he drops a heavy black binder onto my desk.
"The historical pitch decks for the autumn campaign," he says quietly, his voice carrying just enough authority for the surrounding desks to hear. "Cross-check the agency structures from four years ago before you build the new draft."
"Thanks, Mr. Sterlings" I say, meeting his eyes.
He gives me a brief, curt nod and turns back toward his glass office.
I pull the binder closer and flip open the thick tabbed dividers, expecting standard corporate boilerplate—client profiles, old brand guidelines, financial breakdowns.
[ *** ]
For an hour, I drown myself in old campaign layouts, taking meticulous notes on typography choices and margins.
But near the back of the archive section, tucked behind a yellowing plastic separator, is a printed news clipping from Westbridge University’s alumni journal, archived as part of SilverOak’s regional talent feature.
It’s an old article about an MBA alumni showcase, complete with glossy photos of beaming graduates.
Near the bottom of the page, a small sidebar catches my attention: Westbridge MBA Department Disciplinary Action.
I stare at the headline.
The brief paragraph outlines a sudden, unannounced administrative audit that led to a mid-term review of two junior MBA students following an undisclosed department dispute five years ago.
No names were published, and the details were kept confidential under institutional policy, but the date printed in bold at the top is the exact week Kai vanished from Westbridge.
There is zero mention of a family emergency back home.
No note about sudden personal leave or taking care of an ailing relative.
I run my finger over the faded print, reading the date again.
Kai didn't leave this here deliberately.
It's just an old piece of university history that happened to capture the exact timeframe of his departure.
But seeing the date in black and white makes his clean, casual explanation from Sunday night harder to believe.
I look up through the glass partition at the end of the room.
Kai is seated at his dark wood desk inside his glass cubicle, staring intently at his monitor, completely unreadable behind the reflected glare of the overhead lighting.
[ *** ]
Later that afternoon, during a review session with the accounts team in the main conference room, the room starts to feel suffocating.
Andy—a senior account director known for talking over junior designers and pushing aggressive deadlines—repeatedly cuts me off mid-sentence, tossing my proposed color boards dismissively back onto the middle of the table.
"It's too soft for the target market, Annie," Andy scoffs, leaning back in his swivel chair with his arms crossed over his chest. "We need something loud, something aggressive. This pastel narrative feels like a student portfolio."
Before I can open my mouth to defend the brief and explain the demographic research behind the color palette, Kai speaks up from the head of the long conference table.
His pen taps once against his leather notebook.
"The direction aligns directly with the client's explicit request, Andy," Kai says evenly. "Annie’s strategy stays as presented. Slide four, please."
Andy closes his mouth instantly, his jaw tightening as he looks away.
I catch Kai's eye for a fraction of a second, but his face remains passive.
He moves on as if nothing unusual happened.
[ *** ]
By Thursday afternoon, the high-pressure momentum of the week begins to settle, but Oliver’s calls come in with a softer, persuasive rhythm designed to smooth over Sunday's edge.
"I know how hard you've been working this week, Annie," Oliver says softly through my phone speaker while I clean up my inbox at around five o'clock.
"I really want this weekend to be a complete reset for you. But the group just finalized a little addition to the schedule—a short sunset trail walk up to the pine viewpoint on Sunday evening before our dinner reservation."
I pause, rubbing my throbbing temple with my free hand. "A trail? Oliver, I didn't plan for a hike. I thought we were just having a quiet dinner with your friends."
"It’s just a forty-minute paved stroll along the forest path, I promise," he coaxes, his voice gentle. "Everyone’s bringing their partners up to watch the sun go down over the valley. It's going to be beautiful, and I really just want to share that moment with you. Please? Just pack a simple active set and sneakers—it would mean the world to me."
The gentleness in his voice eases some of my lingering irritation from earlier in the week.
I let out a low breath, unable to justify staying stubborn when he's trying so hard to make things right. "Alright... I'll pack something suitable for the trail."
"You're amazing," he says softly, sounding genuinely thrilled. "I'll pick you up early Saturday morning."
[ *** ]
Since Saturday is officially a half-day at SilverOak, leaving early for the weekend trip means missing hours I'd normally spend at my desk.
The agency has strict rules about half-day attendance, especially during campaign pitch months.
To avoid leaving any loose ends or giving anyone a reason to complain, I stay late on Friday night.
Long after the rest of the floor empties out and the main lights dim to energy-saving mode, I sit under my solitary desk lamp, working through everything I still have left so I won't leave anything unfinished.
[ *** ]
By eight in the evening, my hands are tired, but every file is organized.
I log into the internal portal and submit a formal leave application for Saturday morning, bracing myself for the inevitable questions.
A minute after the portal confirmation pings, my desk phone rings.
The screen displays the main office extension.
"Annie, step into my office for a second," Kai's voice comes through, low and calm.
I swallow hard, gripping my notepad as I stand up.
I expect cold probing, perhaps a sharp reminder about project timelines, or even an outright rejection given how critical the upcoming pitch decks are for next week's presentation.
I walk down the silent, carpeted aisle to the far end of the floor, push open the heavy glass door of his cubicle, and stand before his desk.
Kai looks up from his screen, his dark eyes settling on me in the dim office light.
"You requested leave for Saturday's half-day," he says, resting his hands flat on his mahogany desk. "Going somewhere?"
"A short trip to Velora," I answer, holding my composure. "Oliver's friend is celebrating an anniversary, so a group of us are heading up for the weekend. I stayed late tonight to finish all my pending work so nothing gets delayed while I’m away."
I wait for him to question my priorities or remind me that we're too close to the pitch for me to take time off.
Instead, Kai looks at me for a moment, his expression giving nothing away.
He reaches down, clicks his mouse once, and a split second later, a notification pings on my phone screen: Leave Application Approved.
I blink, caught off guard by how effortlessly he let it pass without a single lecture.
He reaches into his top drawer, pulling out a small dark USB drive and placing it next to my notebook. "These are the raw visual assets from the client's original archive you asked for earlier. I dug them out from the server storage. Don't touch them over the weekend—they're just there so you don't have to hunt for them on Monday morning."
He stands, picking up his suit jacket and gripping the leather messenger bag in one hand.
His gaze lingers on me for a beat longer. "Have a safe trip, Annie."
"Thank you, Mr. Sterlings," I say softly.
I watch his shadow retreat down the long, empty corridor toward the elevators, his footsteps fading into the silence of the building.
[ *** ]
An hour later, in the quiet safety of my apartment, I pack my duffel bag—layering a sleek workout set and trail sneakers underneath my formal evening dress and coat.
I set the small USB drive on the nightstand.
As I pull the zipper closed on my bag, my mind goes back to the archival clipping.
The date is still fresh in my mind.
Kai had lied to me.
And somehow, I realize I want to know why.