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The thrill was addictive. But it left me uneasy.

The elevator chimed at thirty-four. I smoothed my rumpled cardigan and stepped out, clutching a stack of revision logs.

Voices drifted from the half-open break room door. The coffee grinder hummed. Hushed words filtered through.

I headed for the water cooler—

"...did you see how long she was up there? Half an hour. Again. What is this, the fourth time? Fifth?"

"Please. 'Reporting on work.' Is that what we're calling it? Her lips don't get that swollen from PowerPoints."

"She's Mr. Moretti's favorite now. The rest of us don't stand a chance."

"Shh—here she comes."

My hand froze on the glass door.

Three women clustered by the coffee station. Emily, who'd started the same week I had. Sarah and Jenny, senior design assistants. They turned, expressions shifting from gossip to saccharine smiles.

"Hey, Ruby." Emily raised her cup, voice dripping sweetness. "Another meeting? You must be exhausted."

Sarah leaned against the wall, arms crossed, eyes raking over me. "You're so busy these days. Mr. Moretti's right-hand woman."

"Well, she does have special skills." Jenny's tone was poison.

They exchanged looks. Laughter cut through the air.

Rage flared white-hot.

I gripped my folders so hard my nails bit into my palm. But I forced a breath. Swallowed the fury churning in my chest. Pulled on a polite, distant smile. "Excuse me. I have work to do."

I stepped back. Turned.

The whispers didn't stop.

"Still playing innocent."

"Everyone knows how she got ahead. First day in that tight skirt, practically throwing herself at him."

"I heard she was like this in college too. Chasing rich guys. It's what she does."

"She's just another mistress. A body to use. Once he's bored, she'll be gone. Crawling back to wherever she came from."

I stopped dead.

Ice flooded my veins.

I breathed. Turned. Stared them down.

They stopped laughing. But the contempt stayed on their faces.

"Are you finished?" My voice came out calm. Too calm.

Emily shrugged. "We're just joking, Ruby. Don't be so sensitive."

"Joking?" I smiled coldly, gaze slicing across their ID badges. "If you spent half the energy you waste gossiping on understanding fabric weight and cutting yields, the second line wouldn't have a forty percent return rate last quarter. As for my lips, how I work, or anything else—HR and the review board welcome formal complaints. But if I hear one more personal attack from any of you—" I stepped forward. "I'll print out those sloppy hand-calculated spreadsheets you turned in last week and pin them up in the main lobby."

Their faces went ashen.