Too Late For My CEO's Regret

Gracia stretched in the office, a small, triumphant smile on her face. She had the evidence. Tomorrow would be a good show. It was a stark contrast to three days earlier, when the world had felt like it was ending.

The time on the bottom right of the computer screen read 9:58 AM.

Gracia Maxwell stared at the numbers until they blurred. Her fingers tapped a nervous, erratic rhythm against the worn plastic edge of her keyboard. It was a physical tic she had developed over the last three years, a way to channel the excess adrenaline that constantly flooded her system.

Around her, the marketing department was a hive of hushed panic. People were not working. They were huddled in small clusters, their voices low, their eyes darting toward the glass doors of the executive elevator bank.

"It's a bloodbath," Tess whispered, sliding her chair into Gracia's cubicle. The wheels squeaked against the thin gray carpet. "My source in HR said the new CEO isn't just trimming the fat. He's amputating limbs."

Gracia felt her stomach cramp. A sharp, twisting pain that had nothing to do with hunger and everything to do with the letter from the insurance company sitting on her kitchen counter.

"I can't lose this," Gracia murmured, more to herself than to Tess. "I just renewed the policy."

Tess looked at her with pity. That look was common. Everyone knew Gracia as the single mom who counted pennies, the woman who wore thrift store blazers and brought soggy sandwiches from home. They didn't know about the private clinic bills or the specialist fees for Birdie.

"Maybe marketing is safe," Tess offered weakly. "We generate revenue."

The double doors at the front of the room swung open. The department head, a man named Miller who usually sweated through his shirts by noon, walked in. He clapped his hands, the sound sharp and jarring in the tense air.

"Town Hall. Five minutes. Top floor. Everyone."

The command was absolute.

Gracia grabbed her notebook. Her knuckles were white as she clutched it against her chest like a shield. She joined the stream of bodies moving toward the elevators. She made sure to stay at the back, pressing herself against the wall. She hated crowds. Crowds meant unpredictable variables.

The elevator ride was suffocating. Too many bodies. Too much cheap cologne and fear. Gracia was pressed against the cold metal back wall. She closed her eyes and counted backward from ten, visualizing Birdie's face. For her. Just keep your head down.

The top-floor conference room was a cavern of glass and steel. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, but the sky was gray and heavy, pressing down on the city.

Gracia found a spot behind a structural pillar in the far back corner. The shadows were deeper here. She could see the podium, but hopefully, no one at the podium could see her.

The room fell silent. It wasn't a gradual hush; it was instant, as