Meanwhile, out in the corridors of Jean–Lockheart Company, the atmosphere was anything but ordinary. When the young woman burst out of the rehearsal wing, her stiletto heels clicking angrily against the polished floor, heads turned immediately. Assistants and junior staff froze mid-step; interns holding binders tilted their heads just enough to watch without being obvious. She had come in earlier with a confident sway, clutching a bento box she'd ordered specially for the CEO. Now she emerged pale, lipstick smudged, eyes flashing with humiliation.
At first nobody spoke. In a company used to gossip, silence was louder than whispers. A senior stylist leaned toward the receptionist and murmured, "That's the third time this month." The receptionist's eyebrows shot up. "Third?" she whispered back. "I counted five. She's been through half the upper floors already."
