"What's wrong with you?"
Natalie Pierce's voice filtered in through Oakley Ponciano's fog. Oakley blinked, came back. "Huh? Nothing."
She thought for a beat, then asked, "Compassion and love aren't the same thing, right? And the kind your body feels isn't the same as the kind your heart keeps?"
Natalie smiled. "Human feelings are complicated."
"Mmm?"
"Sometimes they're separate," she said. "Sometimes they arrive together. How to tell the difference? You have to ask your own heart."
There she went again—saintlike, speaking in warm water.
Oakley sighed and decided not to think anymore.
In this world, very little can't be soothed with food and drink. If one meal won't do, try two. If two won't do, make it three.
She snipped the sizzling slices into neat pieces with the scissors, divided them between their plates, and applied herself to eating, properly and in peace.
Then Natalie asked, out of nowhere, "Wait—why ask that now? Did you two sleep together?"
Oakley paused with a slice of meat halfway to her mouth and said, faint as breath, "Not yet."
Natalie exhaled, reached for her water.
Oakley dipped the meat in sauce and added, under her breath, "I hope something happens. I'm parched."
Natalie choked, coughing until tears sprang. This friend of hers—reckless as a spark, constitutionally incapable of speaking softly when a loud line would do.
When she recovered, Natalie said, "Whatever the case, I still think you should keep your wits about you. With anyone."
"I know," Oakley said quickly, as if staving off judgment. "I've got a thousand guardrails up. I'm not head over heels. I'm just… reacting to her, physically. That's all."
"Oh? Then that's fine." Natalie's tone was pleasant, but belief had left the building.
Always with the tough talk, and somehow the progress bar kept leaping forward in ways that made you click your tongue.
From swearing lifelong enmity to twirling her hair and murmuring that she wanted something to happen—with Grace Barron, no less—how many days had passed?
If they weren't both women, Natalie suspected that by the next meeting Oakley might already be pregnant—denying, between bouts of morning sickness, "I didn't have a baby because I like her! I was just curious about children and wanted one to play with!"
—
T&E International Tower.
Grace finished one task and was about to break for lunch when a knock punched the door.
"Come in," she said without looking up.
A moment later Leon Thomas shoved the door and hurried inside. "Ms. Barron, please—save me. I know I messed up."
She hit Enter, turned her chair, and lifted her eyes. "You mean the renewal being canceled?"
His Adam's apple jumped. "Not just that. The company's frozen my engagements. I'm… I'm ruined."
Grace's tone stayed even. "You should have counted the cost before you went off script."
He heard what was tucked inside her words. "Ms. Barron, you're giving up on me too? If you wanted to keep me, you could. You'd find a way."
She only looked at him.
He was a wreck—eyes rimmed red, hair a mess. Nothing left of the billboard brightness. A man who'd hauled rebar all day might have looked fresher.
"I know I was wrong," he said, voice breaking. "I won't do it again."
Grace faced the screen, fingers quiet on the keys. "It's late."
He grasped at the hem of her resolve. "You watched me grow. You won't stand by, right?"
She lifted her gaze. "There will be another stage somewhere that fits you better."
As gentle as she could make a no.
He snapped. "You're ruthless. Everyone says you're cold-blooded—I defended you, and look at you proving them right!"
Security came. They took him, still spitting the words he'd regret later.
Grace smiled without mirth, adjusted the stack of files, and went back to work.
It wasn't the first time she'd been called cold at her desk.
So be it. There are people who only call you good while they're fed at your table. The day the dishes stop coming, they decide you were a monster all along. Reflection never makes the menu.
And a company is not a charity.
The more he raged and clung, the clearer it became: no self-check, no brakes. A pattern he'd repeat until the wheels came off.
When the hallway quieted, her stomach reminded her it was noon. She slipped on a jacket and headed to the cafeteria.
Colleagues nodded to her as she passed; she returned each with a small, polite dip of the chin.
At the counter she asked for something simple—eggs folded with tomatoes, a small stir-fry, a light broth—and carried the tray to a window table.
She'd just lifted her chopsticks when she caught the conversation at the next table: someone had dreamed about a crush—beautiful scene, stolen kiss, a heartbeat like a kicked drum—and then a morning that made it all dissolve.
Grace's hand stilled. Her own dream from last night punched through the surface. In it, she hadn't stopped at the kiss with Oakley. She had kept going, riding the unspoken wave wherever it wanted to break.
Oakley in the dream—mouth parted, cheeks flushed, fingers biting into Grace's shoulders, a voice coming out in pieces—was almost too vivid to bear.
Only a dream, and yet it had felt true enough to light her skin. There had been a fit between them like water finding its level, and a joy like a fault line giving way beneath the sea.
It made her scalp prickle.
A wolf after its first taste of meat—that was the phrase. Once fed, the mind kept circling back. Hunger didn't shrink; it learned.
Grace swallowed, pressed a thumb to the bridge of her nose, and willed the fog to thin. She tipped the eggs into the rice, mixed everything thoroughly, and ate in quiet, measured mouthfuls.
Back upstairs, she dropped into her chair, unlocked her phone for a mindless scroll, and was about to shut her eyes for ten minutes when a message from Sabrina Myers arrived:
"Just drove to the boutique of the girl I like. My mood went from sunny to overcast."
A shattered-face sticker followed.
Grace typed, "Flat tire on the way?"
Sabrina: "Shut your pie hole."
Grace smiled into the chair back. "So why the sigh in traffic?"
Sabrina: "Nothing. I went to her shop and it wasn't open."
"You're persistent," Grace wrote. "With all the clothes you've bought there, is your closet still breathing?"
Sabrina Myers: "That's easy—don't worry. My closet's huge. If it ever gets full, I'll toss the old stuff and keep only pieces from her shop."
Grace Barron: "Savage."
Sabrina: "That's the power of love."
Grace stared at the reply, then, as if the current of the conversation shifted, typed: "Sabrina, can I ask you something?"
Sabrina: "Shoot."
Grace pressed her lips together. "If two people who don't love each other live together, there should be boundaries in some areas, right? No matter what?"
Sabrina: "I used to think that. Now I'm not so sure—logically, it doesn't hold."
Grace: "?"
Sabrina: "Take you and Oakley. Yes, it's an agreement marriage. But agreement or not, you're already carrying the responsibility. Whether you love her or not, that part is true. If that's the case, then why not be close the way ordinary wives are close? Wouldn't that make things easier, more harmonious, and more sustainable? Keeping rigid boundaries long-term just makes the marriage look whole from the outside and hollow within—awkward, precarious."
Grace went still. It was as if she'd been thinking with a dented compass. The possibility had never occurred to her, not once. In that moment she saw it plainly: the pact she'd drafted for this marriage contradicted itself at the root.
She typed, a beat slower: "Another question. Do you think I'm incapable of love? Am I actually… cold? Selfish?"
Part of it was the old scar: childhood, a fight with her sister over something trivial, and Devin's voice—wolf-hearted, selfish, greedy. The other part was later, in the last days with her ex: "Your family's the problem," the ex had said. "You don't give anyone safety. That's why I can't come close."
Think on it long enough, and the words seed themselves as truth.
Sabrina: "Huh? You? Incapable of love?"
It read like she'd stumbled on a cosmic joke.
Grace blinked. "That's your reaction?"
Sabrina: "You're not loveless. You're restrained. You clamp down. And you're weirdly good at joining the chorus that beats you up. Over time, that turns into a fake kind of lovelessness."
Grace: "Explain."
Sabrina: "If you were truly cold—cold to the marrow—would you have taken Oakley a birthday cake back then? If you were cold, would you have laughed, really laughed, when she showed up with an armful of roasted sweet potatoes? Be honest. You dated Jessica Brooks into a stupor."
Even across a screen, Grace could practically see Sabrina's fox-bright eyes slicing up with sarcasm. If she were here in person, she'd be looking down at Grace from a frankly rude angle.
Another message pinged: "Truth is, you are colder than before. No—more avoidant. If you don't like that, grab the wheel. I'm driving now—chat later."
Grace didn't argue. "Okay. Drive safe."
A moment, then Sabrina again: "Also, if you disown me as a friend one more time, I'll cut off your head and punt it down the block."
Grace frowned. "Modern society. Be a civilized person."
Sabrina: "By the way, Jeff reached out. He's back in Skylark and can't get hold of you. Says let's all grab dinner if you're free."
"Okay." Grace's mouth tipped. "Eyes on the road."
Sabrina: "Ok."
Grace looked at the screen and, without meaning to, smiled.
Sometimes she thought: thank God for Sabrina. For all the swagger and knives in her language, Sabrina stood exactly where Grace needed her to stand, every time. Maybe it was loyalty. Maybe softness hidden under lacquer. Grace could feel it—whatever the name was, it was real.
She was about to set the phone aside when a new bubble lit up.
Oakley Ponciano: "Are you busy?"
Grace's breath caught—not much, just enough to register. First contact since last night. Oakley's profile photo had changed: cotton candy raised in one hand, the spark of joy. The picture Grace had taken.
Grace typed: "On a break. What's up?"
Oakley: "We're visiting your grandma soon. I can't show up empty-handed—that would be rude. But I don't know what she'd actually like. What should I get?"
Grace checked the time. "Grandma doesn't have any must-haves anymore. She likes hats, though—can't stand a draft. My mom likes gold jewelry. My dad—my dad likes his drink."
Oakley: "Okk, got it."
A pause. Grace: "New profile photo?"
Oakley: "Because it's pretty. You really know how to shoot. Crazy—an amateur who takes better photos than a pro video girl."
Grace couldn't help it; she smiled. "Really?"
"Of course really. Why would I lie?" A sticker bounced in. "Certified by Natalie Pierce."
"Natalie…" Grace thought a moment. "The friend you met today?"
"Yep. She's even prettier in person. I was afraid she'd be shy and the conversation would die. Nope. She tosses topics like confetti. My favorite kind of person."
"Good." Grace's thumbs slowed. "I should get back to it."
"Okayyy," Oakley wrote.
Grace set the phone down. Then, for reasons she didn't examine, she tapped into apptalk. As she'd guessed, Oakley had posted after lunch:
"Finally met up IRL with a friend I've known online for ages—such a good day, 10/10 (she's beautiful; tragedy that we forgot a selfie). This grill spot? I'm handing out a hundred gold stars, from every angle!"
Four photos beneath: one of Oakley herself—ivory tweed, glossy curls, soft lines refined into a sharper woman; eyes bright enough to talk. Grace lingered on it without intending to.
The others: lunch spread, the restaurant sign, a new milk tea held up to the camera.
Ready to leave, Grace mis-tapped and landed on Oakley's full feed. Since she was there, she scrolled.
Oakley never could sit still. She posted like a girl telling stories down a staircase.
A month back, a post she'd missed before:
"Tagging Amelia Hayes by full name. One minute she's showing off the hand-needled felt swallow her husband made her; the next, it's a hand-needled felt hippo… Is having a partner who gifts tiny felt animals supposed to be impressive?! Fine. It is impressive…
(I swear I am NOT jealous of the felt, absolutely not! I have hands too, okay? I'll learn. I'll make myself ten thousand of them!)"
Grace stared, amused, a slow warmth moving through her chest. She'd been in Oakley's feed before, but this one was new to her—probably buried under the happy avalanche of everything else. Easy to miss.
Not, apparently, easy to forget.
This post… honestly.
Grace Barron couldn't help laughing. A quiet, startled laugh that softened as it faded. Then she sat still again, the smile slipping back under the surface.
So Oakley Ponciano envied people too. She made it sound like a joke, but of course something in her had been pricked. Otherwise she wouldn't have posted it at all.
Grace closed the app, set her phone aside, and went back to work.
Not for long. Her fingers paused above the keys.
After a short silence, she turned and called her secretary.
"Ms. Barron," came the even, textured voice.
"Could you pick up a needle-felting kit for me?" Grace said, eyes on the monitor's glow.
A beat on the line. "A… felting kit? The, ah, poking kind?"
"Yes."
"I—of course."
Half an hour later there was a knock. The secretary carried in a tidy bag of supplies and placed it on the desk with ceremonial care. "Here you are."
"Thanks." Grace glanced over the contents. "That's all."
The door closed, with three small, reluctant looks back through the glass.
Three hours later, the pressure of the day finally bled off. Grace drank the last of her coffee, opened the kit, and skimmed a few tutorials. It didn't look hard. Not exactly. She chose a tortoiseshell cat—something about the patchwork appealed—and began.
Poke. Lift. Turn. Poke.
The simple rhythm took her. Time loosened, then slipped its leash. The work soothed in a way she hadn't expected; it asked nothing but patience and the willingness to keep shaping until the wool agreed.
The result… less soothing. Something in the proportions was wrong in a way she couldn't name. Newbie hands. Still, it was her first. She couldn't toss it. She kept trimming, nudging, persuading the little creature into a shape that felt kinder.
By seven, the windows were black mirrors and the office lights felt as harsh as snow glare.
She capped her pen, gathered the tools, zipped her coat. The felt cat went into her pocket with the needles and a coil of thread. She'd fix it at home, maybe. Or start again.
Outside, Skylark had slipped another degree toward winter. People on the sidewalks had bundled themselves into tidy, anonymous shapes.
Grace drove into her garage, stepped out, and looked toward the house. Lights were on inside, softened by the night until they blurred. Odd, that flick of disorientation—so many evenings she'd come home to a dark, unbreathing place.
She lowered her lashes and went in. The door shut behind her; she was still trading shoes for slippers when Oakley called from the kitchen, bright as a bell: "You're back?"
Grace looked up. Oakley was cutting fruit.
Tonight's "pajamas" were a long, oversized shirt that fell to her knees. No cling, no reveal—and yet, on her, the shape turned suggestive, like a secret told in daylight.
Maybe Oakley carried her own weather. Or maybe Grace's head was already full of thunder. Either way, every small gesture felt tuned to provoke.
"I'm back," Grace said, and nodded.
Oakley came out with a plate. "Listen. I found a cantaloupe so sweet it feels illegal. Want to test my claim?"
Grace nodded and reached—and Oakley, faster, lifted a cube toward her mouth. "Here. Open."
Grace obeyed despite herself.
Juice hit the tongue; she looked up and ran straight into Oakley's laughing eyes. The surprise snagged her breath and she coughed once, sharp.
"Caught?" Oakley balanced the plate in one hand and patted Grace's back with the other.
"A little." Grace shook her head, slid a hand into her coat pocket for a tissue—
—and the ugly little cat bounced free, tumbling to the floor with a soft, accusing thud.
Before Grace could gather a response, Oakley had crouched and scooped it up. "Is this…"
A felt animal. Not store-bought, not with that earnest wonk. Made, not found.
Why would Grace be needle-felting?
To give to someone?
Oakley's thoughts spun, then landed on the obvious. Her post. The month-old complaint about felt animals. Had Grace seen it, then learned this, then made one for her?
This woman. Meticulous to a fault.
Oakley's mouth lifted of its own accord. She pressed the little creature to her chest. "Is this… for me?"
Grace held those guileless eyes a moment too long and surrendered. "Yes."
She reached out, mortified. "But… not this one. It's full of mistakes. I'll make you a better one."
Too ugly. Her perfectionism flinched.
Oakley angled away, interrupting gently. "But this one is perfect. I'll take the next one—and this one."
Grace frowned. "Perfect?"
She suspected brazen lying. "You don't think the shape is… strange?"
Oakley turned it in her palm, weighing it, smiling as if she were consulting an expert opinion only she could hear. "Strange? Not at all. It's delightful. Don't be so hard on yourself."
Grace hesitated, then, careful: "Can you tell what it is?"
"Of course," Oakley said, triumphant. "A black piglet."
And then, even louder, delighted with her discovery: "I've never seen one with markings like this—its ridiculously cool!"