The boardroom empties slowly, like a held breath finally released.
Chairs scrape softly. Tablets click shut. Shoes move across polished floors with deliberate restraint. No one rushes. No one lingers either. This is the kind of exit people make when something important has shifted and no one wants to be the first to acknowledge it.
Eleanor is the last to leave.
She gathers her things with her usual precision—documents aligned, expression neutral, spine straight. If she feels anything, it never reaches her face. But I see it anyway. The recalibration behind her eyes. The quiet irritation of a plan that didn't unfold as expected.
She doesn't look at me again. That alone tells me enough. The door closes behind her with a soft, controlled click.
Silence settles. Not awkward or heavy. Just measured. Ethan exhales first. A slow, grounding breath. He turns slightly toward me, his voice lower now, stripped of boardroom cadence.
"You okay?" I nod. "I am."
