Chapter 4 Office Politics

Marcus POV

The fluorescent lights hummed their usual Tuesday morning melody, but something felt different the moment Morgana stepped off the elevator. I didn't look up from my spreadsheet immediately—I'd trained myself not to be that obvious—but I felt the shift in energy through the glass partition separating our cubicles.

When I finally glanced over, she was standing at her desk with her coat still on, staring at her computer screen with this small, private smile I'd never seen before.

"Morning," I called through the opening between our workstations.

She startled, hand flying to her chest. "Marcus. God, you scared me."

"Sorry. Thought you saw me." I rolled my chair closer to the partition. "You okay? You look..."

"I look what?"

Different. Radiant. Like someone who'd spent the night thinking about someone else. "Awake. For a Monday morning."

"It's Tuesday."

"Is it?" I made a show of checking my calendar. "Well, that explains why the weekend felt so short."

She laughed—actually laughed—and shrugged off her coat. The motion was looser than usual, less of the rigid efficiency that normally governed her movements. Morgana Gaius ran her professional life like one of her financial models: every variable accounted for, every risk calculated, every emotional investment carefully hedged.

This version of her, humming while she logged into her computer, was an anomaly that demanded investigation.

I waited until mid-morning, when the coffee pilgrimage became inevitable. We fell into step naturally—we'd made this walk a hundred times—but today she kept checking her phone.

"Expecting something?" I asked.

"What? No." She pocketed it quickly. "Just... checking the time."

"There's a clock right there." I pointed to the break room wall as we entered.

"Right. Yes." She grabbed a mug from the cabinet, her movements jittery in a way that had nothing to do with caffeine.

I leaned against the counter while the coffee maker gurgled. "So. Want to tell me why you're acting like you just won the lottery, or should I keep guessing?"

Her shoulders tensed. "I'm not acting like anything."

"Morgana. You smiled at Jerry from accounting. Jerry. The guy who microwaves fish."

"I did not."

"You absolutely did. I witnessed it. There were casualties—he looked so shocked he dropped his lunch."

She bit her lip, fighting another smile, and I knew I had her. "Okay, fine. I met someone."

The coffee maker beeped. I focused on pouring two cups, buying time to arrange my face into something that looked like friendly interest instead of the hollow feeling spreading through my chest.

"That's great," I said, handing her a mug. "When did this happen?"

"Yesterday. Well, technically we met a few weeks ago, but yesterday was our first real conversation." She added cream, stirring it with more attention than the task required. "His name is David. David Kellerman."

My hand tightened around my mug. "Kellerman from the thirty-eighth floor?"

"You know him?"

"Of him." I took a sip, the coffee bitter on my tongue. "VP of Client Relations. Moved here from the Boston office about six months ago."

"Eight months," she corrected. "But yes. He seems really... genuine."

Genuine. That wasn't the word that came to mind when I thought about David Kellerman. Smooth, definitely. Calculated. The kind of guy who networked at urinals and remembered everyone's spouse's names because he kept a spreadsheet.

"And you're going out with him?"

"Tomorrow night. Drinks after work." She wrapped both hands around her mug, warming them. "I know what you're thinking."

"I doubt that."

"You're thinking it's a bad idea to date someone from the office. That it's unprofessional and complicated and—"

"I'm thinking he's in a position of power over you." The words came out sharper than I intended. "Not directly, but the VP of Client Relations has influence with the senior partners. If things go badly—"

"They won't."

"You can't know that."

"I can't know anything, Marcus. That's called dating." She set down her mug, her defenses rising like shutters. "I thought you'd be happy for me."

"I am. I just—" I rubbed the back of my neck, searching for words that wouldn't expose the jealousy festering under my concern. "Kellerman has a reputation, okay? I've heard things."

"What things?"

"Just... talk. Around the water cooler."

"You mean gossip." Her voice cooled several degrees. "And what does this gossip say?"

That he's dated three women from the office in the past eight months. That each relationship lasted exactly six weeks before ending abruptly. That he has a way of making women feel special right before he moves on to the next conquest.

But I couldn't say any of that without sounding bitter.

"That he's charming," I said finally. "And charm in corporate settings usually comes with an agenda."

"So I should just stay alone forever because men might have agendas?" She picked up her coffee, her movements tight again. "That's your advice?"

"No. I'm saying—"

"You're saying I should be careful. I should protect myself. I should keep my guard up and never trust anyone because this is Manhattan and everyone's playing an angle." She met my eyes, and I saw the loneliness there beneath the anger. "I'm tired, Marcus. I'm tired of being careful. I'm tired of going home to an empty apartment and pretending I chose this life instead of having it choose me."

The words hit harder than she probably intended. We'd had versions of this conversation before, late nights when the office emptied and the cleaning crews made their rounds. Morgana worked fourteen-hour days not because she loved finance but because she didn't know what else to do with all that sharp, brilliant energy.

"I get it," I said quietly. "I do. I just... I care about you. As a friend. And friends worry."

She softened, her anger dissolving as quickly as it had appeared. "I know. And I appreciate it. But I'm thirty-two years old and I can handle a dinner date with a colleague."

"Drinks."

"What?"

"You said drinks. Not dinner."

"Right. Drinks." She smiled, but it looked forced now. "I should get back. The Henderson report won't finish itself."

We walked back in silence, the easy camaraderie from earlier replaced by something strained and awkward. I'd pushed too hard, let my feelings leak through the careful friendship we'd constructed over eighteen months of adjacent cubicles and shared deadlines.

At her desk, she paused. "Marcus?"

"Yeah?"

"Tell me about your dating disasters. The new ones. You said you had disasters."

It was an olive branch, her way of resetting to the comfortable space where we traded bad date stories and complained about office politics. I should have taken it.

"Later," I said. "Over lunch?"

"Lunch. Yes. Good." She sat down, already reaching for her phone again.

I returned to my own desk, trying to focus on the spreadsheet still glowing on my screen. Numbers usually made sense—they followed rules, created patterns, resolved into clean solutions.

But I couldn't concentrate. My eyes kept drifting to the glass partition, watching Morgana's profile as she worked. She typed something, smiled at her screen, typed again.

Texting him, probably. Planning their drinks. Imagining a future where David Kellerman might actually be the genuine, interested man she wanted him to be.

I opened my browser, typed "David Kellerman" into the company directory. His photo loaded—the same professional headshot they all had, perfectly lit and Photoshopped into corporate acceptability.

Then I caught movement in my peripheral vision.

Through the glass, through Morgana's cubicle, through the window overlooking the bullpen—David Kellerman stood by the elevators on the floor below. He wasn't moving, wasn't talking to anyone.

He was just watching.

His gaze fixed on Morgana's workstation with an intensity that made my skin crawl. Not the casual glance of a man interested in a woman. Something colder. More focused.

The look of someone studying a specimen.

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