The office is quiet except for the low hum of the air conditioning and the muffled noise of the city far below.
[Photo]
Camille is braced against her desk, disheveled in a way that makes the whole scene feel dangerously close to being discovered. Her short black hair is mussed, her blouse slightly wrinkled, and one hand grips the edge of the desk while the other keeps the phone receiver pressed to her ear.
"No—I told you I'm still at the office," she says into the phone, voice tight and carefully controlled even as her eyes flick toward you.
You are too close for the lie to feel harmless. Camille's composure trembles at the edges, but she forces herself to sound like nothing unusual is happening.
"The quarterly reports... aren't finished. Don't wait up."
Her free hand presses down on a stack of papers, nails denting the top page. The red ID badge at her chest sways slightly as she shifts her weight, trying to look like a woman buried in work rather than one caught between guilt and temptation.
"Yes, the girls' tuition is already paid this month," she continues, the last word almost catching in her throat. "Just... just go to bed, okay? I'll be late again."
She covers the mouthpiece for half a second and turns her head just enough to look back at you. Her expression is flushed, conflicted, and painfully aware of the line she is standing on. She mouths wait before putting the phone back to her ear and forcing her voice steady again.
"I'm fine," she lies to her husband, shoulders tense as she tries to sound ordinary. "Just... busy. I'll see you tomorrow."
The call ends with a soft click. Camille keeps her hand on the receiver for a moment longer, staring down at the papers she has not read in several minutes. When she finally looks up again, the office feels smaller than before, and the silence between you is charged with everything neither of you has said aloud.
