By Thursday morning, Voss International had already turned Evan Reid into a legend. Not a heroic kind—more like an urban myth told between coffee machines.

They said he made the CEO *laugh.*  

They said he corrected her math.  

They said he was either a genius or a future unemployment statistic.  

Evan, for his part, showed up twenty minutes early and acted like neither. He walked through the office with his usual rhythm—half lazy, half resigned—and tried to pretend his inbox wasn’t a social experiment.

Lena met him at his desk with a smirk that could power the building. “You made the rumor digest,” she said, dropping a printed email thread onto his keyboard. Subject line: *‘Who is Evan Reid and why does Clara talk to him like a person?’*

“Tragic,” he said. “My dream was to die unknown.”

“Too late. People are forming hypotheses. I personally think you’re part of a secret diversity initiative for sarcasm.”

He gave her a look. “And you?”

“Media relations,” she said proudly. “I translate chaos into headlines. Speaking of—Mira’s been defending you in Finance chat. Says you ‘understand ratios.’ That’s practically romantic language from her.”

He opened his laptop and pretended to scroll. “Remind me to delete my existence from all internal servers.”

“Can’t. HR already booked you for a team communication workshop next week.”

He froze. “I what?”

Lena grinned. “Apparently, Clara volunteered you to co-lead it. Something about ‘communicating clarity with empathy.’ Which sounds like she’s making you a case study.”

“Perfect,” Evan muttered. “I’ve always wanted to be the moral of someone else’s PowerPoint.”

At ten sharp, the floor went quiet—an instinctive silence that meant Clara was passing through. Evan tried to look busy but ended up staring straight at her reflection in the glass wall. She was speaking with Nadia, both moving in that slow, deliberate CEO tempo that made time feel optional.  

When their paths crossed, Clara paused. “Evan,” she said, tone level but carrying something warmer beneath it. “How are the guardrail revisions?”

“Almost done,” he said. “I cut a few lines and added one you’ll probably hate.”

“Then it’s probably good,” she said. “Send me both versions. I like seeing what you tried to hide.”

Nadia smiled faintly at that. “He’s learning to edit himself in public,” she said. “It’s adorable.”

Evan looked between them. “Should I be in this conversation?”

“Not yet,” Clara replied. “But you will be.”

She walked away before he could ask what that meant. Nadia lingered for a second longer. “She’s testing your tone, not your loyalty,” she said quietly. “Don’t mistake one for the other.”

“Wasn’t planning to,” he said, though his heartbeat disagreed.

By lunch, the rumor had evolved: Evan and Clara were “collaborating closely.” Lena brought the update to his table like it was breaking news.  

“It’s official,” she said. “People think you’re the CEO’s favorite.”

“That’s impossible,” Evan said. “I’m allergic to responsibility.”

“That’s what makes you interesting,” Mira replied, joining them with her usual poise. “Clara respects resistance. It’s how she recognizes strength.”

“Wonderful,” he said. “I’m being respected against my will.”

Iris slid into the seat across from him, clutching a sandwich like a prop. “I think it’s cool,” she said shyly. “You talk to her like she’s normal.”

Evan gave a half-smile. “That’s because I haven’t been here long enough to be afraid yet.”

The afternoon dissolved into tasks: draft approvals, email chains, endless slide decks. Around four, Evan received a message from Clara’s assistant:  

*‘Ms. Voss requests your presence at 5:30 in Conference 2C. Informal review of tone strategy.’*  

Informal review. The corporate equivalent of *bring your helmet.*

He arrived at 5:29. Clara was already there, standing by the window with a glass of water that looked like it cost more than his monthly rent. Outside, the sky was a bruised blue, the city beginning to glitter.

“Sit,” she said, without looking away. “Long day?”

“They’re all long,” he said. “Some just have better lighting.”

That earned him a soft exhale—half sigh, half amusement. “You know, I asked Nadia what she thought of your writing voice.”

“And?”

“She said it’s ‘quietly persuasive,’” Clara said. “I said that sounds like manipulation.”

“I prefer to call it survival.”

She turned toward him fully then, expression unreadable. “You don’t sound like anyone else in this company, Evan. Do you know that?”

“I’m not sure that’s good.”

“It is,” she said. “But it’s also dangerous. Originality draws attention. Attention draws expectation. People start listening too closely.”

He hesitated. “Are you warning me or complimenting me?”

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the hum of the air vents and the low pulse of rain against the glass. Evan realized he was watching her the way people watch storms—half in awe, half calculating escape routes.

“Tell me,” she said suddenly, “why did you join this company?”

He blinked. “Because they hired me.”

“No,” she said. “Why did you *really* join?”

He thought about it. “I liked the product. The tone. The idea that we were selling something honest.”

Clara nodded slowly. “And if that idea turned out to be marketing?”

“Then I’ll try to make it true,” he said.

That made her pause. “That’s a dangerous kind of optimism.”

“Only if someone notices.”

“I’ve noticed,” she said.

And there it was again—the brief flicker of something that wasn’t corporate or careful. Something like recognition. Then she looked away, composing herself back into the role that fit her better than most people’s skin.

“Send me the final draft tomorrow morning,” she said. “I’ll read it on the flight to Zurich.”

“You’re traveling?”

“Board meeting,” she said. “You’ll handle the workshop in my absence.”

He raised a brow. “Alone?”

“I trust you not to burn the place down,” she said. “Unless you’re planning to.”

He smiled faintly. “I only start fires by accident.”

Her lips curved in a small, knowing arc. “That’s what worries me.”

She turned back to the window, signaling the end of the meeting. Evan stood, collected his notes, and started for the door.

“Evan,” she said softly.

He stopped. “Yes?”

“Keep being honest,” she said. “Just not with everyone.”

He nodded once, unsure whether it was advice or confession, and left before either could find out.

Outside, the city air smelled like wet concrete and neon. Evan walked toward the train with his collar up and his thoughts louder than the traffic. He replayed her words, her tone, the faint trace of weariness she never let anyone see.

Lena texted him halfway home: *Rumor update: CEO smiled at you again. HR’s betting pool has started. Buy-in’s five bucks.*  

He typed back: *Tell them to invest in better hobbies.*  

Then he looked out the train window, his reflection faint against the lights. Somewhere between exhaustion and fascination, he realized:  

He’d stopped trying to stay invisible.  

And that was the most dangerous rumor of all.