Monday morning started with the wrong kind of urgency.

Julia walked into the office with a knot already twisted tight in her stomach. She had barely slept; every time she closed her eyes, the word “halted” flashed behind them like a warning sign. By the time she reached her desk, the knot felt like it had grown teeth.

A calendar notification popped up the second she sat down.

*Ridge Status – Internal Review Meeting – 9:00 a.m.*

She checked the clock. 8:47.

“Perfect,” she muttered under her breath.

The office was louder than usual—voices spilling over cubicle walls, phones ringing nonstop. The halted construction had shaken everyone out of their normal Monday rhythm.

As she gathered her notebook and tablet, Melissa appeared at the edge of her desk as if summoned by tension.

“There you are,” Melissa said, a little too brightly. “Ready for the circus?”

Julia took a breath. “As ready as I can be.”

“Good. Just remember, we keep it professional, and we keep it focused on solutions. No need to sound alarmist.”

“The project is literally shut down,” Julia replied. “People kind of noticed.”

Melissa’s smile didn’t falter, but something sharpened in her eyes. “And they’re looking at us to see whether we’re panicking or in control. We’re in control. Right?”

Julia said nothing for a second. Control felt like a strange word for what was happening.

“We’ll do what we can,” she said finally.

Melissa nodded. “That’s the spirit.”

Julia followed her to the conference room.

---

The Ridge status meeting was already partially full when they arrived. A senior project manager, Eric, sat at the head of the table, scrolling through his tablet. A few team leads occupied the chairs along the sides; others hovered against the wall, coffee cups clutched like shields.

Julia took a seat two chairs down from Melissa. Ethan slipped in quietly and leaned against the wall near the door, his expression neutral.

“Alright, everyone,” Eric began. “I’m sure you all saw the notice. Construction is officially halted across all Ridge units until supplier issues are resolved.”

A ripple of murmurs moved through the room, then faded.

“We don’t have a new completion date yet,” Eric continued, “and legal’s still reviewing contract implications. In the meantime, we need to stabilize client relationships and protect the firm’s position. That means clear communication, consistent messaging, and absolutely no unsanctioned promises.”

He glanced down the table at Melissa. “Can you walk us through how the design and client-facing teams are handling things?”

Melissa straightened. “Of course. We’ve already sent initial reassurance emails. We’re emphasizing that delays are due to external supplier issues outside our control. We’re offering to review interim design options and minor revisions so that once construction resumes, implementation moves quickly.”

Julia stared at the table for a second, then forced herself to look up.

Eric nodded. “Good. Any specific risks we should know about?”

“There are a few clients who are… more anxious than others,” Melissa said. “Particularly in the units Julia’s been handling.”

Julia blinked. The words landed like a quiet slap.

Melissa went on, her tone smooth. “Because many of these were custom-heavy units with complex choices, they require more hand-holding. We’ve had to revisit layouts multiple times. That increases their sensitivity to delays.”

Julia felt heat climb up the back of her neck. Revisits? Revisions? Those had been client demands and management adjustments, not her indecision.

Eric tapped his pen. “Are we behind on any commitments because of that?”

Melissa hesitated just long enough for the implication to sting. “We’ve managed to stay mostly on schedule, but the workload there has… compounded the difficulty.”

Julia inhaled slowly. *Say something,* a voice in the back of her mind urged. *If you let this slide, it becomes yours to carry.*

So she cleared her throat. “For context,” she said, keeping her tone even, “the revisions on those units were requested after construction updates and internal changes to the design scope. We hit all deadlines based on the timelines provided.”

Heads turned toward her. Melissa’s smile thinned by a fraction.

“I’m not saying we’re behind,” Melissa replied smoothly. “Just that the level of customization in those units made them more vulnerable to external disruptions.”

Ethan’s gaze flicked between the two of them, unreadable.

Eric nodded again, apparently satisfied with the clarification—or at least uninterested in digging deeper. “Alright. The main point is this: we cannot be the weak link. The builder is dealing with suppliers; legal is dealing with contracts. Our job is to keep clients from panicking.”

He looked around the room. “Questions? Concerns?”

A construction liaison raised her hand. “Clients are already talking to each other. Group chats, community forums, that sort of thing. They’re comparing notes. If our messaging isn’t consistent, they’ll notice.”

“Then we make it consistent,” Eric said. “Melissa, I want standard templates prepared for all Ridge-related communication by end of day. Adjust for tone when needed, but keep the content aligned.”

“Of course,” Melissa said. “Julia can help draft those.”

It wasn’t a suggestion.

Eric scribbled something on his tablet. “Good. Let’s move quickly. Meeting adjourned.”

Chairs scraped back. People started filing out, murmuring about timelines and damage control.

Julia stayed seated for a moment longer, fingers digging into the spine of her notebook. The room felt too warm.

Ethan approached as others left. “You okay?” he asked quietly.

“Fine,” she said automatically.

He looked at her like he didn’t believe that. “You spoke up,” he said. “That was good.”

“It didn’t change anything,” she replied.

“Not yet,” he said. “But you were clear. That matters.”

Before she could answer, Melissa’s voice cut in.

“Julia, can I grab you for a second?”

Ethan gave a small nod and stepped aside, leaving them near the corner of the room.

Melissa’s smile had disappeared the moment the door closed behind the last person.

“What was that?” she asked, her voice low but sharp.

“What was what?” Julia said, though she already knew.

“Calling out clarification in the middle of a high-level meeting.”

“I didn’t call you out,” Julia said, keeping her tone as steady as she could. “I clarified context. You made it sound like the extra work on those units was because of me being behind.”

“I never said that.”

“You implied it.”

Melissa’s jaw tightened. “You’re reading too much into it.”

Julia felt her frustration spike. “Clients asked for changes. You asked for changes. Construction shifted. I turned those around on time. I won’t let it sound like I dropped the ball.”

“I never said you did,” Melissa repeated. “But we’re all under scrutiny. This isn’t the time for internal disagreements to show. We need a united front.”

“United doesn’t mean silent,” Julia said. “Not when responsibility is being blurred.”

Melissa stared at her for a long moment.

Then her expression smoothed over into something overly calm. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” she said. “You’ll take the lead on drafting the main client letters for your units. I’ll review and finalize them. That way, if there’s any negative feedback, we can address it as a team.”

Julia heard what she wasn’t saying: *You do the work. I decide how it looks. If it goes badly, we share the fallout. If it goes well, I get the credit.*

She swallowed. “Fine.”

“Good.” Melissa’s smile returned, brittle at the edges. “And Julia? Just… be careful how things come across in meetings. We don’t want leadership thinking there’s conflict in the ranks.”

Julia’s fingers curled around her notebook. “There is conflict,” she said softly. “We’re just not naming it.”

Melissa tilted her head, as if she hadn’t heard. “I’m counting on you,” she said, then walked away.

Julia stayed where she was, pulse thudding in her ears.

The rest of the day stretched into a long blur of words.

She spent hours drafting and redrafting client messages, each one walking a careful line—honest enough not to be outright lies, vague enough to avoid promises. She changed phrases like “we expect” to “we hope,” “we plan” to “we aim,” then reversed some of them because Melissa said they sounded weak.

Ethan passed by her desk mid-afternoon.

“Still at it?” he asked.

“Apparently my new job is professional apologizer,” she said without looking up.

He huffed a quiet sound that wasn’t quite a laugh. “I saw the schedule. They piled a lot on you.”

“Comes with the territory,” Julia said.

“It doesn’t have to,” he replied.

She finally glanced up. “Meaning what?”

“Meaning you’re being handed all the responsibility with none of the authority. That’s not territory. That’s a trap.”

Julia swallowed. The word felt too accurate.

He didn’t press further. Instead, he placed a small paper bag next to her keyboard. “I got coffee. And something vaguely resembling a sandwich. In case you forgot to eat.”

“I didn’t forget,” she said. Then, more honestly: “I didn’t stop long enough to remember.”

“Same difference,” he said softly.

She opened the bag and found half a sandwich neatly wrapped, and a note with just two words: *Breathe. First.*

A laugh escaped her, small but real. “Did you actually write a note?”

“Maybe,” he said, already stepping back. “Don’t overthink it.”

She didn’t. Not beyond letting the gesture land as something simple and kind.

By the time Julia left the office, the sky outside had dimmed to a flat gray. Her shoulders ached from hunching over the keyboard. Her eyes burned from staring at press-release language all day.

On the drive home, emails continued vibrating against her leg. She ignored them.

When she walked into the apartment, Aaron was at the kitchen counter, chopping vegetables. He looked up immediately.

“Hey,” he said. “You’re late.”

“Sorry,” she replied. “The Ridge disaster needed another layer of sugarcoating.”

He set the knife down. “Rough day?”

“That depends,” she said, dropping her bag on a chair. “Do you consider having your work framed as the reason clients are panicking to be rough?”

Aaron frowned. “What happened?”

She leaned against the counter, feeling the day finally catch up with her. “We had a meeting. Melissa made it sound like my units are a liability because they’re custom-heavy. Like I’m the one making things complicated.”

“That’s not true,” Aaron said immediately.

“I know,” she said. “I said something. Tried to clarify. But afterward she pulled me aside and told me I was making us look divided.”

“So you’re not allowed to defend yourself now?”

“Apparently not. Apparently it’s bad optics.”

Aaron’s jaw tightened. “That’s—”

“Don’t say ‘unfair,’” Julia cut in with a tired half-smile. “I’ve used up my daily quota of that word in my head.”

He paused. “Then it’s exhausting.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “It is.”

Aaron dried his hands on a towel, then stepped closer. “I’m glad you spoke up.”

“It didn’t change anything.”

“Maybe not for them,” he said. “But it matters that you didn’t let them rewrite what happened. Even if it was only for you.”

She let the words settle, surprising herself with how much they eased the tightness behind her ribs.

“I feel like I’m being handed everything to carry,” she admitted, voice low. “But any time I say that out loud, it sounds like complaining.”

“It sounds like telling the truth,” Aaron replied.

She studied his face. Tired. Concerned. Still, somehow, steady.

“How was your day?” she asked.

He huffed. “Long. Testing schedules. Admin meetings. One parent who thinks I’m personally controlling the entire college system.”

“Impressive,” she said. “I didn’t know you had that kind of power.”

“Neither did I.”

They shared a small, shaky smile.

Julia exhaled. “We’re both tired of being blamed for things we don’t control, aren’t we?”

“Feels like it,” he said.

For a moment, the apartment was quiet. Not empty quiet. Shared quiet.

Julia reached out and touched his wrist gently. “Thanks for making dinner.”

“Thanks for coming home,” he said.

It wasn’t a joke, exactly. But it made her chest ache in that aching-kind-of-soft way.

They moved around the kitchen together—small steps, simple tasks, brushing past each other with quiet apologies and unspoken reassurances. No big speeches. No dramatic declarations.

Just two people who had spent the day being told, in different ways, that they were the problem—

coming home and quietly reminding each other that they weren’t.