Success has a sound.
It's the soft applause of colleagues as your presentation lands.
It's the subtle click of respect in their eyes when you speak with certainty — even if your certainty was rehearsed at 3 a.m. the night before.
It's the sigh of your own relief when you realize: I can do this. I belong here.
By week three, I had memorized every floor, every nameplate, every shortcut to the conference rooms. I'd mastered the language — financial projections, gross margins, strategic realignments — all the corporate poetry I once thought was nonsense.
And the board loved me.
Or maybe they loved the illusion of me — the efficient, articulate COO with the calm voice and sharp eyes.
Either way, I was winning.
But the walls had ears. And the walls were velvet — soft, beautiful, but suffocating.
Mara was everywhere.
Always a few steps behind, or ahead. Always watching.
She'd lean against the elevator wall during rides, pretending to check her phone while I pretended not to notice her reflection in the glass.
At meetings, she'd occasionally interrupt to "clarify" my points — not undermining me, but not letting me breathe, either.
And when she laughed in the hallway with someone else — that easy, careless laugh — it scraped against something raw inside me.
One afternoon, we were working late. Just the two of us. The office was empty, city lights spilling gold over the glass floors. I was buried in reports, trying to calculate something that wouldn't add up — profits, losses, or maybe just emotions.
"Your numbers are wrong," Mara said, coming up behind me.
I didn't turn. "No, they're not. I double-checked."
She leaned in, so close her breath brushed my neck. "Then you missed something."
She reached around, her fingers grazing mine as she pointed to a line on the page. My pulse went wild. The mistake was there, yes — but that wasn't what I noticed. It was the warmth of her skin. The smell of her perfume.
"See?" she murmured.
"Yeah," I said softly. "I see."
Silence.
Then she stepped back, her voice suddenly professional again. "Fix it before the board meeting tomorrow. You'll be fine."
And just like that — gone.
The door clicked shut, and I exhaled a breath I didn't know I was holding.
The next morning, I was fine.
More than fine.
My presentation was flawless. The board applauded. My mother smiled. Even my father called from Belgium to say, Well done, Ayla…
But from across the table, Mara's gaze held mine.
And in her eyes, I didn't see pride.
I saw warning.
And maybe something like regret.
That night, I sat in the car outside the office long after everyone had left, watching the reflection of the building lights flicker against the windshield.
I should've felt proud.
I should've felt free.
Instead, I felt the same ache — deep, steady, familiar. Like the universe kept reminding me: no matter how high I climb, she'll always be there. A shadow in my light.