Thalia's POV
I stare at Marcus's text message, my hand frozen on the coffee shop door.
Saw you having coffee with that lawyer. Interesting.
He was watching me. Or having me watched.
My stomach churns. I scan the crowded coffee shop, searching for anyone who looks suspicious. Anyone with a camera. Anyone paying too much attention.
But everyone looks normal. Just people drinking coffee, working on laptops, having conversations.
I shove my phone in my pocket and walk quickly toward the subway, my heart pounding.
Two blocks away, I pull out my phone again and call Zara.
She answers immediately. How was coffee with Satan?
Marcus is having me followed.
Silence. Then: What?
I just got a text from him. He knows I had coffee with Damian. He's watching me, Zara.
Forward me the message. Now.
I send it while still walking, checking over my shoulder every few steps.
Okay, I got it. Zara's voice shifts into lawyer mode. This is harassment. We can file a restraining order—
Based on what? One text message saying he saw me in public?
It's implied stalking.
A judge won't see it that way. It's just Marcus being creepy, like always.
I reach the subway entrance and pause, scanning the crowd again. Still nothing suspicious.
Tali, listen to me. If Marcus is watching you, there's a reason. He's planning something.
I know. I just don't know what.
Promise me you'll be careful. No walking alone at night, no
My phone buzzes with another call. My boss.
Zara, I have to go. Mr. Morrison is calling.
Call me back immediately after.
I switch lines. Hello?
Thalia. Mr. Morrison's voice is tight. Professional but strained. Are you somewhere you can talk privately?
My stomach drops. I'm on the street. What's wrong?
I just received several calls from board members asking about photos circulating on social media. Photos of you with a man identified as Damian Morrison, the corporate lawyer.
No. No, no, no.
What photos? But I already know.
Someone took pictures of you two at a coffee shop. They're on Twitter, LinkedIn, several tech gossip sites. The captions are... unflattering.
I lean against the subway entrance wall, dizzy. What do they say?
'Disgraced tech founder reconciles with lawyer who destroyed her in court.' 'Thalia Kent and Damian Morrison spotted together—collaboration or romance?' 'Former enemies now friends?' He pauses. Thalia, this is creating questions about your judgment and our company's reputation.
It was just coffee. We're co-facilitating a therapy group. It's completely professional.
I believe you. But perception matters in this industry. Investors are already asking questions.
Investors. Of course.
What do you need me to do? I ask, trying to keep my voice steady.
Issue a statement. Clarify the situation. Make it clear this isn't what it looks like.
I'll handle it today.
Good. And Thalia? I'm on your side. But the board is nervous. Just... be careful who you're seen with publicly.
We hang up, and I immediately pull up Twitter.
The photos are everywhere.
Someone caught us at the coffee shop—Damian leaning forward, talking intensely. Me with tears in my eyes. Another shot of him looking at me with an expression that could be interpreted as... tender.
The comments are brutal:
She's working with the lawyer who destroyed her? Stockholm syndrome much?
This is so messy. What is she thinking?
Maybe she was guilty all along and they're in on it together.
Plot twist: they're dating. Calling it now.
My hands shake so badly I almost drop my phone.
Another text comes through. Damian: I just saw the photos. I'm so sorry. Let me issue a statement explaining the situation.
Before I can respond, another message: I can take full responsibility. Say I approached you for professional reasons. This doesn't have to hurt your reputation.
I stare at his messages, anger and humiliation warring inside me.
He wants to save me. Again.
Like I'm some damsel who needs rescuing.
I type back: No. I'll handle it myself.
Thalia, please let me help. This is my fault—
It's not your fault someone took photos. And I don't need you to fix this. I can speak for myself.
I navigate to LinkedIn and start typing a post, my fingers flying across the screen:
Recent photos have circulated of me meeting with Damian Morrison. To clarify: we are co-facilitating a trauma recovery support group for the next three months. This is a professional arrangement, nothing more. I'm grateful for the opportunity to help others heal from betrayal and false accusations—experiences I understand personally. I ask for privacy and respect during this time.
Short. Professional. Honest without being defensive.
I hit post before I can second-guess myself.
Within minutes, reactions start flooding in. Mostly supportive, some skeptical, a few openly hostile.
But I said my piece. On my terms.
Not Damian's. Not my boss's. Mine.
My phone rings again. Unknown number.
I almost don't answer. But something makes me pick up.
Hello?
Thalia Kent? A woman's voice, young and energetic. This is Jenna Park from TechDaily. I'm writing an article about you and Damian Morrison. Do you have a few minutes to comment?
No comment. I posted a statement on LinkedIn.
Right, I saw that. But readers want to know—how does it feel working with the lawyer who represented the man who destroyed your company? Isn't that a conflict of interest?
It's therapy, not a legal case. And I'm not discussing this further.
Just one more question—are you and Damian Morrison romantically involved?
I hang up.
The phone immediately rings again. Different number.
I silence it and shove the phone in my pocket.
This is a nightmare.
By the time I get home, I have forty-three missed calls, hundreds of social media notifications, and six voicemails from journalists.
I ignore all of it and collapse on my couch.
My phone buzzes. Damian again: Press is calling me too. I'm not commenting. Sending everyone to your LinkedIn statement.
At least he's respecting my boundaries.
Another buzz. Zara: Saw your statement. Perfect. Short, professional, shuts down speculation. Well done.
Then another message makes my blood run cold.
Marcus Vale: Quite the scandal. Your new lawyer friend seems to attract attention. We should really discuss this in person. I have information that could help your situation. Tomorrow, 2 PM, the café near your office?
I stare at the message, my heart racing.
He's using the scandal as leverage. Offering to help while probably planning to make everything worse.
I type back: Not interested. Stop contacting me.
His response comes immediately: You should be interested. I know things about Damian Morrison that you don't. Things that would make you reconsider working with him. Things about why he really took your case.
My fingers hover over the keyboard.
He's baiting me. I know he's baiting me.
But what if he actually knows something? What if there's more to Damian's story than guilt over his sister?
No. I'm not falling for this.
I block Marcus's number and throw my phone across the couch.
For three years, I've been trying to rebuild my life. And in one week, everything is crumbling again.
All because Dr. Morrison decided to play God with her patients.
All because I agreed to help six strangers.
All because I can't seem to escape the past no matter how hard I try.
My phone buzzes one more time.
I almost ignore it. But it's from a group number I recognize—the therapy group chat.
Maria: Hey everyone, just saw some stuff online about Thalia and Damian. Want you both to know we support you. Whatever's going on, you're helping us heal. That's what matters. See you Wednesday.
Devon: Agreed. Social media is trash. You're both doing great.
Claire: Sending solidarity. Ignore the noise.
Tears blur my vision.
These people—strangers a week ago—are defending me when my own industry is tearing me apart.
I text back: Thank you. That means more than you know.
Another message pops up. Damian in the group chat: Grateful for all of you. Wednesday at 6.
Then a private message from him appears: Are you okay?
I stare at the question.
Am I okay?
No. I'm humiliated and scared and angry and so tired of being strong.
But I type: I'm fine. See you Wednesday.
It's a lie, and he probably knows it.
But it's all I can manage right now.
That night, I dream about the courtroom again.
But this time, when Damian asks his devastating questions, the entire courtroom is taking photos. Cameras flashing everywhere. Marcus in the front row, smiling.
And when I try to speak, to defend myself, no sound comes out.
I wake up at 3 AM, gasping for air, my sheets soaked with sweat.
My phone glows on the nightstand.
One new message from an unknown number, time-stamped ten minutes ago:
Saw the photos. Looks like you and Morrison are getting cozy. Interesting development. Don't worry—I'll be in touch soon with my proposal. You're going to want to hear what I have to offer. Sweet dreams. - M
I stare at the message, my skin crawling.
Marcus sent this while I was sleeping. While he knew I'd be vulnerable and alone.
He's not just watching me.
He's playing with me.
And the worst part? I have no idea what he's planning.