In any other job, this wouldn't be a necessity, but with the way her boss, Charles, looked at her—and the way he seemed to think his position gave him ownership over her space—she couldn't take the risk.
"I can't afford to go without this," she muttered, her voice trembling slightly. "In case he comes too close or tries to force anything."
She turned back, her heels clicking rapidly against the pavement. The detour made her heart race. She knew she would be late, and being late only gave them more ammunition to use against her.
But her safety was a non-negotiable price. After grabbing the small canister from her bedside table, she felt a slight shift in her confidence. It was a sad reality to live in, but it was hers.
The office building was a masterpiece of modern architecture. From the outside, it looked magnificent and wealthy—glass walls, polished marble, and expensive art in the lobby. It screamed success. But for those who worked inside, the building was a gilded cage.
It was a place of high-tension whispers For Diane, the experience was even more intense. She wasn't just another employee; she was a target.
When she finally stepped through the heavy glass doors, she was late.
The office was already humming with the sound of keyboards and low conversations. A chorus of "Good morning" echoed through the hall, flying around like restless insects. Diane returned the greetings with a polite, practiced smile.
It was strange—some of her coworkers responded with such familiarity that you'd think they'd known her for years, even though she was still the "new girl" to most of them.
In a place like this, everyone pretended to be friends just to survive the day.
She was heading toward the passage that led to her desk when a voice stopped her cold.
"Hey, ma'am."
Diane turned. Walking toward her was a woman who looked like she stepped out of a magazine.
She was fair-skinned with bouncy, perfectly curled hair that moved with every step. She carried herself with an air of absolute confidence, her smile appearing in small, controlled bursts as if she were charging for the privilege of seeing it.
"Lara, the boss's fiancée, came looking for you earlier this morning," the woman said. Her tone was playful, yet there was a sharp edge of seriousness beneath it. She spoke slowly, picking her words as if she were laying a trap.
"She said I should inform you to meet her in the upper room as soon as you arrive."
The woman leaned in slightly, her eyes scanning Diane's face for a reaction. "So, I advise you go up and see her right away."
Without waiting for a response, the woman turned and walked back to her station, leaving Diane standing in the middle of the hallway, her mind racing.
Diane stood frozen for a moment. Lara? Why would the boss's fiancée want to see her? Lara was usually distant, existing in a world of luxury that Diane only saw from afar.
"Was it because of yesterday's drama?" Diane thought, her pulse quickening. She remembered the tension, the way Charles had cornered her, and the cold look Lara had given her from across the room.
The fear began to bubble up, but Diane pushed it down. She thought about the sunlight in her bedroom and the weight of the spray in her bag.
She couldn't afford to be the victim anymore. If she was going to survive this job and keep her independence, she had to set boundaries that no one—not Charles, not Ben, and certainly not Lara—could cross.
"In as much as I'm afraid of this whole situation, I have to stand up for myself," she whispered to the empty hallway. "I will I'mcondone no nonsense from anybody. Not even Charles. Not today."
With a deep breath, Diane squared her shoulders. She turned away from her desk and headed toward the stairs leading to the "upper room," the executive level where the air always felt a little thinner and the stakes felt much higher.
As she walked away, she didn't notice the woman from before.
The woman had returned to her desk, but she wasn't working. She was watching Diane through the glass partitions of her office zone, her expression unreadable.
Only after Diane disappeared up the stairs did the woman finally put her glasses back on, adjusting her posture and turning her attention back to her computer screen as if the interaction had never happened.
The stage was set. Diane was walking into a meeting that could either break her or finally give her the leverage she needed to fight back. She reached the door of the upper room, took one last steadying breath, and knocked.
The biggest point of friction between Diane and her mother was their vastly different perspectives on life. Her mother was a gentle soul, but she possessed a fearful mind. She viewed the world as a place where one must compromise to survive.
To her, marrying Chief Ben wasn't a tragedy—it was a strategic move to save the family from the looming shadow of debt and public embarrassment.
She constantly urged Diane to accept the proposal, believing that security was more important than love or independence.
Diane, however, called this "coward advice." She had made it clear, time and time again, that she would never, under any circumstances, agree to such an arrangement.
"Hello, Mum," Diane said, finally clicking the green icon and leaning against the counter.
"Hello, Diane. How have you been, my dearest?" Her mother's voice was soft, but Diane could hear the exhaustion behind the greeting.
"I'm doing good, Mum. And you? How is everything at home?"
There was a long pause on the other end of the line, the kind of silence that usually preceded bad news. "I'm not fine, Diane," her mother finally whispered. "Chief Ben is not letting me be.
He is everywhere. He keeps coming up with consequences and threats every single day. He told me this morning that he is prepared to sue the family or do 'other horrible things if I don't convince you to be his wife, just as your father signed in that cursed contract."
Diane could hear the catch in her mother's throat, a sound that was almost a sob.
The Weight of the Past
The words hit Diane like a physical blow. The small amount of peace she had gathered throughout the day evaporated instantly.
She felt her heart sag, a heavy, sinking feeling that made her legs feel weak. Almost immediately, a dull ache began to throb behind her eyes—the start of a stress headache she knew all too well.
"Mum, we've talked about this," Diane said, though her voice lacked the fire it usually had. It was hard to be angry when her mother sounded so broken.
"I know, Diane, I know," her mother cried softly. "But your father… he didn't think. He was desperate when he signed that paper. Now your father is gone, and we are the ones left to pay the price. Chief Ben has the money, he has the lawyers, and he has the power. He says we are in breach of contract. He says he will take the house, the land—everything."
Diane closed her eyes, rubbing her temples. This was the trap. Chief Ben wasn't looking for a wife; he was looking for a trophy he had already paid for. To him, the contract was a bill of sale, and Diane was the merchandise.