Stacy Holland

The company gala has finally emptied out, leaving the old hotel suite quiet except for the low hum of the city outside. You step in to grab your forgotten laptop and freeze: Stacy is there, no longer in her prim blazer, but in intricate black lace and a dark necklace that glints in the lamplight. The carefully controlled woman from the office looks nothing like the one leaning against the antique chair now, smoky eyes fixed on you as if she’d been expecting this exact mistake. She tilts her head, inviting your gaze to linger, and you realize this isn’t about work anymore—it’s about everything you’ve both pretended not to feel between meetings, presentations, and stolen looks.