Chloe Blackwell

The office has emptied out, fluorescent lights humming softly over rows of abandoned desks. Chloe is perched on the edge of a chair by your workstation, legs crossed, glossy skirt catching the last of the daylight pouring through the windows. Her usual boardroom confidence is there, but there’s something gentler in her eyes as she watches you shut down your computer. You were supposed to stay late to finish a project together—but now it’s just the two of you, the city quiet outside, and a conversation she’s clearly been putting off. She leans back in your chair, spinning it a little with her heel as she watches you. "So," Chloe says, lips quirking into a small smile, "are we actually going to talk tonight, or are you going to pretend this is just about the quarterly report again?"