????????? ??? ????????????

The elevator ride down from the hotel felt longer than it was.
Y/N stood in the corner, arms crossed, sunglasses hiding her bloodshot eyes from the single other guest — a woman too wrapped up in her own phone to notice the slow unspooling of shame crawling up Y/N's spine.

It wasn't regret.
It was never regret.
But as she scrolled through her phone, thumb numb from muscle memory, the headlines flashed like a siren in her brain.

"Journalist Shadowing Taylor Swift Spotted In Scandalous Embrace With Pop Star Sabrina Carpenter."
"From Critic to Clout-Chaser?"
"Taylor Swift's New Documentary Ruined by Journalist's Bedroom Antics?"

Y/N snorted under her breath.
Cheap shots. Lazy writing.
But it still twisted inside her, small and ugly.
The word that kept repeating wasn't journalist or critic — it was slut.

Over and over.

By the time the Uber pulled up, she barely glanced at the driver, sliding into the backseat with a hollow thud. The city blurred outside the window — gray and ugly in the early morning light. Her phone buzzed again.
New notification. New stab.

This time, it wasn't a headline.

It was a text.

From Tree Paine.

Meeting Monday. 9AM sharp. Mandatory.

No explanation. No preamble.

Y/N dropped her phone onto the seat beside her, closed her eyes, and let her head thud gently against the glass.

Two days' warning.
Not an emergency.
Still — it felt like a guillotine waiting to drop.

⸻

The rest of the weekend slipped past in a haze.
She didn't answer calls. She didn't open social media again.
She didn't even open the fridge.

By Monday morning, her bones were vibrating with a quiet, exhausted rage.
If they wanted a show? Fine.
She'd give them something to look at.

She yanked a blouse from her closet — soft ivory silk, clinging to her skin like a second breath.
Two buttons undone at the top.
Not obscene.
Just enough to turn heads.
High-waisted black trousers. Heels sharp enough to stab someone in the foot if they got too close.

She painted her mouth a deep shade of red, pinned her hair back, and stared herself down in the mirror.

Let them fucking choke on it.

⸻

The office was too bright.
Every click of her heels echoed like gunfire across the floor.

People looked up as she passed. Whispers started before she even reached the conference room.
She didn't blink.
She didn't breathe.

Taylor Swift was already there, standing stiff by the coffee station.
Casual. Effortless. Jeans and a black sweater that looked soft enough to fall asleep in.

Y/N saw her before Taylor saw her.
Saw the way her mouth moved around a polite conversation with some tech kid, some stiff nod of hello.

And then Taylor turned.

And froze.

Her eyes dragged down Y/N's body, slow and unwilling.
For a moment — a single heartbeat — her mouth parted in something like awe.

Y/N tilted her head. Smiled, slow and poisonous.

Taylor jerked her eyes away like she'd been caught doing something unspeakable.
The cup in her hand nearly slipped.