My CEO Said, “Still Upset with Me?” I answered...

Описание: I'm standing in the hallway outside Conference Room B, and my hands won't stop shaking. Rebecca Stone just asked me a question that's been hanging in the air for eight months, and I can't run away this time. "Still upset with me, James?" Her voice is quiet, almost careful, like she's afraid of what I might say. I'm James Hartley, and right now I'm trapped between a woman who deserves answers and a truth that's going to hurt both of us. Let me tell you how I got here. Eight months ago, Rebecca Stone became the CEO of Meridian Technologies, the software company where I've worked for six years. The day she walked through those glass doors in the lobby, I was standing by the coffee machine on the third floor. Someone said, "That's our new CEO," and I looked down at the atrium below. When I saw her face, my coffee cup slipped right out of my hand. It shattered on the floor, hot liquid spreading across the tile, and my coworker Mark asked if I was okay. I wasn't okay. I haven't been okay since. Because Rebecca Stone isn't just my CEO. She's the sister of Andrew Stone, and Andrew Stone died four years ago on a Tuesday morning at three-fifteen. I know the exact time because I was the one who got the call from the hospital. I was the one listed as his emergency contact at work. I was his supervisor, his manager, the person who made the schedule that put him on the road that night. The person whose decision killed him. So for eight months, I've been avoiding Rebecca. Every morning when the executive elevator opens on the fifth floor, I'm suddenly very busy in the server room. Every time she walks past my office, I'm on a very important phone call. Every company meeting, I sit in the back row where she can't see my face. Every email she sends directly to me, I forward to my team lead and ask him to respond. I've become a ghost in my own workplace, haunting the edges of every room she enters, disappearing the moment she looks my way. But today is Friday, and everyone left early for the long weekend. I stayed late to finish quarterly reports, thinking I was safe, thinking Rebecca would be gone like everyone else. I was wrong. She was waiting in Conference Room B, and when I walked past, she called my name. Not "Mr. Hartley" or "James Hartley" like she uses in emails. Just "James," soft and tired and done with waiting. I stopped walking. Every part of me wanted to keep going, to pretend I didn't hear, to run like I've been running for eight months. But my feet wouldn't move. "Can we talk?" she asked. "Please?" I turned around. Rebecca was standing in the doorway of the conference room, and she looked different from the polished CEO who runs board meetings and gives company presentations. Her blazer was draped over a chair. Her sleeves were rolled up. She looked human and sad and like she'd been carrying something heavy for a long time. Just like me. "I don't think that's a good idea," I said. My voice came out rough. I cleared my throat.

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