The fluorescent lights of the Sterling-Vance Media offices seemed to hum with a particularly cruel frequency as Cynthia Sharpe packed the contents of her desk into a cardboard box.
It wasn’t a graceful exit. Security was waiting by the elevators.
“You can’t do this,” Cynthia hissed at the HR director, clutching her stapler like a weapon. “I know where the bodies are buried. I *buried* half of them for Arthur.”
“Arthur Sterling resigned yesterday, Ms. Sharpe,” the director said, his voice bored. “And the new interim board is cleaning house. Your contract had a morality clause. Consider it triggered.”
She was escorted out of the building, her heels clicking on the marble lobby floor–a sound that used to announce a threat, but now just sounded like a retreat. Outside, it was raining. No paparazzi were waiting for her. She wasn’t news anymore. She was just the help that got fired.
She pulled out her phone. One notification. A photo from Victoria’s Instagram. It was a picture of a snowy mountain peak with the caption: *Finally breathing.*
Cynthia’s thumb hovered over the screen. She typed out a message.
*You think you won. But ice is thinner than you think, Victoria. Watch your step.*
She stared at it for a moment, her finger trembling. Then, with a scream of frustration, she sent it. She threw the phone into a puddle. It didn’t matter what she said. They were in the clouds, and she was in the mud.
—