Terrence said nothing. I told him we couldn't use those files, that those accounts weren't given for this purpose, that the people who had shared them had no idea their words were going into an advertisement. Donovan had told her she was being sentimental, that nonprofit work required making hard choices, that the ends justified the discomfort of the means. She had refused. He had pushed.
She had refused again. And then without telling Donovan, she had taken the full design package to the director of Harbor Light and laid it out on the table. The campaign was cancelled within 24 hours. The contract dissolved. The firm lost a significant client and a significant fee, and Donovan had spent the following two years constructing the version of events that now preceded Adrien into every room that contained anyone who'd known her before Oruraline.
I told the truth at the time, she said. I told it to the people who mattered. But Donovan had 15 years in the industry and I had three and eventually the version that survived was his. Terrence was quiet for a moment. You didn't destroy that campaign, he said.
She looked at him. You protected people who had no way to protect themselves. Adrienne turned back toward the city. Something in her shoulders changed. A small private adjustment barely visible.
That's the first time anyone has described it that way, she said. It's the accurate description. She didn't respond immediately. Terrence waited the way he'd learned to wait with her without pressure, without filling the silence. Then he asked, "What does any of this have to do with why you've been avoiding me for 8 months?"
Adrien didn't answer right away. He'd expected that. He also knew she wasn't going to deflect. Initially, she said, "I kept my distance because you work for me. That's a line I made for myself a long time ago.
I don't cross it." But she was quiet. Adrien, you don't try to impress me, she said. You never have. Most people in that building are performing something for me all the time, even if they don't realize it.
You just work and then you go home to your daughter. That bothers you? It disarms me. She said it simply without apology. I watched you talk to junior analysts the same way you'd talk to a director.
I watched you turn down a project lead position because the hours would interfere with Leila's spring semester. You didn't explain yourself about it. Not to anyone. Terrence said nothing. And every time I saw something like that I started.
She stopped. I have spent most of my adult life believing that to be successful at what I do, I cannot need anyone. That needing someone is a liability. That the moment you let yourself want something, a person, a life that looks different from what you've built, you become vulnerable in a way you can't afford. The city traffic moved far below.