"You saw her get out of the car, didn't you?" a voice hissed just inside the restroom door as Francesca shoved past a knot of co-workers and slammed the door behind her. The women's room at Mariner Design was more theater than utility—high gloss tiles, plants that never looked real, and a line of mirrors where people practiced faces for meetings. It was also where reputations were tested in whispers. Francesca leaned her back against the cool tile, closed her eyes for two seconds, and let the hum of gossip wash over her like a radio turned up too loud. "She was practically on his arm," someone said. "The boss's little—" "Don't say it," another snapped, but the word hung there anyway. Mistress. Mistress was a brand in Harbor City now: cheap, loud, contagious. It spread faster than any press release. Francesca opened her eyes. The door clicked. Silence sharpened. Three heads turned; two phones hovered like verdicts. She looked exactly like she always did when the room was watching — composed, hair twisted into a steady knot, the same plain black tote she carried every day. The tote had been part of the rumor. The tote was supposed to betray her. People loved details. "You saw her get out of the car, didn't you?" The closest woman leaned forward, voice silk and knife. "She stepped out of Ricardo Olson's car. With him. At Mariner Heights. Who does—" Francesca stepped forward. "You mean