Page 125 of Power Play
“Maybe,” I say. “If I’m not knee-deep in spreadsheets.”
“If you’re not, I’m stealing you.”
She tosses her apple core in the bin like a mic drop and breezes out, leaving me alone with my salad and the faint buzz of my phone vibrating again.
Another voice note.
Murphy, again.
I don’t open it. I don’t delete it either. I just stare at it as if it might explode.
Because here’s the thing, I know he didn’t cheat. Not technically. He didn’t kiss her, didn’t go home with her, didn’t sleep with her.
But he didn’t stop her either.
And that’s where everything unravels.
Because I wasn’t asking for sainthood. I wasn’t even asking for perfection. I was asking for basic respect. The bare minimum. A hand up to say, “No thanks, I’ve got someone already.” A step back. A barrier. A look of loyalty on a face I thought I knew better than my own.
Instead, I got a half-second of frozen hesitation immortalised by paparazzi and splashed across gossip sites like a punchline.
I get up, dump the rest of my salad, and go back to my desk.
Another hour passes. Then another.
By late afternoon, I’ve answered seventeen emails, survived a meeting that could’ve been an email, and resisted the urge to listen to Murphy’s voice note for almost seven full hours. That’s practically sainthood.
Then, because the universe hates me, my phone buzzes again.
Murphy: You don’t have to forgive me. But can you please just let me say this one thing?
I shut my eyes.
Because I know what happens if I say yes. I know how easy it is to fall for his voice, his words, that way he always knew how to soften me just enough to slip back in under my ribs.
He was good at that. Too good.
But I’m not the same girl I was two weeks ago.
So, I text back.
Sophie: Don’t mistake my silence for softness. I’m still angry. I’m still hurt. I’m just choosing not to scream about it.
He reads it instantly.
Three dots appear.
Then disappear.
Then nothing.
Good. Let him sit with that.
I get home around six, throw my bag on the floor, and pull openthe fridge as though it personally owes me comfort. There’s a half bottle of wine, some hummus, and enough leftovers to avoid Deliveroo for one night.
I pour a glass of wine, pull on an oversized jumper, and curl up on the couch like I’ve earned it.
Halfway through an old episode ofFriends, my phone buzzes again.
