Not yet.

He would call her to his office.

She’d turn cold. Obliged. Knowing what was coming.

“You know what happens when you speak about this”, he’d say. She’d nod, but he’d tell her anyway. “You’ll lose your job. That’s what’ll happen. But that’s the least. I’ll destroy you. You know this, right? I’ll fucking destroy you.”

She knew.

She knew it from the other stories whispered in the corridors. From the larger-than-life sportscar-poster against his wall. The framed accolades. The shrugs from those who knew.

Each time, afterwards, she would go to the restrooms. To wash her face. Scrub her hands. Rinse her mouth. But she refused to cry. Crying would mean defeat. And she would not let him defeat her.

She once told her direct boss. He said it was her own fault. Not to take it too seriously. Look at how she dresses anyway, he’d say. How do I dress, she’d wonder. And what does this have to do with anything?

Over time, pieces of her mind went missing. At first, she’d forget things. Stupid things, but important work things. Things that she never used to forget, but that were now getting her into trouble. She would look in the mirror and not recognise her face.

Later she would discover a habit that helped her. She’d close her office door, open the window. Climb out onto the ledge. Then slowly, careful not to lose her balance, she would let go of the wall. Close her eyes. Feel the wind against her body. Her body that betrayed her, more than once, in his office. She’d imagine falling forward, into the nothingness.

But then, carefully, she would climb back.

Not yet, she’d think. Not yet.