Romantic Comedy Workplace Drama with Revenge-PART 2

PART 2: OFFICE INTRIGUE

Ava's Slack pinged later that morning. 
CLARA: I want you in the wellness room. Immediately. Stretchable clothing. Also, don't kill Sebastian. 
Ava stared. Was this code for something? Corporate espionage? Secret dance battle? 
She pinged back: 
AVA: I have questions. 
CLARA: You'll get answers. Just come. 
Ten minutes later, Ava stood barefoot in the impromptu wellness room covered with leggings, a company hoodie, and<Edge>the last threads of dignity. 
She said, "I thought we were pitching a skincare campaign." "Why are there yoga mats?" 
Not phased, caffeinated, and terrified, Clara waved a camera crew over. "Sebastian wants authenticity. Actual employee wellness for the campaign images. 'Vitality from within,' blah blah. You're flexible, right?" 
"In the metaphorical sense." 
"You'll be fine." 
Then he walked in. 
Sebastian. Of course. His hands were as if holding a clipboard-like weapon and joggers that must have been more expensive than her monthly rent. 
His eyes scanned the room. Paused on her. 
He said, "Ms. Morgan," and the corners of his mouth twitched. "Didn't see you as the mindful movement type." 
"I'm full of surprises," she said between clenched teeth. 
After ten minutes of the session, Ava got a breakthrough; yoga was fine. Yoga being filmed was torture. And Yoga was a full psychological thriller, shot from the front of your nemesis-turned-boss in leggings that were chafing you down too tight. 
The instructor said: "Now gently shift into downward dog." "Sense the stretching of the hamstrings". 
Ava complied. She stretched. She breathed. Her hoodie slid upward. 
She tugged it back. 
She breathed again. 
It slid higher. 
She felt his gaze from the other side of the room. Not leering. Just... assessing. Which was worse, somehow. 
Now, slowly rise, the instructor commanded. 
Ava did. So did her hoodie. 
And then the neckline dipped. 
Oh. God. 
There was Ava's leopard-print bra in complete inadvertent 4K. A spicy little impulse purchase from before a pre-Valentine's sale. It was not office-approved. It was not wellness-approved. It was certainly not Managing-Director-who-already-hates-you-approved. 
She pulled down her hoodie and stood straight up. 
Sebastian's eyes glared up at her. 
No comment. No smile. Just a darned neutral expression, as if to say: "Interesting choice." 
Ava fled. 
She locked herself in the third-floor loo and texted Lucy. 
AVA: Just showed the new MD in yoga. I quit. I want to move in with you and your cat. 
LUCY: Did he stare or smirk? 
AVA: Neither. That's the problem. He catalogued. 
LUCY: Then he's a Darcy. Or a Knightley. 
AVA: I think he's a Voldemort. 
Lucy returned the post with a gif of Faints Emma Woodhouse. 
Later in the afternoon, sitting at her desk, Ava despaired of ever disappearing into Google Docs when Clara visited. 
"He didn't say anything," Clara, murmuring, sipped a latte, "if that's what you're worried about." "And for what is worth, you looked great." 
"I wasn't trying to look great. I wanted to look competent." 
"Two things can be true," Clara said with a shrug. "Now come on. We have a campaign to brainstorm. 
Even as she rose, her eyes swept over the open office – in time to see Sebastian looking at her. 
Again. 
He didn't flinch this time. 
Neither did she. 
The room shifted. 
Slightly.