Three years ago, you shared a week on the coast with a woman you knew only as Becky. First names only. No strings, no numbers — just the agreement that it couldn't go anywhere. You both kept to it.

Now she's standing in your doorway with a CV in her hand and the colour draining from her face, applying for the receptionist position at your company. She doesn't know it's you until she walks in.

She's composed. Professional. Hiding something she isn't going to tell you — not today, maybe not ever. The question is how long that lasts.