The dog refused to cross the threshold, no matter how hard she pulled on the leash. “Please,” Clara muttered, glancing back at the house. It was modern. Clean lines. Huge windows. The kind of place you see in lifestyle magazines. The kind of place that meant you had made it. Her new boss lived here. She’d been invited to dinner — “informal,” he had said — to discuss the promotion. The one she had worked toward for years. The dog sat down firmly. Clara crouched beside him. “It’s just dinner.” The house loomed quietly. The lights inside were warm, golden. Too golden. She thought about the meeting earlier that week. The way her boss had smiled a little too long. The way his compliments felt more personal than professional. “You’re different,” he had said. The dog let out a low growl. Clara stood slowly. She had convinced herself it was harmless. Networking. Visibility. Initiative. She had convinced herself she was overthinking. Her phone buzzed in her pocket — a text from her sister: You don’t owe anyone access to you. The dog tugged backward again. Clara exhaled and looked at the door one more time. She turned around. Later, she would tell herself she chose self-respect. That she drew a boundary. But she never reported him. Never said anything to HR. Never warned the next woman. Only later did she realize that nothing had actually been resolved.