(Khloe's POV)
The message comes through just after noon.
> Dinner tonight at my place to celebrate the project's progress — hope you can make it.
— Flora
It's simple, polite, and impossible to refuse. Especially when I know he'll be there.
For hours, I tell myself it's just dinner — a professional courtesy, a small team gathering. But when evening comes, that excuse feels thin. I stand in front of my mirror too long, adjusting the same strand of hair over and over. I choose a black dress that fits neatly but modestly, a soft sweep of gloss, a thin gold chain. Enough to look confident. Not enough to raise questions.
Still, I wonder if he'll notice.
By the time Jayden pulls up in front of Flora's building, my palms are damp against my knees. The place looks more like a hotel than an apartment — glass façade, quiet doorman, the faint hum of wealth in every polished surface.
Flora opens the door before I knock twice. She's barefoot, wearing a dark green silk dress, hair pinned in that casual way that somehow looks deliberate. She smells like citrus and wine and something light.
"Khloe! I'm so glad you came." She pulls me into a brief hug, easy and warm.
"Thank you for inviting me," I say, smiling back because that's what you do.
Inside, the lights are low, music playing softly — the kind of playlist you'd find in an expensive restaurant. The city stretches behind glass walls, golden and alive. Then I see him.
Xavier stands near the balcony, sleeves rolled to his forearms, collar open just enough to make my breath catch. He's talking to someone from catering, his voice low, calm — until he turns. Our eyes meet, and the noise of the city outside dulls to nothing.
"Mr. Rush," I manage, steady but softer than I mean to.
"Khloe," he says, giving the smallest nod. His tone is polite, but his gaze lingers. Too long.
Flora gestures toward the table. "Dinner's almost ready. Let's have a drink first."
We sit with glasses of wine that I barely touch. The conversation starts light — work updates, travel stories, the latest adjustments on-site. But soon, Flora steers it somewhere sharper, testing the air.
"So, Khloe," she says, tilting her head, "how long have you been working with Xavy?"
"Seven months," I answer.
"Seven months already?" she laughs softly. "You must be good at keeping up with him. He used to drive me insane with those endless schedules."
I smile because that's expected. "He's focused."
"Always has been," she says, her eyes flicking toward him — fond, familiar, like she's looking through time.
He doesn't meet her gaze. "We all do our jobs," he says simply.
Dinner arrives soon after — artfully plated, every detail perfect. I try to focus on the food, on my posture, on not letting my emotions show. But Flora's stories weave between us like silk threads — about Vienna, about long flights, about how she and Xavier once fought over a design. Every memory of theirs sits heavy in my chest.
I laugh when I should, but the sound doesn't feel real.
When she mentions the way he used to argue for hours about symmetry and structure, I glance at him. His expression doesn't change much, but something flickers — a private acknowledgment. Like the past between them still lives somewhere in the quiet spaces of his mind.
Then Flora leans in slightly, eyes glinting with playful curiosity.
"He's changed, though. Softer now, maybe? I can't imagine him ever letting someone challenge him these days."
He looks up, meeting her gaze — and then mine. "Don't be so sure," he says. "Some people challenge me just by being themselves."
It feels like the world pauses for one small heartbeat.
Flora smiles, but there's something edged in it. "That's good to know."
I take another sip of wine I don't want, feeling warmth rise to my throat. My pulse won't calm, and I wish I could disappear into my glass. The room feels smaller, the air tighter.
Dessert comes and goes. Flora's laughter fills every silence. I wonder if Xavier feels it too — the strange imbalance in the air. When her phone rings, she excuses herself with a bright smile and vanishes down the hallway.
The apartment falls into stillness.
I stand, gathering my bag. "I should probably head home."
He's quiet for a second. Then, softly:
"Wait."
I stop. He's still seated, elbows on his knees, eyes fixed on me like he's trying to decide something dangerous.
"You didn't have to come tonight," he says.
"I know," I whisper. "But it would've been rude not to."
He studies me, something unreadable in his face. "You handled her well."
"I didn't realize she needed handling."
That earns the smallest smile from him — weary, almost fond. "You do more than you think, Khloe."
Silence again. Thick. Charged. The kind that fills every inch of air between two people who are trying not to admit what's there.
Then, quietly, he says it:
"Khloe… you have no idea what you do to people, do you?"
The words hang there — bare, impossible to ignore.
My heart stumbles.
I can't move, can't look away. His voice is low, but it trembles slightly at the edge, as if the truth is costing him something to say. His eyes search mine — not demanding, just seeing.
"I—" The word catches. "I don't know what you mean."
He exhales, a slow, steady breath that somehow shakes anyway. "Maybe it's better you don't."
Before I can answer, Flora's voice calls from the hall — bright and oblivious. "Everything okay in here?"
I step back, forcing air into my lungs. "Yes. I was just leaving."
He stands, but doesn't stop me this time. Just watches.
"Goodnight, Mr. Rush," I say quietly.
"Goodnight, Khloe."
Her name in his voice does something to me I can't name.
By the time I reach the door, Flora is already back, smiling, thanking me for coming. I smile too, but my hands tremble when I reach for the handle.
Outside, the night air is cool against my flushed skin. The city hums, distant and alive. I wait for my ride, but even as headlights approach, my mind replays his voice, the look in his eyes, the weight of those words.
You have no idea what you do to people.
I don't know if it was a compliment, a warning, or something in between.
But I know this — nothing about tonight felt simple.
And somewhere deep down, a quiet truth settles in my chest like the start of a storm.
I'm not just part of his world anymore.
I'm part of his undoing.