(Xavier's POV)
I don't remember what Flora said after Khloe left. Something about dessert, something about the caterers. It all sounded like noise beneath the sound of the door clicking shut.
That sound lingered longer than it should have. It wasn't just the end of a dinner. It felt like something else—like the air had changed the second she stepped out.
I stayed seated for a while, pretending to listen as Flora talked. She laughed about the evening, about how "sweet" Khloe was. I nodded at all the right moments, but my thoughts were already miles away. I could still see the way Khloe's hand trembled slightly when she reached for her bag. Still hear the soft, careful way she'd said, Goodnight, Mr. Rush.
It shouldn't have mattered. It shouldn't have stayed with me. But it did.
When Flora leaned back in her chair, swirling her wine, her tone shifted—lighter, but edged. "So," she said, "she's different."
"Who?"
"Khloe," she replied easily. "She doesn't look at you like everyone else does."
I kept my face neutral. "She's professional."
Flora laughed, a soft, knowing sound. "Professional? That's your word for it?"
I didn't answer. There was nothing I could say that wouldn't sound like a lie.
She watched me for a beat too long before standing. "Be careful, Xavy," she said, her voice quieter now. "You have that look again."
"What look?"
"The one you had years ago. The one that got you in trouble."
I didn't respond. I didn't have to. We both knew what she meant.
When she disappeared into the kitchen, I stood too, running a hand across my jaw. I needed air. I needed distance. But mostly, I needed silence.
I said my goodbyes shortly after and left.
By the time I reached my apartment, the city had quieted. The streets below were still alive with the last hum of night, but up here—twenty floors above—it felt like another world entirely.
I loosened my tie and dropped my keys on the console. The sound echoed in the stillness. The lights from the skyline spilled across the floor, painting the edges of the room in soft blue and gold.
For a while, I just stood there, staring at the window's reflection of myself. The shirt slightly unbuttoned, the faint shadow under my eyes, the ghost of something on my face I didn't want to name.
I walked to the kitchen and poured a glass of water. The sound of it hitting the glass was sharp, steady, grounding. I took a slow sip and leaned against the counter.
The apartment was clean, ordered—just the way I liked it. Everything had its place. Everything predictable. Except tonight.
Tonight, everything felt slightly off-kilter.
Her voice kept replaying in my head. It would've been rude not to come.
Always polite. Always careful. Always pretending she's fine.
I set the glass down and rubbed the back of my neck. I wished she wouldn't do that—hide behind professionalism, behind composure. Because every time she did, I caught glimpses of something else. Something that reminded me too much of myself.
Flora's words echoed in the back of my mind. You have that look again.
Maybe she was right. Maybe I did. But this—whatever this was—wasn't supposed to happen.
I crossed the room, letting my hand brush against the edge of the piano near the window. I hadn't touched it in months. The keys were cool under my fingertips. I pressed one absentmindedly. The note rang out—low, soft, fading too quickly.
A perfect metaphor.
I sat down on the couch, elbows on my knees, staring at the floor. The clock ticked somewhere behind me. Midnight had passed, but my thoughts hadn't slowed.
Every image from the evening replayed: Flora's teasing laughter, the shimmer of candlelight on Khloe's skin, the way she'd kept her eyes down even when she was smiling. The smallest details refused to fade.
And then that moment—
The one I shouldn't have let happen.
"You have no idea what you do to people, do you?"
The words had slipped out before I could stop them. They weren't planned, weren't professional. They were just… true.
She'd looked at me then—really looked—and for one reckless second, I wanted to cross the distance between us. To say something else, something that would only make things worse.
I ran a hand through my hair, exhaling hard.
What was I doing?
Khloe Karl was my assistant. She worked under me. We had rules—boundaries. I made them. I lived by them. And yet, somehow, she'd managed to step past every one without even trying.
It wasn't her fault. It never was. She didn't even seem to realize the effect she had. That was the worst part. She didn't play games, didn't seek attention. She was just… herself. Quiet. Brilliant. Composed in ways most people only pretended to be.
And that composure—God, that composure—made me want to see what she was hiding beneath it.
I leaned back, tilting my head against the couch. The ceiling above me was dark, shadowed by the faint spill of city light.
There was a time I believed I could separate my life into clean lines—business on one side, everything else on the other. I'd built my name on discipline, on never letting feelings interfere. And now here I was, replaying the way a woman said goodnight.
Pathetic.
The city hummed beyond the glass, headlights threading through the streets below like veins of gold. I stood again, restless, pacing toward the window. The skyline stretched wide and endless, reflecting on the glass like a mirror I didn't want to face.
I told myself this was nothing. Just a moment. A lapse in focus. It would pass.
But when I closed my eyes, she was still there—standing under Flora's warm lights, her dress catching the glow, her voice steady even when her pulse wasn't.
It wasn't attraction, not exactly. It was something heavier, quieter. Something I couldn't define.
The clock struck one. I hadn't moved.
I poured another glass of water just to have something to do with my hands. My reflection caught in the window again—tired eyes, loosened collar, that same look Flora warned me about. The one I thought I'd buried years ago.
I laughed softly to myself, though there was no humor in it.
I sat back down, opened my laptop, and tried to work. A presentation file blinked on the screen. I scrolled through it aimlessly, numbers and graphs that meant nothing in that moment. The cursor blinked, waiting for input.
Instead, I typed her name.
Khloe Karl—evaluation pending.
A professional excuse. A justification. Something to hide behind.
I stared at the line for a long time before closing the laptop again. The click of it shutting sounded final, but nothing about what I felt was.
The apartment was silent now. The kind of silence that isn't peaceful—just full. Full of everything left unsaid.
I let out a slow breath and sank deeper into the couch. My tie hung loose, my sleeves rolled, my thoughts a mess.
Because the truth was simple. The kind of simple that hurts.
I couldn't afford to be distracted. Not by her. Not by anyone.
And yet, even knowing that—
Even knowing what crossing that line would cost—
I couldn't bring myself to regret the moment I said it.
You have no idea what you do to people.
It was a warning.
But also a confession.
And as I sat there, watching the city lights fade toward dawn, I knew I wasn't just lying to her anymore. I was lying to myself.
Because the truth is—
if I start something I can't finish with her,
it won't just ruin the project.
It'll ruin me.