Thornevale HQ, 9:52 AM
Lyra reviewed a supply chain proposal with the head of the sustainability division. Her stylus glided across the tablet screen as she highlighted weaknesses in procurement models and traced potential pressure points in regulatory compliance.
She was calm. Controlled.
"Delay the Porto segment by six weeks," she said. "That buys us breathing room on offshore freight costs."
The manager nodded, impressed.
As he stood to leave, he paused.
"You always see the angles," he said, casually.
Lyra nodded once, polite. "It's a habit."
As the door closed behind him, her gaze drifted to the small window overlooking the north terrace.
A flash from the night before.
Edgar.
The hallway.
The pause.
His voice: "Neither was I."
She shook her head.
Ridiculous.
She turned back to her screen. The words blurred for half a second before sharpening again.
Floor 47 – Private Conference Room, 10:18 AM
Edgar stood with his back to the window, presenting to two senior partners about the revised asset flow model for the Monaco project. His voice was precise, cold, convincing. They nodded like they always did.
He didn't notice.
What he did notice—in the middle of a sentence—was a shadow of movement outside the glass wall.
A dark silhouette. Walking past.
Her.
Just the shape of her—her stride, her profile.
It didn't break his rhythm.
But a breath caught in his chest, held there half a second too long before releasing.
"She's effective," one of the partners said, referring to Lyra.
Edgar didn't answer.
He didn't need to.
Lyra's Office, 1:02 PM
She sat alone eating a late lunch at her desk—nothing fancy, just poached chicken and greens. Her tablet was still lit, now open to a project history archive from five years ago.
An image flashed across the screen.
A field rendering for an older Thornevale property—long since demolished. A building designed with arches along the upper level.
Something about the arches—
She blinked.
The image twisted in her vision, just for a second.
Stone, not steel.
Flames in the distance.
And his voice—someone's voice—cutting through the dark:
"Get her out. Now."
Her fork paused midair.
She swallowed. Slowly.
It passed.
She closed the file.
Edgar's Suite, 3:10 PM
Arielle stood across from his desk.
"Lucien Vale confirmed for tomorrow. Noon."
Edgar gave a slight nod.
"He'll want to test her," Arielle added.
"She'll handle it."
"You're certain?"
His eyes stayed on the document in front of him.
"No."
Arielle left.
He sat alone in the stillness.
After a while, he looked—not at the screen—but at the empty chair across from his desk.
The one she had sat in yesterday.
The echo of her voice drifted uninvited through his memory:
"I understand people."
He wasn't sure if she meant him.
That was the problem.
He was starting to hope she did.