Time passed in a fog.
Noah worked. Quarterly reports. Budget meetings that should've been emails.
His father mentioned the Sterlins partnership once—Noah kept it short.
Emma came over Tuesday night. Thai food. Some Netflix show.
She fell asleep on his shoulder around eleven. He drove her home after midnight.
Normal.
Regular.
He wasn't thinking about Atlas.
He was trying really fucking hard not to.
Wednesday morning. Phone buzzed.
Emma:Coffee? Miss your face ☕💕
Noah stared at it.
Typed: 12:30pm? Usual spot?
Emma:Perfect! See you soon 😊
He put the phone down.
Went back to the sales report.
Same paragraph. Third time.
Numbers kept sliding out of his head.
The café was packed. Lunch rush.
Emma waved from a corner table. Yellow dress bright against dark wood. Hair up. That smile.
She stood and kissed his cheek. "Finally. Felt like forever."
"I literally just saw you."
"Forever," she said.
They sat. Emma had already ordered—iced latte for her, black coffee for him.
She always remembered.
"Okay, so." She pulled out her tablet. "Need your honest opinion."
Fabric samples spread across the table. Paint chips. Floor plans.
"New client?" Noah asked.
"Penthouse renovation. Upper East Side. The wife wants—"
Penthouse.
Something twisted in Noah's gut.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. City lights. Atlas by the glass—
"—minimalist but cozy, you know? So cream or ivory?"
Noah blinked. "What?"
Emma held up two samples that looked identical. "Cream or ivory?"
"Cream."
"Really? I was leaning ivory."
"Then ivory."
She laughed. "You're not even looking."
"Sorry." He made himself focus. "Long week."
"It's Wednesday."
"Long Wednesday."
Emma set the samples aside. Reached across. Took his hand.
Her palm warm. Soft. Her thumb stroking his knuckles.
"You okay?" she asked. "You've been kind of... off."
"I'm fine. Just the Sterlins thing. Lot of prep."
"Atlas Sterlins, right?"
Hearing her say his name felt wrong.
"Yeah. Him."
"He seemed intense at the party. Kind of intimidating." She squeezed his hand. "But you'll figure it out. You always do."
Her eyes held that familiar certainty. Unshakable faith.
Used to feel like a safety net.
Now it just felt like weight.
Noah pulled his hand back. Picked up his coffee.
"How's your mom?"
Emma let him change the subject.
Her smile didn't quite reach her eyes this time.
Back at the office. Inbox refreshed.
New email:Wellin-Sterlins Partnership - Project Kickoff
Tomorrow, 2PM. Conference Room B.
Attendees: Noah Wellin, Atlas Sterlins, Project Team
Noah stared at the name.
Atlas Sterlins.
Closed the email. Opened a spreadsheet instead.
Revenue projections. Market analysis.
Focus. Work.
Phone buzzed.
Emma:Love you. Dinner Friday?
He typed: Love you too. Friday works.
Hit send before he could think about how automatic it felt.
Five o'clock. Sales review.
Noah sat at the conference table with seven others. His father at the head.
Someone talking about market trends. Consumer behavior.
Noah's pen moved across his notepad. Taking notes.
Except he wasn't writing words.
Just lines. Random shapes.
"Noah?"
He looked up fast.
His father. Watching. That look—the one that said I'm waiting for you to become the son I need.
"Thoughts on Q3 forecast?"
Everyone staring.
"Conservative but realistic," Noah said. "We'll hit targets if retention holds."
His father's gaze lingered a second too long before moving to the next slide.
"Good."
Meeting continued.
Noah went back to his notepad.
Drew another line.
He'd written a letter without meaning to.
A.
He scribbled it out.
Six-thirty. Most people gone.
Noah shut down his computer. Grabbed his jacket.
Phone rang.
Emma.
He answered. "Hey."
"Hi." Soft voice. "I know it's last minute, but I made way too much lasagna. Want to come over?"
Noah hesitated.
"Or not," Emma added quickly. "If you're tired—"
"No. Yeah. I'll come."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Okay." Relief in her voice. "See you soon."
Emma's apartment smelled like tomatoes and garlic.
She'd set the table with candles. Wine glasses.
The candlelight caught the rim of her glass as she poured.
For a second—just a second—Noah saw another reflection in the curved crystal.
Pale skin. Dark eyes. A mouth that didn't smile.
He blinked.
Just Emma. Smiling at him. Always Emma.
"Fancy," Noah said.
"It's Wednesday. We deserve fancy."
They ate. Emma talked about her client. The impossible penthouse wife. Contractor drama.
Noah listened. Laughed when he should. Said the right things.
Normal.
"You're quiet tonight," Emma said.
"Am I?"
"More than usual." She touched his arm. "You sure you're okay?"
"Long day."
"You keep saying that."
She watched him the way you watch a vase that's started to wobble.
He met her eyes. Brown. Warm. Worried.
"I'm fine," he said. "I just need to sleep more."
Emma looked at him for a long moment.
Nodded. "Okay."
But she didn't believe him.
After dinner they ended up on the couch.
Emma picked some comedy.
She curled up against him. Head on his shoulder. Hand on his chest.
The movie played. Noah couldn't tell you what happened.
Emma laughed at something. He felt it more than heard it.
"This is nice," she murmured. "Just us."
"Yeah."
Her hand moved. Fingers tracing patterns on his shirt.
She tilted her head up. Kissed his jaw.
Noah turned. Kissed her properly.
She responded right away. Warm. Eager.
Her hands in his hair. Body pressing closer.
Her lips were soft. Familiar. She tasted like wine and home.
And all Noah could think was: This should work. Why doesn't this work?
His body responded on autopilot—hands on her waist, lips moving with hers—while some distant part of his brain screamed from behind glass.
He pulled back.
"What's wrong?" Emma asked. Breathless.
"Nothing. I just—" He stood. "I should go."
"What? Why?"
"Early meeting tomorrow."
"Noah—"
"I'm sorry. I just—" He grabbed his jacket. "I'll call you."
"Did I do something wrong?"
That hurt.
There was a new caution in her touch as she reached for him. Like he might break.
Or worse—like he already had.
"No. God, no. You're perfect. I'm just—not feeling great. Think I'm getting sick."
Another lie.
Emma walked him to the door.
"Okay," she said quietly. "Rest up."
He kissed her forehead. "Thanks for dinner."
"Noah?"
He stopped. Hand on the doorknob.
"You'd tell me if something was actually wrong, right?"
"Of course."
He left.
Noah sat in his car in Emma's parking lot.
Didn't turn the key.
Just sat there.
Phone lit up.
Emma:I love you
Three words.
He typed: I love you too
Started the car. Drove home through quiet streets.
His apartment was dark.
Noah dropped his keys on the counter. Stood in the entryway.
Tomorrow was Thursday.
Project kickoff at 2PM.
Conference Room B.
Atlas would be there.
He walked to his bedroom. Lay down without changing.
Stared at the ceiling.
Couldn't sleep.
11:47 when he gave up. Reached for his phone.
Opened contacts.
Scrolled to Sterlins, Atlas.
Company directory. Work number.
His thumb hovered.
What the fuck would I even say?
He locked the phone. Put it face-down.
Rolled onto his side.
"It's nothing," he said to the empty room. "He's nothing."
Didn't sound true.
When sleep finally came, it didn't help.
Thursday morning. Alarm at 6:30.
Noah got up. Showered. Dressed.
Made coffee. Made toast he didn't eat.
His reflection looked tired.
Good. He felt tired.
Phone buzzed.
Emma:Good luck with your meeting today! You'll be amazing 💪
He typed: Thanks
Sent it.
Felt nothing.
The office was normal. Meetings stacked on meetings. Inbox wouldn't stop.
Lunch at his desk—half a sandwich he didn't finish.
The afternoon crawled.
Numbers on his screen blurred into gray static. 1:17 PM.
His coffee had gone cold. Bitter skin forming on the surface.
Each minute stretched like taffy. Sweet with anticipation. Sticky with dread.
1:30.
Noah grabbed his folder. Headed to Conference Room B.
The hallway felt too long.
Through the glass he could see people already there.
His father. The CFO. Project manager.
And across the table—
Atlas.
Dark gray suit. White shirt. Reading something on his tablet.
Like this was just another Thursday.
Like the last three days hadn't happened.
Like nothing had changed.
Noah's hand on the door handle.
Breathe. Professional.
He pushed it open.
Atlas looked up.
Their eyes met.
One second. Two.
Then Atlas looked back down at his tablet.
Like Noah was nobody.
Like that moment in the study never happened.
Noah took his seat across from him.
Three feet of table between them.
His father cleared his throat. "Let's get started."
The project manager pulled up slides. "Q4 integration timeline—"
Noah opened his folder. Pulled out his notes.
Atlas hadn't looked at him once.
Not a glance. Not a nod.
Just—nothing.
Ten minutes in, Noah's pen rolled off the table.
Hit the floor with a soft click.
He bent to pick it up.
Atlas's foot shifted. Just slightly.
Close enough Noah could feel the warmth through his shoe.
Then gone.
Noah straightened. Pen in hand.
Atlas was still looking at his tablet. Face blank.
Like it never happened.
The project manager kept talking. "—market penetration by Q2—"
Noah tried to focus. Take notes.
His handwriting slanted sideways.
"Noah?" His father's voice. "Your thoughts on the rollout strategy?"
Noah looked up. "The phased approach minimizes risk. We should prioritize high-volume markets first."
Atlas picked up his pen.
Started tapping it.
Soft. Steady.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Noah's jaw clenched.
"And the budget allocation?" his father asked.
"Weighted toward digital channels. Higher ROI."
The tapping continued.
Atlas still wasn't looking at him.
But the pen kept moving.
Relentless.
The CFO jumped in. "What about—"
Atlas suddenly stopped. Set the pen down.
Silence.
Everyone kept talking.
But Noah felt it—the absence of that sound.
Louder than when it was there.
Twenty minutes later, old Mr. Sterlins asked about timelines.
"We'll have projections by Monday," Noah's father said.
Atlas finally spoke. "Which markets specifically?"
His voice—flat. Bored.
First time he'd said anything all meeting.
The project manager answered. "Northeast corridor, then—"
"And the competitive analysis?" Atlas cut him off. Eyes still on his tablet.
"Noah's team is handling that," his father said.
Atlas looked up.
Not at Noah.
At his father.
"When?"
"End of week."
"Make it Tuesday."
Not a request.
"We can do that," his father said.
Atlas's gaze finally moved to Noah.
Two seconds. Three.
Then back to his tablet.
Like Noah was furniture.
The meeting continued.
Noah tried to take notes. His pen wouldn't cooperate.
Someone asked about user demographics.
Noah started to answer—
Atlas yawned.
Covered his mouth. Polite.
But deliberate.
Noah's voice faltered.
"Sorry," Atlas said. Flat. "Continue."
Noah finished his point. Voice tight.
Atlas checked his watch.
Subtle. But Noah saw it.
The message clear: You're boring me.
The meeting ended at 3:15.
Everyone stood. Packed up.
Atlas was already at the door.
"Atlas," his father called. "A moment?"
Atlas stopped. Turned. "Of course."
They stepped into the hallway. Door closed.
Noah gathered his things. Hands shaking slightly.
The project manager leaned over. "You okay? You look pale."
"I'm fine."
"Sterlins can be intimidating. Don't take it personally."
Noah nodded.
Through the glass, he could see Atlas and his father talking. Atlas's face neutral. Professional.
Then Atlas glanced back.
Through the glass.
At Noah.
One second.
His expression didn't change.
But his eyes—
Aware.
Then he looked away. Back to his father.
Smiled at something. Shook hands.
Walked away.
Noah's hands gripped his folder.
White knuckles.
Five PM. Noah sat at his desk.
Staring at nothing.
The meeting replayed.
Atlas yawning. Checking his watch. That fucking pen.
Like I'm nothing.
Like I'm nobody.
Phone buzzed.
Emma:How'd it go?
He typed: Fine. Busy. Talk later?
Emma:Of course. Love you 💕
He put the phone face-down.
Atlas had ignored him.
Completely.
Like Noah didn't matter.
Like the study never happened.
So why did it feel like Atlas had been in his head the entire time?
Why did every tap of that pen feel personal?
Why did that yawn feel like a knife?
Noah pressed his palms to his eyes.
Get it together.
But he couldn't.
Because Atlas had done exactly what he said he would.
Be professional.
And somehow—
Somehow that was worse than anything else.