Morning came too quickly.
I woke to the sound of rain against the windowpane — softer this time, almost apologetic. The ache behind my eyes pulsed in rhythm with the memory of last night. The car. The firelight. Kaelen's voice.
"I have come to care for you."
I shoved the memory away before it could unfold. I couldn't afford it — not today.
The Island Residence launch was a week away, and I still had half a dozen investor decks to finalise. Deadlines were merciful. They demanded focus. And focus left no room for thinking about grey eyes and steady hands.
My reflection in the mirror looked functional enough — hair pulled back, suit immaculate, lipstick like armour. No one would guess I'd fallen apart twelve hours ago.
The Sterling offices buzzed with a nervous sort of energy. Interns hurried past clutching prototype models and press materials, the air thick with perfume and ambition. I moved through it all like a ghost, my smile flawless, my tone clipped and efficient. Every gesture screamed control.
By the time I reached my office, the rain had faded into a faint mist against the windows. I switched on the light, dropped my bag on the desk, and let the rhythm of work swallow me whole.
The office lights hummed faintly overhead. My assistant, Pauline, hovered at the door with her tablet, her voice brisk but careful."The Island Residence investors for the pre-launch confirmed for Thursday. Do you want to review the guest list again?"
"Later," I said, eyes on the spreadsheet glowing in front of me. Numbers. They made sense. They didn't lie.
The coffee on my desk went cold before I remembered to drink it.
Budgets. Guest lists. Supplier confirmations.
Every spreadsheet, every call — another layer between me and the chaos in my head.
Then my phone buzzed.
Liam (11:17 AM): You didn't reply me last night. Are you all right?Liam (11:18 AM): I was thinking dinner tonight. I could drop by. Go over some engagement party details?
I stared at the screen for a long moment.
It wasn't aggressive. Just familiar. The kind of message that sounded harmless enough until you remembered what it used to mean.
I typed a reply, deleted it, and finally turned the phone facedown.
A knock at the door broke the silence.
"Miss Sterling?" Pauline stepped in, tablet in hand, a neat line between her brows. "I need your confirmation on the supplier contract revisions for Island Residence. The lighting costs came back slightly higher than forecasted."
"Print it out," I said, forcing my focus back to numbers. "I'll review it and check with my father before signing off."
"Yes, Miss Sterling."
The printer hummed as she left. I gathered the file a few minutes later and headed down the hall, heels tapping against polished marble. My father's office door was half-open — light spilling from inside, voices threading through.
"…of course, I wouldn't dream of overstepping," Diana was saying — honeyed, demure, the kind of softness that always came with a sting. "But you know how perception works, dear. The board's been too insular for too long. A woman's insight would reflect progress — modernity. And I've worked closely enough with the department heads to offer meaningful input."
My father chuckled, low and approving. "Of course. I know what you're capable of."
"Thank you," she murmured, letting just enough humility bleed through. "But imagine what we could accomplish if I had access to the board's direction early on. Even as an observer. I could anticipate their needs before they arise — make your work easier, not harder."
A pause. The sound of my father leaning back in his chair.
"It's not a bad idea," he said slowly. "I'll think about it. Let me speak with the chairman first."
"Of course," she replied smoothly. "I wouldn't want to impose."The faint smile in her voice said she knew she already had.
I stood frozen outside the doorway, fingers tightening around the folder until the edges bit into my palms.
So that was her new play.
I thought blocking her entry into the Sterling Group through PR would stop her — cut her off from the board, from the company, from everything that would one day destroy it. But somehow, she'd found another way around. She always did.
Diana Meyers never forced doors open. She waited for men like my father to hold them for her.
I stepped back quietly before they could see me, the low hum of conversation following me down the hall.
By the time I returned to my office, my pulse had steadied — not calm, but cold. I set the contract on my desk and looked toward the folder I'd saved on my hard drive.
Arachne Trust.
I clicked it open and scrolled through the files again.
The trust was the link — tied to several transactions under Crestwood Printers. A fund that seemed to appear and vanish depending on who benefited. Diana's name wasn't anywhere. If I didn't know what I knew — if Michael Crestwood hadn't called me — I would've brushed it off entirely.
I leaned back in my chair, fingers tapping against the armrest. Arachne. Apt name. Everything Diana touched eventually tangled someone else in a web.
I didn't need a full exposé. Just a nudge. A whisper to make people look closer.
I drafted a short, anonymous tip and sent it to Financial Daily. Nothing direct. Nothing that could be traced. Just enough data to raise a few brows in the right circles.
A pebble to the pond.
When I hit send, the rush that followed was almost dizzying. Not guilt. Not fear. Just… control.
The city outside had turned molten gold against a bruised sky. I sat alone, watching raindrops slide down the glass. The silence was comfortable — until it wasn't.
Still no message from Kaelen. No call. No brief check-in.
He wasn't someone who hovered — I knew that. But the quiet felt heavier tonight, like gravity itself had deepened around me.
I took out my phone again, this time dialling a different number — one given to me by a journalist friend months ago.
"Thane Investigations," came the voice, gravelly and calm.
"This is Elara Sterling. I need someone followed. Discretion is non-negotiable."
A pause. "Who?"
"Diana Meyers." The name left my mouth with surgical precision, stripped of emotion. "I want her movements tracked for the next week. Calls, meetings, whoever she contacts once something leaks in the press."
There was the faint scratch of pen on paper. "You expecting her to panic?"
"I'm expecting her to react," I said softly. "And I want to know exactly how."
When the call ended, I stayed there for a while, the rain resuming its steady rhythm. The world outside blurred — a wash of streetlights and reflections.
Somewhere between Liam's persistence and Kaelen's silence, between duty and ache, I'd lost track of which parts of me were real.
But I still knew how to play the game.And tonight, the first ripple had already begun.
The rest of the day passed in a blur — meetings, approvals, coffee gone cold on my desk. I barely noticed the messages piling in until Pauline appeared again, hesitant.
"You've been at it since morning," she said softly. "Should I order dinner up before I sign off for the day?"
"No, thank you. I'll head out soon."
But I didn't. Not yet.
The city outside was already cloaked in dusk when I finally packed up and stepped out of the office.
The turnstile clicked shut behind me.
And there he was — waiting at the foot of the marble steps, coat collar turned up against the wind, a faint smile that didn't reach his eyes.
Liam.
For a heartbeat, the crowd moved around us — faceless, rushing — and it felt as though the whole city had paused, watching to see which of us would move first.