The air in the designated conference room, the "Silverfish," as it was blandly named. Kenzo had chosen it specifically. It was windowless, devoid of personality, a place for forgettable meetings with mid-level managers. There would be no memories here, no ghosts of their past interactions. At least, that was what he told himself.
He arrived ten minutes early, a stack of useless papers in his hand just for something to hold onto. He'd dressed with diligent care, a charcoal grey Tom Ford suit, a crisp white shirt, a tie the color of a fresh bruise. He needed every piece of it.
He paced the length of the room, the sound of his shoes unnaturally loud on the floor. Every second that ticked by on the clock felt like an hour. Would she come? His lawyer had confirmed she'd signed the contract without a single further amendment. Her silence after that had been absolute.
The door clicked open precisely at 10:00 a.m. Sharon Lee walked in, and for a moment, the breath left his lungs.
She was not the woman he remembered. The soft, flowing fabrics she used to favor were gone. She wore a structured black blazer and tailored trousers that spoke of authority, not approachability. Her hair was pulled back in a severe ponytail, and her makeup was flawless but minimal, designed to highlight the cool intelligence in her eyes, not her beauty. She carried a sleek leather portfolio, her posture standing straight. She was a queen entering a vassal's court.
"Mr. Hayashi," she said, her voice a neutral, professional tone he'd only ever heard her use with other executives. It never, ever, been directed at him.
"Sharon," he breathed out, the name a reflex, a plea.
Her eyes, the color of dark coffee, met his without a flicker of warmth. "It's Ms. Lee," she corrected, her tone as pleasant and impersonal as a recorded message. "Shall we begin? My time is billable, as you know."
The words strike him like a punch. He gestured stiffly to a chair. "Of course."
She took the seat directly across from him, placing her portfolio on the table with a soft sound. She didn't look around the room. She didn't fidget. Her entire focus was on him, and it was terrifying.
"Let's start with the Nakamura patent integration," she began, opening her portfolio to reveal a tablet. "I've reviewed the system logs from the failed demo. The root cause was the passcode reset, which triggered a descending failure in the legacy code of Cluster 7. A patch was scheduled for deployment last Tuesday. It wasn't implemented. Why?"
He stared at her. She was already three steps ahead. "The IT team… there was confusion about the deployment schedule after you… left."
"I see," she said, making a note on her tablet. Her fingers moved with swift taps. "A failure of process and knowledge transfer. We'll need to implement a new protocol. I'll draft one."
"You always were the best at this," he said, the words tumbling out. It was a compliment, a bridge, and a desperate attempt to find a crack in her armor.
She didn't even look up. "My competency is what you're paying for, Mr. Hayashi. Let's focus on the deliverables. The next milestone is the stress test. I'll need full admin access to the server farm by 3 p.m. today."
He felt a flare of frustration, mixed with a profound loss. This was worse than her anger. This was… nothing. A void where their electric connection used to live.
"Sharon.. Ms. Lee," he corrected himself, seeing her eyebrow twitch slightly. "Can we just… talk? For five minutes. Not as CEO and consultant. As Kenzo and Sharon."
Finally, she lifted her gaze. Her eyes were like shards of polished stone. "There is no more 'Kenzo and Sharon.' There is a client," she said, gesturing to him, "and a consultant." She gestured to herself. "Now, you are currently wasting my very expensive time. The server access. Do I have your approval to proceed?"
The calm in her voice was absolute. He had built this prison with his own foolishness, and she had not only agreed to enter it, she had taken command of it. She was treating their history, their kisses, their whispered confessions in the rain, as irrelevant data points. Deleted files.
"Fine," he bit out, the word tasting like defeat. "You'll have your access."
"Good." She stood, closing her portfolio with a definitive snap. "I'll be in the server room. Email me the confirmation. I'll have a preliminary report on your desk by end of day."
She walked to the door, her heels clicking on the hard floor. She didn't look back.
Kenzo remained seated, the silence of the room pressing in on him. The faint scent of her jasmine perfume lingered in the air like a ghostly taunt. He had gotten what he wanted. She was back. She was fixing his problems.
But as he sat alone in the silent room, he realized that he had never been further from her. He hadn't hired a consultant; he had hired a beautifully polished ghost who knew every secret of his kingdom and was now professionally, teaching him what it felt like to truly lose it all.
-
The Server Room
The moment the conference room door closed behind her, Sharon's rigid posture faltered. She leaned against the cool wall of the hallway, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She pressed a hand to her stomach, forcing down the nausea.
It's Ms. Lee.
Hearing the pain in his voice when she'd said that had been both agonizing and exciting. A part of her, the part that still loved the man he was in Seoul, had screamed in protest. The other part, the claimant, the survivor, had savored it.
She walked into the humming server room, the cold air a welcome shock to her system. The IT team looked up, their expressions a mix of curiosity and relief.
"Ms. Lee," the lead engineer said. "We heard you were back. Thank god. This mess…"
"I'm not back," she stated, her voice cutting through the din. "I'm consulting. Now, pull up the logs for Cluster 7. I want to see the exact moment the cascade failure began."
For the next three hours, she lost herself in the clean, logical world of code. Here, there were no messy emotions, no betrayals, just problems and solutions. She was in her element, barking orders, tracing lines of code, her mind working with a sharp clarity that felt like her only lifeline.
But every few minutes, her mind would betrays her and drift back to the conference room. He looked so tired, the heartbroken woman inside her whispered. There were shadows under his eyes. Did he not sleep?
Good, the claimant countered coldly. Let him lose sleep. Let him feel a fraction of the emptiness I felt staring at that photo from Nadia.
As her fingers flew across the keyboard, deploying patches and rewriting protocols, she realized this was her revenge. Not screaming, not crying. This being brilliant, being essential, being right there in front of him and being completely untouchably professional.
She was making him pay for every single penny of that quadruple fee. And she was making him pay in the currency he understood best: cold, hard competence, delivered with a side of absolute emotional deprivation.
By the time she sent the preliminary report, the sun was setting. She packed her things, ignoring the curious stares from the IT team who were used to her staying late with a pizza, laughing with Kenzo over a tricky line of code.
She walked out of Hayashi Tech without a backward glance. But as she stepped into the cool evening air, the professional mask finally cracked. A single tear escaped and traced a path down her cheek. She wiped it away angrily.
It was the most exhausting, most painful, and most satisfying day's work she had ever done. The war was far from over. In fact, it had just begun.