CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The morning light filtered through the glass panels of the office, touching every polished surface with the dull warmth of a day that promised too much. The air smelled faintly of coffee, printer ink, and quiet tension — the kind that always came when the boss wasn't around.
Everyone in the building knew Nathaniel wasn't coming in today. His PA, Ross, had called in early to announce it. She had done it with her usual calm tone, but the news rippled across every department faster than fire in dry grass.
"Nathaniel's not coming?" one of the interns whispered.
"Yeah, apparently he's sick," another replied. "Or maybe Mercy wore him out again."
The laughter that followed was light, nervous, and laced with the kind of curiosity that could keep an office alive on a slow day. To them, Nathaniel and Mercy were an open secret — the officially unofficial lovers of the company. Nobody dared to speak it aloud when he was around, of course. But now that he wasn't, their tongues were free.
Ross heard the whispers as she walked through the hallway, her tablet pressed against her chest. She kept her face blank, but inside, her thoughts were sharp as broken glass. She knew about Mercy — everyone did — but she also knew something the rest of them didn't: the flowers.
At exactly three o'clock the previous afternoon, Nathaniel had instructed his driver to deliver a flower arrangement to her. Her. Not Mercy. Not some business partner. Her.
Ross still couldn't make sense of it. She'd been his PA for nearly two years, and though he was generous and professional with her, he'd never done something that personal.
She'd thanked him through Daniel, the cook, but part of her couldn't help but wonder: was it a mistake? Or was it deliberate — a message?
She pushed the thought aside and entered the conference room where the marketing and contracts teams were already seated.
"Good morning, everyone," she greeted, and the hum of low conversations stopped almost instantly. "Let's settle this quickly. Mr. Nathaniel won't be joining us today, but the Santos contract still stands. We'll review the final adjustments and prepare the summary report for his approval by tomorrow."
The room stirred again, papers shuffled, keyboards clattered. Mercy sat at the far end of the table, pretending to scroll through her iPad. She didn't look up when Ross entered, but her knuckles tightened around the stylus.
Mercy was a woman who could silence a room just by walking into it, but today, her silence carried something else — humiliation, envy, and a sharp awareness of her own irrelevance.
She knew Nathaniel wasn't feeling well — she had heard from Daniel when she called under the guise of asking about an expense form — but she also knew he didn't want her near him. Their arrangement, though silent and transactional, had always made her feel in control. Until yesterday.
When she saw the driver walk past her office with that flower box in his hands — roses, lilies, and a soft note tucked into the ribbon — she felt the ground shift under her heels.
The flowers weren't for her.
Everyone thought they were, of course. They always were. But when she asked the driver casually who the arrangement was for, his simple reply shattered her pride.
"For Miss Ross," he'd said.
Ross. The quiet, well-dressed PA who never raised her voice or lingered near Nathaniel longer than business required. Ross, who always looked so calm, so focused — and now had what Mercy had never been given freely: a gesture of thoughtfulness.
Mercy swallowed her pride and spoke up now, her voice smooth but tight.
"Ross, do you want me to lead the Santos review? You have a lot on your plate."
Ross lifted her eyes from her tablet.
"That won't be necessary, Mercy. But thank you."
The polite smile Ross gave her could have been mistaken for warmth, but Mercy knew it wasn't. It was the kind of smile you gave someone who'd already lost the upper hand.
Ross turned to the others.
"Alright, let's begin."
---
The meeting lasted two hours. By noon, the team had finalized the main terms, and the new logistics partnership was ready for Nathaniel's approval. Ross collected the summary files, saved everything to the shared drive, and walked out of the room with the quiet authority of someone who kept things moving even when the leader was down.
In Nathaniel's absence, she was the voice everyone followed.
Mercy lingered behind, pretending to check some figures on her screen, but really, she was studying Ross through the glass wall. The younger woman moved with the calm assurance Mercy used to have — back when Nathaniel still called her into his office for more than just briefings.
Mercy remembered those days vividly: the teasing glances, the subtle tension, the nights when business talk slipped into whispered laughter. She'd convinced herself it was power. But when he'd demoted her after one too many emotional demands, she realized what it really was — a transaction. A beautiful, silent contract.
And now, even that contract was breaking apart.
She turned sharply as one of the junior staff entered. "Send the revised invoice to the finance desk," she ordered curtly. Her tone was sharp enough to make the young man stammer. She regretted it immediately but didn't apologize.
By 1 p.m., most of the staff had gone for lunch. Mercy stayed behind in her office, scrolling through old messages from Nathaniel, then deleting them one by one. It felt like scraping away evidence of a crime — one she was both the victim and the perpetrator of.
---
Meanwhile, back at Nathaniel's home, the silence was heavy and stubborn. He was still asleep — or at least trying to be. The hangover hadn't completely released him, and though the coffee had dulled the pounding in his head, it hadn't cleared the fog in his mind.
Images of Caroline kept flashing behind his eyelids — her eyes, the way she said his name, the slight tremble in her voice when she accepted his date.
He clenched his jaw and rolled over.
He hated her. He had to. She'd broken him once. Left him humiliated.
So why did he keep replaying the softness in her voice, the small hint of sadness that shadowed her smile?
He wanted revenge, not pity.
But somewhere between his aching temples and the quiet hum of the air conditioner, regret whispered louder than anger.
He couldn't decide which emotion was winning.
---
Back at the company, the atmosphere thickened again by 3 p.m. The driver's return from Nathaniel's home stirred another wave of gossip.
"He sent flowers to Ross yesterday," one of the HR girls said.
"Maybe he's just showing appreciation."
"Appreciation?" another chuckled. "You don't send imported roses for appreciation."
Mercy overheard them and bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted blood.
She wanted to tell them they were wrong — that Nathaniel was hers, that what they had went beyond cheap office rumors — but she couldn't. The contract was silent. The rules were clear. No one was supposed to know.
Now, the silence was her punishment.
Ross ignored the whispers and focused on finishing the daily report. She moved through the office with unbothered precision, giving short, efficient replies to every question. But inside, she felt uneasy.
Why had Nathaniel really sent those flowers? Was it gratitude? Flirtation? Or guilt?
She didn't want to be caught in whatever storm he was brewing. She just wanted to do her job, hand over the reports, and stay invisible.
Still, when the driver nodded politely at her as he left, she felt a strange weight in her chest — something between pride and dread.
---
By 4:30 p.m., the office had settled into that late-afternoon lull — emails slowing down, phones quieting, the sky outside dimming slightly with approaching dusk.
Ross looked through the last pages of the Santos report, her thoughts already wandering to Nathaniel's recovery. She hoped he was resting. She hoped he wasn't drinking again.
Mercy, in her own office, stared at the same clock, willing the minutes to move faster. Every tick of it sounded like a taunt.
And somewhere across the city, Nathaniel stirred awake in his bed, the remnants of regret still clouding his mind. He checked his phone, saw the time, and rubbed his temple.
Five p.m.
The world outside was moving — with or without him.