His POV
The past is efficient.
It waits.
I learned that the hard way.
At 11:47 p.m., my phone lights up with a number I haven't saved but will never forget. Some instincts don't fade—they hibernate.
I let it ring once.
Twice.
Then I answer.
"You're late," the voice says.
"I didn't agree to this call," I reply.
A low chuckle. "You never do. Yet here we are."
I end the call without another word. My hand is steady when I place the phone back on the desk. Control is muscle memory now. Panic is a language I no longer speak.
Outside, rain streaks the glass like thin fractures.
I loosen my tie. Just slightly.
Ten years.
That's how long it's been since I buried that part of my life—sealed it beneath success, contracts, and a name people respect. I built this company with precision for a reason. Power insulates. Authority deters questions.
Or so I thought.
Another notification arrives.
A file.
I don't open it.
I already know what's inside.
The next morning, the building hums the way it always does—efficient, obedient, predictable. I walk through the lobby and nods follow like reflexes. People move out of my way without realizing they've done it.
Good.
In the elevator, my reflection looks unchanged. Tailored suit. Neutral expression. No cracks.
The doors open on my floor.
She's there.
Mira stands near the coffee station, sleeves rolled up slightly, hair pulled back in a way that suggests she didn't overthink it. She's laughing softly at something someone says—brief, unguarded.
The sound hits me harder than it should.
She notices me almost immediately. Her smile fades into professionalism, but something in her eyes lingers—curiosity, maybe. Or intuition.
"Good morning, sir."
"Mira," I acknowledge.
The elevator doors close behind me. The space between us feels narrower than yesterday. I don't like that either.
"You sent for the updated figures?" she asks.
"Yes."
She hands me the tablet. Our fingers brush—accidentally, briefly.
I step back.
Too fast.
Her brow furrows, just a little. She noticed. Of course she did.
"I'll review these," I say. "You can go."
She hesitates.
There it is again—that quiet pause before honesty.
"Sir," she says, lowering her voice, "if I did something wrong—"
"You didn't," I cut in, sharper than intended.
Her shoulders relax, but her eyes stay on me. Searching.
"Then why does it feel like I crossed a line?" she asks gently.
I don't answer.
Because the line isn't hers.
It's mine.
Her POV
He looks different today.
Not softer. Never that.
But tighter. Like something is coiled beneath his calm.
People think cold men don't feel stress. They're wrong. They just feel it inward—where it does the most damage.
When I return to my desk, I can't shake the feeling that I've brushed against something dangerous. Not in a dramatic way. Not violent.
Unfinished.
At noon, an unfamiliar man walks into our department. He doesn't belong here—I can tell by how he looks around, assessing instead of adjusting. His suit is expensive but careless, like rules don't apply to him.
His eyes land on me.
"Excuse me," he says pleasantly. "I'm looking for Elias."
No last name.
No title.
My chest tightens.
"Do you have an appointment?" I ask.
He smiles wider. "Something like that."
Before I can respond, Elias's door opens.
Their eyes meet.
The temperature drops.
I've never seen my boss look threatened.
Not angry.
Not surprised.
Threatened.
"Get out," Elias says quietly.
The man lifts his hands. "Relax. I just wanted to see if you were still hiding behind glass and paperwork."
"Leave," Elias repeats.
The man glances at me, interest sharpening. "Careful," he says to me, echoing words that don't belong to him. "Not everyone here is who they pretend to be."
Then he turns and walks away as if he owns the floor.
Silence follows.
Too heavy. Too deliberate.
I stand slowly.
Elias hasn't moved. His jaw is locked. His hands—steady, but clenched.
"Who was that?" I ask.
He looks at me.
For the first time, there is no wall in his eyes.
Only warning.
"Someone who should have stayed gone," he says.
And in that moment, I understand something with frightening clarity:
His coldness isn't emptiness.
It's a locked door.
And whatever is on the other side is dangerous enough that he's spent years making sure no one ever opens it.