After days of late nights and endless coffee, the Tianji project was finally done.
Every hour of overtime, every missed meal, every bleary-eyed morning had paid off—the results weren't merely satisfactory; they were exceptional.
Her team was proud. Malik, her manager, was prouder.
"You've outdone yourself again," he'd told her three nights before the meeting. "Star Engineering is going to love this. Once they see what you've built, we'll be their go-to IT partner for the next decade."
Willow had only smiled, tired but composed. "Let's hope so."
They couldn't include client names or technical specifics in Silverline Systems' public portfolio, but she could list achievements in broad strokes. Confidentiality mattered. And success—quiet, verifiable, undeniable—spoke louder than any slide.
Now, the day of the Star Engineering meeting had arrived.
Willow woke before dawn, her mind already indexing the steps. She dressed with precision: a coral pink suit, tailored and crisp, soft gold buttons catching the lamplight. Her raven hair was twisted into a low bun, anchored by a coral enamel jasmine pin. The mirror reflected green-gold eyes—sharp, alert, and steady.
A woman built for order and focus. A woman who made executives listen.
Coffee black. A bagel gripped in a napkin. The city at this hour was soft-edged—mist clinging to glass and motion blurring into light. Traffic glittered like veins beneath the rising sun.
Then she saw it: Star Engineering Tower.
Forty-five floors of smoked glass and brushed steel cut the skyline like a blade. Inside, the lobby was marble geometry—black and white in crisp precision. The air smelled faintly of ozone and wealth. The staff at the reception desk stood with posture sharp enough to draw blood.
"Good morning," Willow said, calm, professional. "Willow Hale from Silverline Systems. Ten o'clock with your IT division."
The receptionist smiled, tapping her tablet. "Meeting Room 17-B, twenty-third floor. Someone will meet you there."
"Thank you."
Her heels made a soft, measured rhythm across the marble as she walked to the elevators. Inside the mirrored lift, her reflection repeated infinitely—poised, composed, no tremor at the edges. It's just another meeting, she told herself.
The twenty-third floor unfolded in hush and glass. Dark paneling, sound-absorbing carpet, and a skyline divided into perfect grids. She found Room 17-B, the door already ajar.
Inside: panoramic view, an oak table for twelve, and catering far too generous for a tech review—bottled water, croissants, fruit bowls, even cupcakes stamped with the Star logo.
"Did we wander into an investor briefing?" Cindy whispered, amused.
"Or a high-end bakery," Raj added, tugging his blazer.
Willow's lips curved briefly. "Set up," she said. "We'll celebrate after."
Cindy unpacked cables, Raj tested the slide remote. Willow opened her laptop, checked the resolution, keyed the deck. Pale blue filled the screen—clean fonts, no clutter, no ego. She twisted the cap of her water bottle. The crack of plastic echoed in the silence.
It's just another meeting.
The door clicked behind her.
She turned.
Zane Reyes walked in—flanked by two engineers and an assistant with a tablet.
Time distorted. The room kept breathing, but her lungs forgot how.
First came the sound: measured steps on the carpet, deliberate. Then the outline: charcoal suit, darker tie, the quiet gleam of cufflinks. His presence didn't dominate the air—it reorganized it.
He was all symmetry and distraction—hazel eyes that shifted between bronze and green under the light, a designer's precision in every line of his stubble, and a mouth that looked carved for conviction, not comfort. At five foot eleven, he wasn't towering, but somehow still seemed to stand taller than anyone else in the room—an elegance sharpened into restraint.
The sip of water went wrong. She coughed—sharp, undignified. One of the engineers started forward.
"Are you all right, Ms. Hale?"
She waved him off, pulse spiking. "I'm fine. Water."
Her gaze locked on Zane. Miles's best friend. The man who'd kissed her once like he'd meant every sin of it—and been met with silence after. Message after message unanswered. What are you doing here?
"Mr. Reyes?" she managed, tone flat with effort. "I didn't expect—"
"I know," he said.
Two words. Even, unremarkable—and somehow more intimate than apology.
Willow's eyes darted to the meeting brief. No listed names. No hint. Just "Executive Sponsor." The engineers behind him stood too straight, too careful. One opened his mouth, caught a flicker of Zane's gaze—warning—and thought better of it.
She noticed. Of course she did.
Cindy leaned toward her, whispering, "That's Zane Reyes?"
Willow didn't answer. She clicked the remote. "Let's begin," she said, steady and cool.
Zane didn't take the mid-table chair like a department head might. He took the head of the table—hers—and sat as though it belonged to him. His assistant, Jordan, placed a tablet before him and stepped back. He didn't glance at the pastries. He didn't glance at the view. He looked at her.
Willow inhaled once. "Silverline Systems proposes a fully integrated platform," she began, "for design logistics and project tracking across your regional and international sites. The framework is modular, scalable, and secure—engineered specifically for Star Engineering's infrastructure."
The lights dimmed slightly, giving the screen command. The skyline behind them blurred to shadow. Words steadied her—architecture of logic, the language of control.
Cindy took over: "We ran scenario testing on procurement delays, weather disruptions, and permit overlaps—"
Raj continued: "—and modeled interdependencies to reduce cross-project blind spots by nineteen percent. Early simulations show—"
Willow reclaimed the floor: "—that the system flags cascading delays before they propagate. You get heat maps, not guesswork. Granular control without micromanagement."
She didn't pace. She didn't fidget. Her hands stayed light on the back of a chair. Each sentence landed clean, confident, unshaken. On slide eight she explained supplier logic; on twelve, data governance models that could survive an audit. When Raj stumbled over an acronym, she smoothed it out so seamlessly it felt rehearsed.
And still—every time her gaze brushed his, something faltered.
Zane sat impossibly still, attention absolute. He listened the way surgeons cut—nothing wasted, nothing forgiven. No gestures, no nods. But the room's pulse took its rhythm from wherever his focus fell—and it fell on her.
At slide fourteen, a narrow strip of sunlight slid across the table, gilding the croissants and catching the edge of her ringless hand. She felt the warmth find her skin, a thin band that should have steadied her—and didn't. Outside the glass, a crane hung suspended against the skyline, mimicking the tension in her chest—something heavy held up only by will.
At one point, he addressed Cindy instead of Willow—a simple question about latency budgets. Cindy answered, voice a little too quick. Willow's jaw locked. You don't get to calibrate me by ignoring me.
The jasmine pin at her temple suddenly felt heavy, anchoring restraint instead of hair.
Slide nineteen. Conclusion.
She closed the deck with a steady click and let silence stretch.
Then Zane spoke.
"That was… impressive."
Not effusive. Not reluctant. A verdict so calm it drew heat beneath her skin.
"Your approach to integration and scalability is sound," he continued. "You've anticipated redundancies most teams miss."
"Thank you," Willow said. Her throat was dry; praise from him was heavier than criticism.
"You have a remarkable grasp of structure," he added. "It shows."
It wasn't flirtation—it was precision. Somehow that was worse.
"I try to deliver what I promise," she replied.
"That's rare," he said. No smile. Just fact.
Taking his cue, Jordan spoke briskly. "We'll coordinate next steps with your manager by Tuesday."
Chairs scraped. Polite goodbyes. The engineers filed out, Jordan last, closing the door softly behind him. Cindy and Raj packed with exaggerated noise, avoiding eye contact.
"We'll meet you by the elevators," Cindy murmured.
"I'll be right behind you," Willow said.
The door closed. The air shifted temperature.
Zane didn't stand. He didn't look at the skyline. He looked at her.
Willow gathered her things—not rushing, not trembling, every motion measured. She wound the charger, capped her pen, stacked her notes. She could feel his gaze the way one feels weather changing—without touch, yet everywhere.
Her phone lit in her bag—Malik's name and a preview of a single emoji: a thumbs-up. She silenced it without looking down. Victory felt like noise underwater.
Her hand reached the door handle.
"Ms. Hale," he said.
She paused. "Yes?"
"We have one more issue to discuss."
The projector's fan hummed to a slower rhythm, the screen dimming to steel-grey. Down the hall, a printer spat out a sheaf of pages like rain. Willow's reflection ghosted across the glass—poised, shadowed, on the edge of something she couldn't yet name.
She should've said no. Should've walked out. But curiosity—and something she refused to name—pressed down on her shoulder. She closed the door. The hush sealed around them.
He didn't speak right away. She watched the small, methodical movements: the unclasp of his hands, the faint turn of his cuff toward the light. For a fleeting second, she thought of the oscillating saw that freed her arm—how mercy could sound like menace before it was done.
He studied her a beat too long. No ring. Immaculate cuff. A faint scar near his knuckle she'd once wanted to ask about.
Then: "You've been avoiding me."