"Not a question," Willow said. "Noted."
"I've been busy," she added evenly.
"And before that?" he asked.
"Also busy."
A low exhale — almost a laugh. "You usually return calls."
"Not always."
"No," he agreed, voice lower now. "Not always."
Her jaw tightened. You don't get to be gentle with me.
"Is this the issue?" she asked. "Because if it is, it belongs outside this room."
He let silence work — cool, deliberate. Then:
"You should have told me about Christy's invitation."
The words pressed a bruise she'd hidden well.
Her spine stayed straight. "There was nothing to tell. She invited several people."
"She invited us," he said, precise. "Together."
Of course he knew. Power never waited for permission to be informed.
"I'm not planning to go," Willow said.
A flicker crossed his eyes — amusement edged with something darker.
"I'm Miles's best friend — and you're my girlfriend. We have to go."
The word girlfriend hung in the air like static — too intimate, too public for the walls around them.
She kept her tone neutral. "I don't need coaching."
"No," he said softly. "You don't."
He stood then, slow and measured. The movement carried that same quiet dominance — deliberate, unrehearsed.
His reflection crossed hers in the glass behind him, the two figures almost merging in outline.
"You're going to walk into a room where people will assume your story for you," Zane said. "Don't let them."
His hazel eyes caught light — that uncanny flicker from green to bronze — and for a moment, she forgot which of them was performing.
"You knew," she said finally. "And you didn't text. You didn't call."
"I did," he said. "You didn't answer."
Right. The messages.
You're impossible to reach.
Dinner? Or lunch if that's less dangerous.
I promise not to bite.
She'd read them all, unresponsive — the silence of a chess player two moves ahead.
"This isn't your company's scope," she said, motioning to the air, the room, the tower itself. "This is personal."
"It's both," he said. "Whether we admit it in front of your team or not."
Heat climbed her throat. "Do you often discuss personal matters with vendors?"
"Only when the vendor's pretending not to know her boyfriend's the CEO."
Her head snapped toward him. "What?"
He smiled — the kind that wasn't meant to be kind.
"Funny thing about amnesia," he said lightly. "It makes you forget the most convenient facts."
It was meant as a joke — a throwaway line, soft enough to sound casual — but there was intent beneath it. A test. A boundary push. A claim.
Her silence stretched long enough to sting. Then:
"I didn't realize that counted as one of the side effects," she said, cool, clinical.
His expression flickered — a split second of something uncertain, gone before it could register.
"Good," he said finally. "Then we're both learning to adjust."
Willow's lips curved in what could have been a smile. "I learn fast."
"I've noticed," he said quietly. "You always did."
The familiarity in his tone brushed close to something dangerous — too close for professionalism.
He stepped closer to the table, his voice low enough to blur into breath.
"We have one more issue to discuss."
Her brows lifted slightly. "Issue?"
He gestured to the chair she'd vacated.
"Sit," he said quietly. "This one's off the record."
Willow didn't move. Something in his tone — low, deliberate, coaxing — made her wary.
"I'll stand," she said.
Zane's gaze held hers for a beat too long. Then, without a word, he walked around the table toward her.
Each step was soft against the carpet, but the air between them tightened.
"You're not going to sit," he murmured.
"No," she replied, though her pulse was louder than her words.
"Then I suppose this will have to do."
Before she could ask what he meant, he reached out and drew her into his arms.
The motion was smooth, unhurried — inescapably deliberate.
His hand found the small of her back; his body radiated a heat that felt too human, too intimate.
She went still — stiff from instinct more than fear. Every nerve screamed don't trust him.
"Relax," he said softly. "It's only me."
Only you.
The man who had lied to her face, covered for his friend, and left her to pick through the wreckage alone.
But he didn't know that.
He didn't know she never had amnesia.
And she — she wasn't ready to show her hand yet.
So she stayed still. Played her part.
Yet her body betrayed her despite her mind's orders.
The scent of him — sandalwood and smoke — sank into her thoughts, tangled with memories she wasn't supposed to have.
His grip wasn't cruel; it was protective, practiced, like a man holding something fragile he wasn't sure he should keep.
"This," she whispered, "isn't business."
He drew back just enough to look at her. A small, knowing smile curved his mouth.
"I never said it was, Willow."
His gaze lingered a moment too long, searching her face like a man looking for confirmation of a story only he remembered.
"The doctor said memory loss can take time. What matters is that you trust me."
She almost laughed. Trust.
"You were in an accident," he continued in that calm, careful tone. "It could've been worse."
He nodded, as if responding to a thought she hadn't spoken.
"Please understand why I didn't want to add to your confusion when you woke up. We're … together, Willow. You and I."
The lie slid from his tongue with the kind of precision only a practiced manipulator could manage.
Her chest constricted — not from surprise but from the absurdity of hearing it again.
"Together," she repeated, hollow.
"That's right." His voice softened. "You've been under a lot of pressure. I should've been there more these last two weeks, but things at Star spiraled. I should've made more time for you."
Her fingers curled against her palms. He said it like an apology — as if he believed his own fabrication.
She almost pitied him for how convincing he could be.
"Work comes first," she said evenly.
"Not anymore," he murmured. "I won't make that mistake again."
He lifted a hand to her cheek, brushing away a stray strand of hair — an intimate gesture, too perfectly in character for a man pretending to care for his amnesiac girlfriend.
Her voice dropped to a whisper. "You really think this will help me remember?"
"I think familiarity helps," he said. "Which is why there's something else."
Inside, her mind was racing.
He still thought she believed him.
He still thought she was lost in fog.
And that ignorance… was suddenly useful.
Her first instinct was to refuse.
Her second, sharper, colder instinct whispered: why not?
If she went, she could look Miles in the eye.
She could stand beside Zane — the man Miles thought had replaced him — and smile.
"I see," she said at last, voice neutral. "You don't like to disappoint people."
"I don't like confusion," he corrected. "If you're seen with me, it confirms what everyone already believes. It keeps things … familiar."
"Familiar," she echoed softly. "Of course."
He studied her face as though waiting for resistance.
The air thickened — magnetic, dangerous.
He reached out, tracing his thumb along the edge of her jaw.
"You tense up every time I touch you."
She forced a small laugh. "Maybe I'm just … out of practice."
"Then we'll fix that," he said quietly.
Before she could form a retort, he leaned down and kissed her — slow, restrained, but hot enough to steal her breath.
The first second was shock; the second, defiance; the third, surrender.
Her mind shouted that this was still the plan — the performance she'd agreed to.
But her body had already betrayed her.
He kissed like a man trying to remind her of a story that never happened.
When he finally pulled back, his eyes searched hers — calm on the surface, storming underneath.
"There's no point in using me to hurt him," he said quietly. "You are with me now … and he's not worth it."
She straightened, gathering her composure like armor. "I should go."
He nodded but didn't move aside.
She brushed past him, the faintest trace of his cologne clinging to her sleeve.
Before she reached the door, his voice stopped her.
"Willow."
She looked back, praying her face wasn't betraying the heat still on her lips.
"I'm glad we'll be working together," he said quietly.
She couldn't trust her voice, so she only nodded and left.
Cindy and Raj stood six feet away, pretending to admire a framed photo of cranes on a skyline.
Cindy's eyes flicked to Willow's face, read it, and stayed silent.
As they walked, Cindy tilted her head toward the hospitality spread. "I snagged a cupcake. For science."
She popped a corner of icing into her mouth, grimaced. "Tastes like ambition."
Raj stifled a laugh; Willow's lips twitched despite herself. "Spit it out before you start writing proposals for fun," she murmured.
"Too late," Cindy whispered solemnly. "I suddenly want to buy a crane."
The absurdity cracked the tension — just enough to breathe again.
At the elevator, Willow smoothed her jacket, checked her hairpin, confirmed nothing shook.
The doors slid open with that expensive mechanical sigh — the kind only new buildings make, as if the air itself has been disciplined.
She stepped inside. Her reflection in the mirrored wall was flawless: calm, precise, unmarked.
The elevator began to descend, the city flickering across the mirrored walls — calm above, chaos beneath.
Halfway down, her phone buzzed — Christy's name flashing with a calendar invite: Pre-Engagement Dinner — Cordell Gardens — Friday, 8 PM.
A second later, another notification appeared: Zane Reyes: Friday. 7:20. Don't argue.
She didn't accept either. She let them stack, transparent as glass — two traps waiting for the same step.
Willow spent the rest of the afternoon pretending nothing had happened.
She buried herself in her outline for Star Engineering — notes, diagrams, wire-flows — anything that kept her fingers moving and her mind elsewhere.
But when the office finally dimmed and colleagues began filing out, the weight of the morning returned, silent and pulsing behind her ribs.