"Every performance has a rehearsal—some just happen in the dark."
ELARA....
The office felt charged, like the air before a storm. Every corner of Voss Publishing buzzed with anticipation for the gala—the annual night when the company traded boardrooms for ballrooms and pretended the empire had a heart.
Elara Quin wasn't pretending. She was tired.
She'd been revising the same paragraph for nearly an hour, staring at the words until they blurred into black lines. The sentence needed teeth—Damon's voice had echoed that order in her head all morning: Make the words bite.
She deleted a comma, rewrote a line, read it again. It still felt too safe.
Across the room, Stella hummed to a pop song through her earbuds, the picture of unbothered joy. Her desk looked like a hurricane of lipstick, sticky notes, and coffee cups. Elara's was the opposite—straight lines, stacked folders, order carved from chaos.
"Okay," Stella said suddenly, ripping one earbud out. "What are you wearing to the gala?"
Elara blinked up. "Excuse me?"
"The gala," Stella repeated. "The annual glitter fest where our boss turns into royalty and everyone pretends to be a saint for charity. I already found the perfect dress—emerald silk, scandalously low back, totally worth my rent. You?"
Elara's mouth twitched. "I wasn't planning on—"
"Don't even think about skipping it," Stella warned. "It's mandatory this year. Ms. Han just sent an email. And imagine—fancy food, expensive wine, and maybe one intense stare from a certain CEO who terrifies the board but secretly inspires half the office's daydreams."
Elara rolled her eyes. "You've been reading too many office romance blogs."
Stella grinned. "And you've been pretending you don't care. Which is worse."
Elara's only answer was another sip of coffee.
The hum of printers filled the lull. She looked at the page again and finally typed a new sentence:
... Empires aren't built on vision. They're built on the silence between command and obedience.
It wasn't corporate. It was true. It was him.
When she hit save, her pulse jumped. She'd crossed a line without meaning to—letting a thought about Damon Voss bleed into her work.
By noon, Ms. Han swept in to announce final deadlines and the department's role at the gala. "Our division is responsible for the official magazine," she said. "Final proofs must reach Mr. Voss by five. He'll personally approve them tonight."
A murmur ran through the floor. Stella mouthed, He's actually reading our work.
Elara nodded, more to herself than anyone.
Five o'clock came too fast. She uploaded the final draft, checked the formatting twice, and sent it to Damon's office with a small note: For final review. Her hands lingered on the keyboard afterward, restless.
It should have felt like relief. Instead, it felt like waiting.
When they left the office, the city was already dressed for the gala—banners draped across buildings, gold lights strung over the main square. Stella tugged her along to a boutique near the tower.
Elara protested half-heartedly, but the next thing she knew she was surrounded by mirrors and fabric. Dresses shimmered on racks like quiet temptations.
Stella held up a sequined gown. "Too loud?"
"For who? The paparazzi?"
"Maybe for me," Stella said, laughing. "But you—" She rummaged through another rack and pulled out a sleek satin dress the color of midnight. "Try this. It's quiet, mysterious, dangerously pretty—basically you if you stopped hiding behind blazers."
Elara sighed, but took it. In the dressing room, she slipped it on and froze.
The dress fit like memory—soft at the edges, sharp where it mattered. It wasn't her usual armor, but something about it felt right. Dangerous, even.
Outside, Stella gasped dramatically. "Oh, we're doomed. You look like heartbreak in heels."
Elara gave a rare smile. "Then I'll fit right in."
That night, she stood at her apartment window, the dress hanging over a chair, the city humming below. Her computer glowed faintly from her desk, the Zurich folder still there, waiting.
She should have ignored it. She didn't.
The files opened like a door she knew she shouldn't step through. The same name waited at the bottom of a report—N. Voss.
Her chest tightened. The past was reaching for her again, and the man who carried its shadow would be standing across a ballroom tomorrow night.
Elara closed the laptop, forcing the thought away.
She pressed her palm to the glass and whispered, "Tomorrow, then."
DAMON....
The night pressed against the glass walls of Voss Tower, the city below glittering like a thousand secrets pretending to be stars.
Inside the executive boardroom, the air smelled of steel and money.
Damon sat at the head of the long black table, jacket off, shirtsleeves rolled, a single button undone at his Throat revealing his tattooed chest a bit. The soft light caught the glint of his watch and the curve of a faint scar on his collar bone. Even relaxed, he looked carved from composure.
Executives filled the seats along both sides—older men in expensive suits, women with crisp voices and sharper smiles. They spoke in numbers, projections, profits. He listened in silence, eyes half-lidded, fingers drumming once against the rim of his glass. The sound was enough to make conversation falter.
When he finally spoke, it wasn't loud; it simply carried weight.
"Cut the Zurich budget by fifteen percent. Redirect the remainder to the publishing division. They've earned it."
Someone protested, "But sir, Zurich's returns—"
Damon's gaze lifted—green and glacial. The man stopped mid-sentence.
"I wasn't asking."
The room went quiet again. A moment later, papers rustled and pens scratched in obedient motion.
He leaned back, finishing his whiskey. To the others, it looked effortless; inside, his thoughts weren't on Zurich's budget at all. They were on the document he'd read earlier—the one Elara Quin had written.
Her words had been measured, deliberate, but between the lines, he'd seen something raw. The article described legacy, control, and the silence that held power together. She'd captured the heart of his empire too precisely for comfort.
He should have deleted it. He'd approved it instead.
His phone vibrated beside the glass. Alex.
Of course.
"Voss," he answered.
"Voss," Alex echoed, voice lazy and amused. "You sound exactly like the press photo I saw an hour ago—suit, tie, existential gloom. Tell me, are you brooding or plotting tonight?"
"I'm working."
"Same thing with you." Alex's chuckle came through the line. "Anyway, I'm flying in tomorrow for your big gala. I want front-row seats to whatever drama you've inevitably brewed between your actress and your editor."
Damon's silence stretched a heartbeat too long.
Alex caught it, of course. "Ah. So there is drama. Interesting. I've met women who look at you with fear, envy, even worship—but this one? She looks like she'd burn your empire just to watch the reflection."
"Goodnight, Alex."
"Oh no, don't hang up yet." Alex laughed. "You forget, I live for chaos. See you tomorrow, friend. Try not to look too guilty."
The call ended. Damon set the phone down slowly, jaw tightening until the muscle near his temple twitched.
Guilty. That word didn't belong to him. Yet somehow, it lingered.
He arrived at the restaurant late. A private dining room, fifteen people, crystal and candlelight. Jenna sat near the center, in scarlet silk, greeting investors with the ease of someone born for cameras. When Damon entered, conversation softened, respect settling over the table like fog.
He didn't smile. He never needed to.
Throughout dinner he spoke rarely, just enough to keep the room orbiting his tone.
When the waiter refilled his glass, he looked up once, catching his reflection in the window—sharp jaw, eyes the color of tempered glass. He looked every inch the man the headlines worshiped: ruthless, precise, unshakeable.
Inside, he couldn't stop hearing a voice that wasn't his.
Make the words bite.
She had listened. Too well.
Jenna leaned toward him, hand brushing his sleeve. "You're quiet tonight."
"I'm thinking."
"About tomorrow?"
"Yes." His gaze stayed on the skyline outside. "Tomorrow changes everything."
She smiled, misunderstanding entirely. "Then I'll make sure we're perfect for the cameras."
He nodded once, the kind of gesture that ended conversations. As laughter resumed around the table, Damon finished his drink, stood, and adjusted his cufflinks.
"Enjoy the evening," he said to no one in particular, voice low enough to still the chatter again. Then he turned and left, leaving behind the hush that always followed him—an echo of authority, or maybe the sound of people too afraid to breathe.
The elevator carried him upward, higher and quieter, until the city stretched beneath him again. Lights pulsed like arteries through glass and concrete. Somewhere down there, Elara Quin was probably still awake, rewriting sentences that felt too much like truths.
He set the glass on the edge of the counter, fingers tapping once against it.
Tomorrow, the ballroom would glitter.
Tomorrow, every mask would shine.
And somewhere between the flash of cameras and the music, someone would slip—and he wasn't sure who anymore.
He looked out across the city, eyes reflecting its golden ruin.
Tomorrow, the lights wouldn't just reveal. They'd destroy.