ELARA...
The morning light felt too gentle for the storm still crawling under her skin. Elara stood by the window, coffee cooling in her hand, her reflection fractured across the glass. She had barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw his, green, cold, patient.
Curiosity reveals more about a person than truth ever will.
He'd said it like a challenge, like a man daring her to play a game she hadn't agreed to.
Behind her, Jamie's music drifted through the apartment. He hummed along off-key, barefoot, spooning cereal like life was uncomplicated.
"You're standing there like the world's ending again," he said, not looking up. "Should I hide the knives?"
Elara turned. "You have practice exams in two hours. Go ruin your brain somewhere else."
He grinned. "See, that's the sister I know. Sarcastic, terrifying, caffeine-dependent."
She fought a smile, losing. "You forgot 'underpaid.'"
He came closer, nudging her mug. "You didn't sleep."
"Neither did you."
"I was playing games," he said. "You were brooding about your boss-slash-mortal enemy-slash-who-even-knows."
Her head snapped up. "Jamie—"
"I'm kidding," he said quickly, though his grin faltered when she didn't laugh. "You should, you know, relax. Go out. Meet people who don't own skyscrapers."
"I have a job."
"Exactly. Which is not the same as a life."
Elara sighed. "I'll think about it."
He looked unconvinced but dropped it. "Fine. But if you show up on the news again, at least fix your hair this time."
"Out," she said, tossing a pillow at him. He laughed all the way out the door. The apartment door clicked shut behind Jamie, and the silence that followed was oddly comforting. Elara let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. The boy had a way of filling every room with warmth she didn't think she deserved.
She washed her mug, tied her hair, and glanced once more at the email glowing on her phone before heading out. Curiosity can be dangerous.
The words had lodged themselves somewhere behind her ribs, refusing to leave.
By the time she reached Voss Publishing, the morning hum was already thick with half-whispered rumors. Not about Damon this time—those had long since turned into background noise—but about the company itself.
Something was shifting.
Two designers passed her in the hallway, voices low.
"They're calling it an audit," one murmured. "But you know what that means."
"Layoffs?"
"Or promotions. Depends on who you are."
Elara's pulse quickened. Voss Industries didn't do "audits" without reason. Damon Voss didn't do anything without reason.
She slipped into her office, dropped her bag, and opened her laptop. Stella was already there, perched dramatically on the edge of her desk, chewing the end of a pen like it owed her answers.
"Tell me you've heard," Stella said.
"I've heard too much," Elara said, powering on her computer. "Be specific."
"The audit," Stella whispered, eyes gleaming. "Apparently, it's not financial. It's structural. Damon and Alex are planning something big—some kind of internal restructuring across departments."
Elara frowned. "That sounds like a rumor."
"It came from Human Resources."
"Then it's definitely a rumor."
Stella huffed. "You're no fun. You don't even care that Alex Walter has been in the building all week."
"I'm sure the building survived," Elara said dryly.
"He stopped by the media wing yesterday," Stella went on, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "He's too confident, you know? The kind of confident that needs subtitles."
Elara allowed herself a small smile. "That's one way to describe him."
"What about your way?"
"I call it noise."
Stella gasped theatrically. "You're hopeless. One day, you're going to meet someone who actually makes you lose that calm."
"Unlikely," Elara said, eyes on her screen. "The only thing that flusters me is missing a deadline."
"Then you should probably check your inbox," Stella said, smirking.
Elara glanced at her phone. There it was—an email from Luke Rivers.
> Mr. Voss requests a progress summary on the editorial restructuring. Deliver to his office before 1:00 p.m.
Her chest tightened. "Great."
"What?" Stella asked.
"Nothing," Elara said, shutting her laptop. "Apparently, I have an appointment with the definition of stress."
"Good luck," Stella sang, already pulling her phone back out. "If you see Alex, tell him Stella from Publishing says hi."
"I'll be sure to ruin your career on the way," Elara muttered.
The elevator ride to the eleventh floor felt longer than usual. By now, she'd learned that Damon's presence didn't always require his body—he existed in emails, schedules, and every invisible thread that ran through the company.
Still, she wasn't prepared to find him waiting when the elevator doors opened.
Luke's office was half-lit, empty except for Damon Voss leaning against the glass table, jacket draped over a chair, sleeves rolled.
He didn't look surprised to see her.
"Miss Quin," he said, voice smooth but not unkind.
"Mr. Voss." She stepped forward, placing the file on the table. "Editorial report, as requested."
He studied her for a moment that felt like an hour. "You work fast."
"You like control."
"Sometimes control isn't what it looks like."
"Then what is it?"
He smiled faintly, though it never reached his eyes. "Survival."
The silence that followed felt like a held breath. She could smell his cologne—clean, sharp, expensive—and it did nothing to steady her.
"Try not to stay too late again," he said finally.
"Concerned for company resources?"
"For accidents," he said softly. "Or maybe habits."
Her pulse stuttered. "Then maybe stop creating them."
For a split second, something flickered across his face—surprise, amusement, something else she couldn't name.
Then his phone buzzed. The sound shattered the quiet between them.
He turned away. "That'll be all, Miss Quin."
She left without a word, refusing to look back—because she could already feel his gaze on her, heavy as gravity.
The elevator doors closed behind her, and Elara exhaled only when she stepped out onto her floor. She wasn't sure what unnerved her more—his words or the fact that her body still remembered the way he'd said them.
She reached her desk to find Stella still there, now surrounded by snack wrappers and a look of mild panic.
"You're late," Stella said. "Well, later than usual."
"I was with Mr. Voss."
Stella froze mid–chip crunch. "And you're alive?"
"Barely."
"What did he say?"
"Nothing important."
"You're lying."
Elara sighed. "You'll live longer if you don't know."
Stella leaned forward, eyes gleaming. "You realize this is how you sound before the main character of every romance novel has a breakdown?"
"Good thing I'm not in one," Elara muttered, sitting down.
Stella grinned. "Oh, honey. You are so in one."
Hours slipped by. The office thinned until it was just the sound of printers and the low hum of the heating system.
Elara stared at her screen, but her mind kept wandering—to Damon's voice, to his eyes, to that brief crack in his composure when she'd pushed back. It wasn't attraction. It was curiosity. Obsession, maybe. Or both.
She rubbed her temples. "Get a grip, Quin."
The elevator dinged behind her. She didn't look up until she heard Stella's laugh.
"Tell me that's not you stalking me," Stella said.
Elara turned, startled to see Alex Walter leaning casually against the doorway, a half-smile playing at his lips.
He was out of place among the cluttered desks and flickering monitors, too refined for the dim light and paper chaos.
"I was just passing through," Alex said. "Figured I'd check if Publishing still breathes after six."
"Barely," Stella said, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "Some of us have deadlines."
"And some of us," Alex said, walking closer, "pretend we don't miss deadlines for sport."
Elara arched a brow. "You two seem familiar."
"The day after the gala," Stella said quickly, color rising in her cheeks. "We—uh—bumped into each other."
"Ah," Elara said, biting back a smile. "Corporate collisions. Very common."
Alex smirked. "I think I prefer it to board meetings."
"Because you can win those with a smile?" Elara asked.
"Sometimes," he said, eyes flicking toward Stella. "Sometimes not."
Stella coughed, grabbing her bag. "Well, I should—uh—send that report."
Alex's smile widened, just a fraction. "Don't let me keep you."
When she'd disappeared down the hall, Elara gave him a pointed look. "Are you always this… distracting?"
He shrugged. "Only when I'm bored. Tell her I'll be at the event planning meeting tomorrow."
"She'll probably faint," Elara said dryly.
He chuckled. "Goodnight, Miss Quin."
When he left, the office felt emptier somehow.
Elara packed her things slowly. She glanced toward the glass window separating her department from the hall—half expecting to see Damon's reflection. He wasn't there, but the thought lingered anyway. His warning replayed in her head, softer this time: You're not as untouchable as you think.
By the time she stepped outside, night had swallowed the city. The air was sharp, cool, threaded with that metallic scent that came before rain.
She pulled her coat tighter and started walking.
The streets hummed with distant traffic, neon signs bleeding color into the wet pavement. She should've felt small among all that noise—but instead, she felt aware.
Watched.
At the corner, a black car idled. Its windows were tinted, engine low and steady.
Her pace faltered. She told herself she was being paranoid, that she'd been reading too many of her own fears. But when she glanced back once more, the car was still there.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown Number: You work too late.
Her breath caught. She didn't need to ask who it was.
Back inside the car, Damon closed his phone, eyes following her silhouette as she turned the corner. Rain began to fall in thin, steady threads against the windshield.
Luke, in the passenger seat, glanced over. "Home, sir?"
"In a minute."
Damon watched until Elara disappeared from view. The city lights reflected in his eyes like fire restrained behind glass.
He leaned back, jaw tight. "Tell the driver to follow."
Elara reached her apartment and stood for a long moment in front of the door before going inside. The space was warm, faintly scented with coffee and lavender—Jamie's attempt at comfort.
Her brother's door was cracked open. She peeked in. He was sprawled across his bed, headphones in, asleep. She smiled faintly, closing the door halfway.
Back in her room, she sank into the edge of her bed and stared at her phone screen. The last message still glowed there like an ember.
> You work too late.
She typed three words, hesitated, then deleted them.
Instead, she locked the phone and lay back, the sound of rain filling the silence.
For the first time, she didn't dream of her parents.
She dreamed of green eyes watching her through glass.
Sometimes, silence isn't peace. It's the space between two people who are both too dangerous to speak first.