ELARA...
The text still glowed in her mind long after she deleted it. You work too late.
No name, no signature. But she'd known the tone—the kind of command that didn't need punctuation to sound final.
Morning light poured through the kitchen window, soft and gold. Jamie hummed somewhere behind her, beating eggs with the enthusiasm of someone who'd never met rent.
"You're staring into your coffee like it insulted you," he said.
"It might have," Elara murmured.
Jamie eyed her. "So, boss man texted again?"
Her hand stilled. "Why would you think that?"
"You always look like you've seen a ghost when his name comes up. I'm your brother. I notice things."
She sighed. "Jamie—"
He raised his hands. "Fine, fine. I'll mind my business. But if you start dating someone who could buy a small country, at least let me move into the palace."
Elara threw a dish towel at him. "Go to class."
He grinned, victorious. "Love you too, nerd."
When the door closed, the silence returned—thick, aware. She finished her coffee quickly, as if caffeine could drown the sound of her own heartbeat.
The office looked ordinary, but the air wasn't.
The audit rumor had solidified overnight: Voss Industries was restructuring its publishing wing. Everyone moved with the tense precision of people pretending not to worry.
Stella was already waiting, cross-legged on Elara's desk. "Okay, listen. I'm ninety percent sure Alex Walter is in the building again."
Elara set down her bag. "We survived his last visit."
"Yeah, but my lipstick didn't." Stella twirled her pen. "Apparently, he and Mr. Voss are cooking something huge—like a merger within a merger. And you know what that means."
"More meetings?"
"Exactly!" Stella beamed. "And more chances to observe beautiful disasters up close."
Elara rolled her eyes but smiled. "If your obsession ever becomes contagious, HR will quarantine you."
"I'll risk it," Stella said. "By the way, you've been quiet lately. Everything okay?"
"Fine." A pause. "Just… tired."
Stella gave her a look that said I don't believe you but let it go. "Well, brace yourself. We've got a cross-department meeting in ten. Apparently Luke's presenting.
The conference room smelled of coffee and anxiety. Alex Walter was indeed there—charming, restless, every inch the man who owned half the skyline. He stood beside Luke, discussing numbers like they were cocktail topics.
When Elara and Stella slipped in, Alex's gaze flicked briefly toward them. "Publishing's here," he said lightly. "Now we can pretend to be creative."
Laughter rippled through the room. Stella tried not to combust.
Luke cleared his throat. "Mr. Voss couldn't attend, but he approved the new editorial strategy. These are his directives."
The word approved landed harder than it should have. Elara felt it, the invisible fingerprint of Damon Voss in every bullet point—precise, demanding, deliberate.
Alex leaned back in his chair. "He's obsessed with efficiency," he murmured to no one in particular. "The man probably times his breathing."
Elara almost smiled. Almost.
After the meeting, Stella lingered, still floating in Alex's orbit. Elara gathered the leftover handouts and escaped to the corridor. She turned a corner—and stopped.
Damon stood at the end of the hall, speaking quietly to Luke. No jacket today; just a dark shirt, sleeves rolled, the sort of effortless authority that made space around him feel smaller.
He looked up. Their eyes met. A second. Two. No nod, no smile—just acknowledgment that felt heavier than touch. She forced herself to keep walking. Her pulse didn't listen.
Back at her desk, an email waited.
> From: D. Voss
Subject: Lunch Meeting
Tomorrow 12 : 30 PM. Bring updated editorial data.
— D.V.
No greeting. No farewell. Just the command.
Stella peeked over her shoulder. "You got the email, didn't you?"
Elara minimized the screen. "Which email?"
"The kind that ruins appetites," Stella said. "He never sends those unless he's testing someone."
"Then I'll pass."
"You won't."
Elara hesitated. "Why not?"
"Because you want to know why he keeps looking at you like you're a question he can't solve."
She stared at Stella until her friend grinned and fled.
That night, rain pressed softly against the windows. Jamie sat cross-legged on the floor, sorting through college forms.
"Christmas break's almost over," Elara said.
"Yeah." He didn't look up. "Don't worry, I'll stop eating all your cereal soon."
"I'll buy more."
He smiled faintly. "You've been… different lately."
"How so?"
"Like you're waiting for something."
Elara froze. "Maybe I am."
"Good. Hope it's something good."
She watched him for a moment—the easy faith in his voice, the quiet optimism she'd forgotten how to have.
When he went to bed, she opened her laptop, meaning to work. Instead, she opened the email again.
Tomorrow. 12 : 30.
Her reflection glowed faintly in the screen's light. She whispered, "It's just lunch."
But even she didn't believe it.
Damon POV
The office was empty long after midnight. City lights bled through the glass, casting gold across his desk. Damon scrolled through reports without seeing them.
Luke stood nearby, tablet in hand. "The Zurich figures came in. We can postpone the call till morning."
"Leave it," Damon said.
Luke hesitated. "You've barely slept, sir."
"Neither has she," Damon murmured.
"Pardon?"
"Nothing. You can go."
When Luke left, the quiet settled back in, familiar as a scar. Damon opened his inbox. Her reply field still blank, untouched. Good. He hadn't expected one.
He should have deleted her number after the message, blocked her access, drawn the line again. Instead, he found himself rereading their last exchange—remembering the way she'd looked at him, unflinching.
He didn't want to hurt her. He just wanted to understand why he couldn't stop thinking about her.
A folder blinked on his screen: Project Serpent – Chicago 2010.
He closed it before the guilt could surface.
Tomorrow would be routine: lunch, data, questions.
He told himself it meant nothing.
Still, when he finally turned off the lights, the taste of her defiance lingered like smoke.
He was still just a man. So why did it feel like she was stepping toward the edge of something divine and dangerous?