The following days were torture.
Kael buried himself in work with the kind of intensity that left no room for idle thought. His calendar was packed, his inbox cleared before noon, his reports meticulous to the point of obsession. But no matter how many tasks he conquered, no matter how many hours he logged, peace remained elusive. It wasn't the workload that unsettled him—it was the quiet, persistent presence of two people who seemed to orbit each other with effortless gravity.
Everywhere he turned, there they were—Damian and Amara. Always together, always in sync. In the break room, Kael would catch glimpses of them through the glass partition: Damian handing her coffee with a familiarity that spoke of routine, not obligation. No words were exchanged, but the gesture was intimate in its simplicity. Amara's smile, soft and unguarded, was reserved for him alone.
In the hallways, where rumours clung to corners and reputations were shaped by whispers, Damian walked beside her like a silent sentinel. He didn't confront the gossip directly, but his presence was a shield—subtle, effective, and unwavering. Kael had seen it more than once: a conversation that died mid-sentence when Damian appeared, a smirk that vanished, a glance that turned away. Amara, for her part, seemed untouched by it all, as if Damian's quiet loyalty rendered her untouchable.
And in meetings—those long, tension-laced gatherings where alliances were tested and egos clashed—Damian always chose the seat beside her. He didn't dominate the room, didn't seek attention. He simply sat, calm and composed, offering quiet support with a glance, a nod, a steady presence that anchored her. Kael noticed the way Amara leaned slightly toward him when she spoke, the way her voice steadied when he was near. It was subtle, but it was there. Always there.
Every glance between them scraped against Kael's nerves like shards of glass. He told himself it was irritation—professional frustration. Damian was overstepping, inserting himself where he wasn't needed. Amara was a distraction, pulling focus from the team's goals. It was inefficient. It was disruptive. That's what he told himself.
But deep down, beneath the layers of logic and justification, something darker stirred. A feeling he couldn't quite name, one that twisted in his chest when he saw them laugh together, when he caught the flicker of warmth in Amara's eyes as she looked at Damian. It wasn't jealousy, he insisted. It wasn't personal. But the truth—raw and unspoken—was beginning to press against the edges of his denial, demanding to be acknowledged.
And Kael, ever the strategist, ever the master of control, found himself at war with something he couldn't quantify, couldn't file away, and couldn't fix. A quiet ache. A simmering resentment. A longing he refused to examine too closely.
The office buzzed with gossip louder than ever.
"Did you see them this morning?" someone whispered.
"She smiled at him."
"Guess she gave up on Kael."
"Can't have the boss's grandson, so she's aiming for another man instead.."
Kael heard every word. At first, he ignored it. The second time, he nearly snapped his pen in two. By the third, the dam broke.
It happened in a Monday meeting. Everyone was gathered around the long mahogany table. Damian sat beside Amara, close enough their arms nearly touched.
Kael stood at the head, reading from his report, but when his gaze drifted to them, his focus fractured. Damian leaned slightly toward Amara, whispering something that made her lips curve faintly — a small, fragile smile. It made Kael's jaw tighten. He couldn't explain the irritation, but it simmered beneath his skin.
He stopped speaking.
"You know," he said coldly, his voice slicing through the room, "some people should focus less on personal distractions and more on their actual work."
The room went dead silent.
Amara froze, every eye suddenly on her.
Kael didn't stop there.
"Showing up late, constantly relying on others to fix your mistakes—it's pathetic," he continued, his tone like ice. "This company doesn't have room for… freeloaders."
Amara's lips parted, but no sound came. Humiliation scorched her cheeks, her hands trembling in her lap.
"Enough," Damian said sharply, rising to his feet. His voice was quiet but carried an authority that cut through the tension. "That's uncalled for, Kael."
Kael's hazel eyes narrowed. "Stay out of this, Damian."
"No," Damian said, stepping forward, his tone unwavering. "You don't get to tear her down in front of everyone. Amara is one of the most dedicated, capable employees in this company. She's not a freeloader—she's the reason half of us hit our targets last quarter. Lastly, she's late to every meeting because some of you are offloading your responsibilities onto her instead of completing your own work."
The tension was palpable. Several employees shifted uncomfortably, whispering behind their hands.
Then someone muttered just loud enough to be heard:
"Looks like she's got her knight in shining armour now."
Another giggled. "Guess she really has moved on."
Each word pierced her heart, but Damian stayed by her side, shielding her from their venom with quiet, unwavering strength. Then Damian turned, his gaze sweeping the room like a blade.
"Anyone else want to add something?" he asked, voice low but steely. "Because if you think mocking someone who's just been publicly humiliated is acceptable, maybe you're the distraction this company doesn't need."
Silence fell instantly.
The snickers died instantly. Eyes dropped.
Damian looked back at Amara, his voice softening. "You don't owe anyone in this room an apology. Least of all him."
The words hung in the air like a challenge, quiet but unmistakable. Amara blinked, her throat tightening, the pressure in her chest loosening just enough for her to draw a full breath. For the first time since Kael had spoken, the room didn't feel like it was closing in. She didn't feel small. She felt seen.
Across the table, Kael's jaw tensed. He didn't flinch, didn't speak, but the shift in his posture was unmistakable—a subtle straightening of his spine, a flicker of something unreadable behind his eyes. His fingers curled slightly against the edge of the table, not enough to draw attention, but enough to betray the ripple beneath his calm exterior.
He told himself it was irritation. Damian was undermining him, again. Amara was being coddled, again. But the truth was more complicated, more corrosive. The way she looked at Damian now—with relief, with trust—scraped against something raw inside him. Something he didn't want to name.
Kael glanced away, pretending to review his notes, but the words on the page blurred. The meeting had shifted, and he was no longer at the centre of it. And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
That afternoon, as storm clouds gathered again beyond the city skyline, Kael sat in his office, staring blankly at the glass. The rain tapped softly against the window, echoing like a memory he couldn't shake.
Then the door opened.
A familiar voice, light and lilting, broke the silence.
"Kael! I'm back!"
Clariss Moonveil — radiant, confident, unforgettable.
Kael looked up slowly, his expression unreadable. "Clariss," he murmured, voice smooth but flat. "You're back earlier than expected."
Her smile lit the room like sunlight. "I couldn't stay away too long. Did you miss me?"
Kael's lips twitched into a faint smile — but even as she spoke, the image of Amara's tear-streaked face rose unbidden in his mind.
And for the first time, Clariss's warmth felt like cold sunlight — bright, but hollow.