The elevator doors opened silently.
Amelia stepped in, clutching the small leather folder to her breast. Her hands were damp. The reflective walls bore back at her — the precise makeup, the neat bun, the slight quiver at the boundary of her composure.
She'd mumbled it to herself all morning, that she wasn't afraid. But standing here, working her way floor by floor up into the building of a man who believed in her when no one else would, mumbled mumbled something deeper now.
As the doors opened again, the floor stretched out before her — glassy tables, muted gray, and the muted buzz of professionals who mumbled belonged to a world different from her own.
"Mrs. Cross?" a voice called.
The same assistant who had walked her to Julian's office first — polite, businesslike. "Mr. Royce asked me to take you to your office."
Amelia followed her through rows of desks and quiet conference rooms until they reached a small corner office. The desk was already set up, computer waiting, a tidy stack of folders stacked with military tidiness.
"He reminded you to get everything you required," the assistant muttered on his way out.
Amelia alone, fingertips tracing the edge of the desk. Her heart hesitated. This room was small, but it was hers. For the first time in years, she felt something stirring — not safety, not yet, but purpose.
A soft knock came at the open door.
Julian stood against the pillar, tie loose, sleeves rolled back to the elbow so that he looked almost human amidst all the sheen. His eyes locked with hers — steady, untroubled, assessing.
"How does it feel?" he asked.
She smiled faintly. "Intimidating."
"Good," he said. "If it doesn't make you a little bit frightened, it's not worth trying."
He entered, placing a folder on her desk. "These are internal reports for the previous quarter. I'd like you to sift through them, mark what's interesting. No rush."
Amelia blinked. "You trust me with this?"
"If I didn't," he said, "you wouldn't be here."
The warmth in his tone wasn't flirtation — it was confidence, directed at her, not about her. And that made her chest tighten more than any compliment could.
She nodded, opening the folder. "I'll do my best."
"I expect nothing less." He paused, studying her expression. "You don't owe anyone an explanation for being here, Amelia. Not me, not anyone."
Her breath caught at the use of her name. "Daniel—"
"—isn't part of this conversation," Julian whispered firmly. "This is your career. Your life. Own it."
He left her then, the scent of his cologne still lingering in the air — subtle, dependable, like him.
Amelia
sat for a great while after he was gone, staring out the window. The city stirred below her, waking and endless. Out there, somewhere, her old life remained — fine-grained, familiar, minute.
But in this far-off silent office high above the noise, she could sense something breaking.
Not happiness. Not yet.
But strength.
And maybe, maybe the beginnings of freedom.