The soft hum of the city filtered through the cracked window of Elena's tiny apartment. It was still early, and the light that spilled across her floor was pale and gentle — the kind that made everything look like it belonged in a memory.
She sat cross-legged on her bed, a half-cold cup of coffee in one hand, her phone in the other.
And on that screen?
Nothing.
No message. No missed call. No sign of him.
Not that she expected one.
But still.
Her thumb hovered over the last photo she'd taken — the city skyline from the passenger seat of his car. It wasn't much. A blurry frame. But it meant something.
She couldn't stop thinking about that drive.
About him.
Damian Blackwood. Even his name sounded like fiction. Sharp. Icy. Impossible.
And yet, he'd spoken to her like she was real.
No one ever did that.
They ordered her around. Ignored her. Looked past her.
But Damian? Even in his silence, he made her feel… seen.
Or maybe she was just imagining it.
Don't be stupid, Elena, she told herself, placing the phone down. You're nothing to him. Just another assistant. A name in a stack of files. That ride was a courtesy. Nothing more.
And yet…
She felt it in her chest — that small, aching flutter of something dangerous.
The Ghost of Struggle
Elena stood and walked to the mirror, tying her hair into a low bun. The shirt she wore had a missing button, the hem of her skirt slightly frayed. But it was the best she had.
There had been nights she slept on park benches. Days when she lied about her résumé just to get through the door.
Her job at Blackwood Industries wasn't just a paycheck — it was survival.
And Damian?
He was a storm she wasn't ready for.
But she couldn't stop thinking about him anyway.
The way he looked at her.
The way his jaw clenched like he was constantly holding back something sharp.
There was pain in him. She saw it. Felt it, even if she didn't understand it.
And that only made her want to know more.
The Phone Rings
Just as she reached for her bag, her phone vibrated on the nightstand.
She snatched it up.
Unknown Number
Her heart skipped.
"Hello?"
"Elena Reed?" a calm female voice asked. "This is Michelle, Mr. Blackwood's assistant."
Her breath caught. "Y-Yes, this is she."
"Mr. Blackwood would like you to join him for lunch today. 1 PM. He's sending a driver."
Elena blinked. "Lunch? With… him?"
"Yes. Business casual attire. Be ready by 12:30."
And just like that, the line went dead.
The Mirror Again
She stood frozen for a long moment, phone pressed to her chest, pulse hammering.
Lunch with him.
Why?
What did he want?
Was this normal? Did he do this with all his assistants?
Part of her wanted to decline. To stay in her lane. To protect whatever fragile boundary existed between fantasy and reality.
But another part — the foolish, quiet part that still believed in kindness and dreams — whispered:
What if this means something?
Elena didn't have answers.
But she had an outfit to choose.
And a heart that was already falling far too fast.