Dylan didn't mean to still be in the building.
Not really.
But after hours of pacing, scrolling through Zara's unanswered message threads, and ignoring Celeste's increasingly clipped texts, he found himself wandering back into Hartley Global's tower like it was muscle memory.
The elevator gave a soft chime as it opened into the executive floor. Most of the lights were off. The air felt still—like the kind of quiet that came after something.
Zara's office door was slightly ajar.
He frowned.
Tapped gently. "Zara?"
No answer.
He pushed the door open.
And there she was—on the floor, leaning against the glass wall, her wine glass tipped and empty beside her, blazer discarded somewhere between the desk and her shoulder.
She wasn't unconscious.
But she was clearly gone.
Flushed cheeks, glassy eyes, hair messier than he'd ever seen it.
She looked up when she heard him. "Oh," she said softly, blinking. "The ghost came back."
Dylan knelt beside her, concern overtaking the usual tension. "Zara—what are you doing here like this? Are you okay?"
She smirked weakly. "Define okay."
His eyes flicked to her hand.
She was holding something.
A ring.
Their ring.
Dylan froze.
For a moment, the entire room tilted with the weight of unspoken things.
"You kept it," he said quietly.
Zara looked down at the ring like she'd forgotten it was even there. "Yeah. I guess I did."
He crouched lower, brushing hair from her face. "You don't drink like this."
"I don't feel like this," she replied, more honest than she intended. "You were supposed to be… a closed chapter. A lesson. Something I survived."
She looked up at him now, and something in her expression cracked—just a little.
"But you came back. With your fiancée. Your regrets. Your five-minute honesty. And now I'm sitting on a billion-dollar floor holding a ring I promised myself I would never wear again."
Dylan didn't speak.
He just reached for her—carefully, like she might shatter—and lifted her off the floor.
She didn't resist.
She leaned into his chest, light as air but heavy with everything they hadn't said.
As he carried her toward the couch in her office, he glanced at the ring still dangling between her fingers.
She hadn't let it go.
Not completely.
And neither had he.
He sat down with her cradled in his arms, her head against his shoulder. She smelled like jasmine and broken memories.
After a long silence, she whispered, "I never signed the contract."
"I know," he murmured.
"Still want it?"
He looked down at her, his voice low and rough. "I want you."
Zara closed her eyes.
For the first time in years, she didn't have an answer ready.
And that scared her more than anything.
\--
Light spilled through the glass windows of the office, pale and gentle, crawling across the marble floor like a quiet apology.
Zara stirred.
At first, she wasn't sure where she was. The soft leather beneath her. The warmth along her back. The slow, steady rise and fall of someone breathing behind her.
And then it hit her.
She was wrapped in Dylan's arms.
His jacket was draped over her like a blanket, and his chest rose softly against her spine. One arm was tucked protectively around her waist, the other curled up near her shoulder.
He hadn't moved all night.
And neither, it seemed, had she.
Zara blinked slowly, letting the memory return in pieces—the wine, the floor, the ring, the way she'd crumbled just enough to let him pick her up again.
She should have pulled away now. She should have sat up straight, adjusted her blazer, and reclaimed her usual armor.
But for a moment, she didn't.
She just lay there—warm, still, safe.
She could feel the beat of his heart. Hear his breath when it hit her ear. And for the first time in years, the silence between them didn't feel cold. It felt suspended. Like a breath they hadn't exhaled yet.
Zara slowly turned in his arms. His face was inches from hers, still relaxed in sleep.
How long had it been since she'd seen him like this?
Soft. Unshielded. His brow no longer furrowed with guilt or pride. Just... Dylan.
Not the man who said cruel things with liquor in his blood. Not the man who brought his fiancée to a gala like a banner.
Just the man she used to know.
The one who used to kiss her forehead when she read too long at night. The one who once held her like this and said he wanted forever.
Her gaze dropped to his lips for a second too long.
And that was when Dylan stirred.
He blinked awake, eyes adjusting—and for a breath, he looked startled.
But then he smiled.
Sleepy. Soft. Real.
"You stayed," Zara said quietly.
"You didn't throw me out," he replied, voice rough with morning.
They held each other's eyes. Neither moved.
Zara finally looked away. "I should... get ready."
He nodded, but didn't let go immediately. Just rested his forehead gently against hers for a heartbeat.
"Thank you," he whispered. "For not pretending last night didn't matter."
Zara didn't answer. But she didn't pull away either.
Eventually, she sat up, adjusted her blouse, and stood—composed again, but something different lingered in her eyes. A softness. A flicker.
She looked down at the ring still resting on the table.
She didn't reach for it.
Not yet.
Dylan stood too, straightening his sleeves, watching her with the kind of gaze that said this wasn't nothing.
Zara walked to the mirror, smoothed her hair, and spoke without turning around.
"You should go before the office wakes up."
He hesitated. "Can I see you later?"
She glanced at him in the reflection.
And after a pause, she said, "We'll see."
\---
Celeste had a gift.
She could smell shifts in energy before they even made it to the room.
So when Dylan walked into their penthouse late that morning—tie loosened, shirt slightly wrinkled, eyes… softer—she knew.
Something had happened.
He smiled like nothing was wrong. Said something about traffic and "an early start at the office."
But his tone was too calm. Too guiltless. And that made it worse.
Celeste studied him from behind her coffee cup. "You didn't come home last night."
Dylan shrugged off his blazer. "I crashed at the office. Late work session."
"With whom?"
He paused.
Just for a moment.
But to Celeste, that half-second was a neon sign.
"Mark," he said eventually. "It got late."
"Right," she replied, smiling sweetly. "Mark."
Dylan didn't respond. He turned and headed to the bedroom.
Celeste set her cup down slowly.
That was her second gift—knowing when to wait.
But waiting didn't mean inaction.
Later that day, while Dylan was in meetings, she made a discreet call to one of her contacts—an events coordinator who owed her a favor.
"I need the list of everyone who accessed Hartley Global after hours last night," she said, twirling her bracelet slowly.
"No problem," the woman replied.
Twenty minutes later, a text arrived.
Access log: D. Reid – 10:42 PM. Z. Hartley – already on premises. Exit time: D. Reid – 6:09 AM. Z. Hartley – 6:28 AM.
Celeste stared at the screen.
There it was.
She didn't know what had happened in that office overnight. But she didn't need details.
What she needed… was timing.
A strategy.
A reminder.
Because whatever storm Zara Hartley thought she was about to stir—Celeste had survived worse. She wasn't just Dylan's fiancée.
She was the woman who stayed when Zara vanished.
The woman who picked him up from rock bottom and repackaged him into a man the boardrooms respected again.
The woman he proposed to.
But even the shiniest rings could slip off if the fingers beneath them started to sweat.
Celeste took a breath.
Then opened Instagram and posted a picture from last month's gala—her and Dylan, champagne flutes in hand, her engagement ring in clear view.
Caption: There's no substitute for the real thing.
She knew exactly who would see it.
\---