The conference room buzzes with quiet energy — a dozen department heads flipping through their monthly reports, assistants adjusting slides, nervous laughter echoing too loud in the sterile, glass-paneled space.
Leila sits at the far end of the table, notes prepared, posture straight. She's barely been at Sinclair Enterprises for a few weeks, and yet she's been invited to observe the monthly progress meeting between senior staff and the CEO. Likely because of her role under the innovation project wing. Still, she keeps her head low and her attention on the data in front of her.
"Just listen. Observe. Don't attract attention," she reminds herself, tapping her pen lightly.
The chair at the head of the table remains empty.
"Sir will be joining us shortly," Kai says, entering casually and taking a seat beside a few high-ranking department leads.
Leila doesn't register the words at first.
Then the door opens.
Polished Oxfords cross the marble floor. A subtle scent of citrus and cedar trails behind. The murmurs hush into silence. She lifts her gaze instinctively—and freezes.
Him.
The man from Naples. The stranger from the shadows. The eyes she can't forget.
He walks in like he owns the silence.
Because he does.
And suddenly, all the missing pieces fall into place.
Sinclair.
Sinclair.
He's… the CEO?
She feels her breath catch—but she schools her expression in seconds, quickly lowering her gaze to the open page in her notebook. She doesn't look up again. Not once.
Elias notices.
He watches the recognition flicker in her eyes—followed by instant withdrawal. No wide-eyed awe. No greetings. No attempt to catch his attention. Only retreat.
That reaction—so calm, so cold—mildly irritates him.
You look at every man but me now?
The meeting progresses. Reports are shared. Data is dissected. Praise and warnings are distributed.
Until—
A voice cuts through the room, sharp and insincere.
"I'd also like to raise a concern about certain team dynamics," says Marco, a senior from another project line. "Some interns and juniors have been prioritizing personal image over professionalism. I won't name names, but it's creating... unnecessary distractions."
There's a pause. A glance. Then two.
All toward Leila.
She stiffens. Her pen stills.
Kai frowns. Elias's jaw tightens.
Leila breathes in slowly. Don't react, she tells herself. Don't—
But then a woman from HR smirks and adds, "Some girls should remember this is a workplace, not a place to audition for attention."
Laughter bubbles — cruel, quiet, complicit.
That's when Leila stands.
The room quiets, startled.
Her voice is calm. But beneath it simmers something unshakable.
"If anyone here has a concern about my work, say it now. Directly. Otherwise, keep my name out of your mouth and your cowardice to yourself."
The air crackles.
"I can tolerate anything in the world," she says, eyes steady, voice unshaking, "except anyone pointing a finger at my character or my family. These two things are my last hooks—cut them, and there's no Leila left to respect."
Gasps. Silence.
Elias stares at her like seeing her for the first time.
Not the quiet, reserved girl who lowered her eyes.
But a woman who would rather burn bridges than let lies smear the foundations she lives on.
Marco shifts in his seat, muttering, "No one said your name."
"You didn't need to," she replies coldly. "Your eyes said it before your mouth could."
Elias's fingers curl slowly around the armrest of his chair. His voice, when it finally comes, is low and absolute.
"This company doesn't run on hearsay. It runs on results. If anyone has a problem with Ms. Zaman, they bring proof. Not poison."
He closes the folder in front of him.
"Meeting adjourned."
As the room begins to disperse, he doesn't look at anyone else.
Only her.
But she still refuses to meet his eyes.
And that, more than anything, lingers like a bruise he can't explain.
The last of the senior staff files out of the conference room. Papers shuffle. Chairs scrape. Awkward glances linger as people pretend they hadn't just witnessed a storm in the shape of a girl.
Leila collects her notepad, her fingers trembling slightly, but she steadies herself with a breath. You didn't cry. You didn't break. You stood your ground.
Just as she turns toward the door—
"Ms. Zaman."
His voice is calm. Commanding. Unmistakable.
She halts instantly, the quiet syllables of her name freezing her mid-step. Slowly, she turns.
Elias stands at the head of the table, one hand still resting on the back of his chair. His expression is unreadable.
"Stay. I'd like a word."
Leila nods once, tight-lipped, and returns to her seat — the same one where moments ago she'd fought to keep her dignity intact. She folds her hands on the table, her spine straight, like she's bracing for impact.
Elias doesn't speak right away. He walks slowly, deliberately, to the far end of the table — the one nearest her — and leans against it, crossing his arms.
"I didn't expect that," he says finally.
Leila blinks. "If I crossed a line, I'll accept any consequence."
Elias tilts his head slightly, observing her. "You didn't cross it. You drew it."
Silence hums between them.
Leila lowers her eyes briefly, voice soft but firm. "I'm not here to make a name. Or trouble. Just to work. I've always believed in minding my own path."
"And yet," Elias murmurs, "the world insists on laying thorns across it."
She doesn't reply.
He watches her—closely. There's something restrained in his posture, like he's holding back more than just words.
"Rumors are a currency here," he says. "Unspoken, toxic, and traded like facts."
"I'm used to being misunderstood," she replies quietly.
"I noticed." Elias studies her hands. No ring. No polish. Neatly folded, but not clenched. Composed. Too composed. Like someone who's learned to carry storms in silence.
"You defended yourself without raising your voice," he continues. "Without asking for validation."
"I don't need validation," she replies, then adds, softer, "Not from strangers."
That strikes something deeper than it should.
"Good," he says after a pause. "Because I don't give it freely."
Their eyes meet — brief but potent.
Then Elias straightens, the moment folding back into something more formal.
"You're dismissed, Ms. Zaman."
Leila nods and rises.
At the door, she pauses, her hand on the handle. She doesn't look back when she says,
"But I won't allow my silence to be mistaken for weakness again."
And then she leaves.
Elias remains where he is, hands sliding into his pockets, the ghost of her final words lingering in the room like smoke.
A corner of his mouth lifts — not in amusement, but recognition.
She's not forgettable.
And I don't think I want to forget her.