Later that afternoon, Elias steps out of his office, crisp suit jacket folded over one arm, expression unreadable.
He rarely — if ever — visits the departments himself unless it's absolutely necessary. But today, he walks into the project wing under the pretense of reviewing progress reports.
Leila looks up the moment she senses someone approaching.
Her breath stumbles.
Not because it's Elias Sinclair.
But because it's him — the man whose eyes watched her in a way she couldn't unsee. Whose presence trails behind her like an echo. Steady. Unspoken.
Her posture straightens automatically.
"Mr. Sinclair," she says politely, her voice even, tone professional — the same tone she's used with senior staff, department heads, and everyone in between.
Not a flicker more.
Elias blinks once.
That… caught him off guard.
No fluttering glance. No breathy nervousness. No shy stammer. Just… grace. Distance.
She greets him as if he were nothing but another passing face.
He clears his throat, a flicker of irritation sparking. "I wanted to personally review the phase-one projections from your team," he says.
"Of course," she replies. "Let me bring the binder."
Her voice is warm, courteous — practiced, even — but there's no softness in it. Not the softness he's felt from her around Sofia. Around others.
And suddenly, it hits him.
This is how she interacts with everyone.
Not cold. But… closed.
As she moves to the shelf to retrieve the binder, Elias finds himself rooted to the spot. He's faced mafia leaders, corrupt politicians, and treacherous allies. But this — this inexplicable distance from a woman who once looked at him like she saw through his soul — feels more difficult to crack.
She hands him the binder with a faint smile.
Elias takes it, eyes holding hers for a moment longer than necessary.
Still nothing.
No flicker. No tremble. Just that same respectful detachment.
Leila's Inner Monologue
Don't let the look in his eyes fool you.
Don't let your heart trick you into rewriting what this is.
He's kind. Yes. But kindness isn't always affection.
She's learned that attention, however magnetic, can lead people — herself included — into assuming things they shouldn't. Creating stories that don't exist.
She lowers her eyes again, letting her voice return to calm professionalism.
You've drawn these lines for a reason, Leila.
Not for them. For yourself.
So no one, especially not him, mistakes your warmth for invitation. So you don't mistake interest for permanence.
"I'll forward the rest of the updated charts by tomorrow," she says smoothly.
Elias nods once, studying her for a beat longer than necessary.
Then, quietly, "You're doing well. Keep it up."
"Thank you, sir."
That word — sir — sounds like a slammed door.
He leaves with the binder in hand, something unspoken burning in his throat.