I saw her.
Of course I did.
I walked into that gallery and there she was—standing in the middle of the room like the answer to a question I've been too afraid to ask.
I told myself not to look. I told myself to stay calm, to stay back, to stay invisible. But the second my eyes found her, the world faded. The music blurred. The conversation beside me dissolved. All I saw was her.
Lyra.
In a black slip dress. Hair loose. Lips soft. Eyes scanning the room like she didn't know she was the most magnetic thing in it.
And I didn't go to her.
I didn't speak. I didn't touch. I didn't give her anything.
Because I'm a coward.
Because I'm selfish.
Because I want her more than I've ever wanted anything in my life—and I still can't seem to reach for her without remembering everything I'd lose if I did.
I left that night early.
Didn't even say goodbye to Elijah.
Didn't return the calls.
Now I'm sitting in my office on the forty-second floor, with windows that overlook a city I used to conquer, feeling like I'm losing control of everything.
My assistant knocks.
I ignore it.
She enters anyway, placing a folder on my desk.
'They want a decision on the Jakarta project.'
I nod without looking. 'Later.'
She hesitates. 'You've been pushing "later" a lot lately.'
'Then I suggest you find someone who doesn't.'
She leaves without another word. Good.
I lean back in my chair, staring at the ceiling, fingers flexing uselessly on the armrest.
I've been slipping.
I haven't missed meetings—but I've stopped caring about them. Haven't missed deadlines—but I'm not present either. The world I built with iron discipline feels fragile now. Shaky.
All because of one girl.
No.
Not a girl.
Lyra.
She's not something I can ignore. Not anymore. I've tried. I've buried myself in power and silence and guilt, but she's still there—under my skin, in my blood, in the cracks I swore no one would ever touch.
And I don't know what scares me more:
That I'm falling for her...
Or that I already have.