When Elijah told me I'd be working with Kairo's team, I thought I misheard him.
At first, I almost argued. The words hovered on my tongue, ready to spill out: No. Anyone else. Please, not him. But then Elijah's face lit up with that easy pride, the kind that made it hard to refuse him.
"You'll be perfect for this, Lyra. Kairo's expanding the firm's operations, and he needs someone who can keep things running smoothly. You'll handle it better than anyone."
How could I say no to that? To him?
So I smiled, even though my stomach dropped. "Of course. I'll do it."
Now, sitting at my desk, staring at the thick file Elijah had left me, I felt the weight of what I'd just agreed to. Charts, contracts, deadlines—it should have been exciting. Challenging, even. This was the kind of responsibility I'd been craving, a chance to prove myself beyond being just Elijah's sister.
But all I could think was that I'd be working directly with him.
The memory of dinner was still fresh, too fresh. The way Kairo had watched me across the table, silent but unrelenting. The way I couldn't look at him without feeling like something inside me was breaking open.
I pressed my palms flat against the desk, grounding myself. This wasn't about him. It couldn't be.
I told myself I'd keep it professional. Distance. Walls. I'd survive it the same way I survived every other storm—by holding my ground.
And yet, when my phone buzzed with a new email notification and I saw his name in the subject line, my breath hitched before I could stop it.
Meeting tomorrow. 10 a.m. My office.
Short. Efficient. Businesslike.
But my pulse still raced like he'd written something entirely different.
I leaned back in my chair, closing my eyes. Tomorrow. I'd have to face him tomorrow.
And no matter how many times I told myself it was just work, the truth whispered back in the quiet of my chest:
It was never just work. Not with him.