The next morning, Lyra arrived at Thornevale HQ precisely at 8:58 AM.
Not too early. Not late.
Measured.
She stepped off the elevator into the familiar hush of glass and engineered calm. Everything looked the same as yesterday—same gleaming marble, same minimalist architecture, same soft-diffused light like a designer's version of heaven.
But something in her felt… off-center.
Like a glass just slightly out of alignment on a polished table.
She hadn't slept. Not really. The call from her father had lingered like oil on water. She kept replaying Edgar's stare, Arielle's warning, the way silence wrapped around her in this building like an intentional design choice.
No one greeted her. They didn't need
Her badge opened every door.
Edgar was already in motion by the time she arrived.
His morning had unfolded with clinical exactness: wake at 5:45, run six miles on the in-unit track, black coffee, no breakfast, dark suit, two briefings. Nothing unusual. Every minute accounted for.
And yet—something wasn't aligned.
He hadn't forgotten the look she'd given him through the glass yesterday. Not just eye contact. Not a stare. Something deeper.
Recognition.
It had lasted less than two seconds.
But it had shaken something in him that had no name.
Now, as he stood reviewing a multi-tiered development model in the executive design lab,
Arielle at his side, he found himself staring at the front entrance to the floor more than once.
He didn't need to look at the clock.
She'd walk in at 8:58.
She always would.
She did.
Their eyes met across the space.
Lyra nodded once—neutral, professional.
Edgar gave no indication he saw her.
But the temperature in his chest shifted.
Arielle noticed.
"You want her on the east wing walkthrough?" she asked, her voice low.
"Yes," he said. "Tell legal she shadows me today."
"She's not cleared for client contact."
"I'm aware."
Arielle didn't argue. She just tapped something into her tablet.
Lyra approached a moment later, notebook in hand.
"You asked for me?" she said.
"I did."
He didn't elaborate. Just turned and walked toward the executive elevator.
She followed.
The elevator ride was silent, save for the hum of motion and the faint chime between floors. Edgar kept his gaze ahead. Lyra stood half a step behind him, eyes fixed on the panel.
No words.
But the air between them was thick. Stretched.
When the doors slid open, Edgar spoke without turning.
"You'll observe. Say nothing unless prompted."
"I understand."
But the tone of her reply wasn't submission.
It was calm defiance.
They moved through the east wing—still under high-end finishing. Floors were open, raw steel and glass waiting for the final design work. Contractors kept their distance. Everyone knew who he was.
Lyra stayed beside him, saying little, but watching everything.
She asked no questions.
But she missed nothing.
Edgar didn't comment, but the way his gaze flicked to her every few minutes betrayed the truth: he was studying her again.
Testing.
Measuring.
And finding no evidence of the woman who'd destroyed him.
Yet.
They paused at the far end of the construction floor, sunlight spilling in through high arched windows.
He spoke first.
"Your report on the Solara response yesterday. You sent it at 2:41 AM."
Lyra didn't flinch. "I couldn't sleep."
His voice was quieter now. "Why not?"
She met his gaze. "Why do you care?"
Silence.
A long, long pause.
Then he turned, walking back toward the stairs.
"I don't."
She didn't believe that.
And neither did he.