Lyra woke before her alarm.
No dreams. No panic. Just stillness.
The morning light was soft, pooled at the edges of the blackout curtains she forgot to fully close. The city outside hadn't quite come alive yet, which meant it was just before six.
She didn't reach for her phone right away.
Instead, she lay there a moment, listening to the quiet hum of the building. Breathing in the faint scent of lavender from the pillowcase. Her body felt rested—but beneath that, something shifted.
The restaurant.
Edgar.
The glance across the room that had lasted maybe ten seconds—but still hadn't left her.
It was nothing.
It had to be.
Just a glance. Just coincidence.
And yet.
She moved out of bed, padding across the hardwood floor in bare feet. Her morning routine unfolded with quiet precision:
Loose bun. A splash of cold water across her face. Black coffee. A minimal breakfast—one boiled egg, a slice of toast. A full scan of the major news and markets. Dressed in slate-grey today—structured blouse, slim black trousers, silver accents.
Clean. Controlled. Quiet power.
By 7:15, she was out the door.
By 7:46, she walked through the revolving glass doors of Thornevale HQ, her heels making only the softest sound on the polished stone.
And yet with every step, she felt the hum in her chest again.
Something's coming.
And she didn't know if that feeling excited her or terrified her.
She waited until the others left the boardroom.
Arielle brushed past her without comment. The others followed, murmuring quietly between themselves about schedules and client calls. Edgar hadn't moved from the head of the table.
Lyra stepped forward, tablet in hand.
"Mr. Thornevale," she said, evenly. "Your copy of the Solara review. Final draft. Includes adjusted strategy and revised projections."
He didn't look up right away.
"Sit," he said.
Not a question. But not unkind.
She hesitated just a second, then took the chair two seats to his right.
He reached for the tablet she slid toward him. Scrolled once. Scrolled again.
Silence.
She waited.
This wasn't nerves. This was calculation. He was studying not the numbers—but the structure. How she thought. Where she placed emphasis. What she left out.
Finally, he spoke.
"You held the line," he said, still not looking at her. "You made them come back to us."
Lyra's voice was quiet, but sure. "You said we don't work with those who play both sides. That doesn't mean we don't let them think we might."
He looked at her now.
Just a glance.
Not long.
But it hit.
"You understand leverage," he said.
"I understand people," she replied.
A pause.
That—that—brought the faintest curve to his mouth.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
He set the tablet down.
"You'll deliver this version to Arielle for legal prep. Don't change a word."
Lyra stood. "Understood."
She turned to leave—
"Lyra."
She stopped.
His voice was low. Not cold. Not commanding.
Just… slower.
She looked back at him, one brow lifted.
"Did you enjoy the wine?" he asked.
Her heart missed one beat.
Then picked up again.
She let the silence stretch.
Then:
"I did."
A pause. Just long enough for a breath.
"Did you?"
His expression didn't change.
But something in his eyes did.
Softer. Or maybe sadder.
"I did," he said.
That was all.
She nodded. Turned.
And left the room.