The gala from the night before had left Clara drained, though she would never admit it. She was at her desk outside Ethan's office at 7:30 sharp, just as always. Her posture was perfect, her suit crisp, her expression calm. She looked as if she hadn't stayed up until two in the morning organizing reports.
Inside, though, her thoughts still lingered on the fifteen minutes at the café. She could still hear Ethan's voice—softer, warmer than she had ever known it could be. She could still see the way he had looked at her, just for a heartbeat, as though he was seeing her for the first time.
But Ethan Reyes was a man who built walls. And Clara knew better than to let a moment weaken her focus.
At precisely 8:00, the doors opened and Ethan strode in. He looked immaculate again—navy suit, silver tie, expression cool and unreadable. It was as if the café had never happened.
"Good morning, Mr. Reyes," Clara greeted, standing quickly.
"Schedule," he replied.
She handed him the tablet and began reciting: "Nine o'clock, strategic review with the finance team. At eleven, a call with Mr. Donovan in New York. Lunch at one with the governor. At three, a press briefing regarding the new partnership with TeslaTech, and at six—"
"Cancel the press briefing," Ethan interrupted.
Clara blinked. "Cancel, sir?"
"Yes. Reschedule for next week." His tone was sharp, final.
She nodded quickly, though she hesitated. Ethan never canceled press briefings, no matter how full his schedule was. Something was wrong.
Still, she didn't question him. She only said, "Understood."
The finance review was tense. Numbers weren't aligning as Ethan wanted, and though the executives tried to defend themselves, Ethan's icy gaze silenced every excuse. Clara sat silently beside him, taking notes, watching as the executives squirmed under his cold precision.
Yet she also noticed the tightness in his jaw, the way his pen tapped impatiently against the table. He was harsher than usual, his patience thinner.
When the meeting ended, the executives left the room pale and exhausted. Ethan remained, staring down at the numbers, his expression unreadable.
Clara waited quietly, unsure if she should speak. Finally, she said softly, "Sir… maybe we can revisit the projections tomorrow, when things are clearer."
His gaze flicked up to her. For a moment, something dark flashed in his eyes. Then he sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.
"You're right," he murmured.
It startled her—he rarely admitted when someone else was right.
Before she could respond, his phone buzzed on the table. Ethan glanced at the screen, and his expression hardened. He picked up, his voice clipped.
"What do you want?"
Clara lowered her eyes, pretending not to listen, but she couldn't help hearing fragments.
"…I told you I'm not interested… Don't call me again… I said no."
He ended the call abruptly, tossing the phone onto the table with more force than necessary. His shoulders were tense, his jaw set.
Clara hesitated. Then, gathering her courage, she asked softly, "Everything all right, sir?"
Ethan's eyes snapped to hers, sharp and guarded. For a long moment, he didn't answer. Then, finally, he said, "It's personal."
Clara lowered her gaze. "Of course. Forgive me."
But as Ethan rose and walked out, Clara's chest ached with curiosity—and something else. Concern.
Because for the first time, she had seen something in his eyes. Not the cold calculation of a CEO. Not the indifference of a man above the world.
She had seen anger. Pain.
And it left her wondering: who had hurt him?
The answer came sooner than she expected.
That afternoon, as Clara organized documents in Ethan's office while he took another call, a man entered without knocking. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his hair streaked with gray, his expensive suit speaking of wealth and power.
Clara froze. She didn't know him, but there was something in his presence that reminded her of Ethan.
The man's eyes fell on her. "Where is he?"
"Mr. Reyes is in a call—" Clara began, but the doors opened, and Ethan stepped out.
The moment he saw the man, Ethan's expression darkened. His entire body tensed, his voice like steel.
"What are you doing here?"
The man's lips curved into a faint smile. "Is that how you greet your father?"
Clara's breath caught. Father?
Ethan's eyes blazed, but his voice remained icy. "You have no right to be here. Leave."
"Ethan—"
"I said leave." Ethan's tone was so sharp that even Clara flinched.
The man's smile faded. He glanced at Clara, then back at Ethan. "You can't ignore me forever."
"I've done it for fifteen years. Another fifteen won't be difficult." Ethan's words dripped with venom.
For a moment, silence crackled in the room. Then the man sighed, adjusted his cufflinks, and walked out.
Ethan stood frozen, his hands clenched at his sides, his chest rising and falling. Clara had never seen him like this—his mask completely gone, raw anger etched across his face.
Slowly, she said, "Sir… should I—"
"Don't." His voice was sharp, but it wavered slightly. He turned away, walking toward the window, his shoulders rigid.
Clara's heart ached. She wanted to step closer, to reach out, to say something that might ease the storm inside him. But she stayed where she was, knowing he would not allow it.
Still, as she stood there in silence, she realized something.
Ethan Reyes wasn't cold because he felt nothing.
He was cold because he felt too much.
And the shadows of his past still haunted him.
That night, Clara lingered later than usual. Ethan hadn't spoken much after his father left. He buried himself in work, but Clara could see the tension in every movement, the way his hand lingered on his pen, the way his gaze drifted to the window as though lost in memories.
Finally, as she prepared to leave, she paused at the doorway. "Good night, sir," she said softly.
Ethan didn't look up. "Good night, Clara."
Her chest tightened. He had used her name again.
She walked out, her heart heavy with questions. Who was Ethan's father? What had happened between them? And what wounds lay beneath the mask he wore so carefully?
As she rode the elevator down, Clara knew one thing for certain: she wanted to know him—not just the CEO, not just the cold man the world admired, but the person beneath the shadows.
And though she told herself it was foolish, she also knew her heart was no longer entirely her own.
Because every shadow he carried, she wanted to share.
Even if he never let her in.