Clara had never noticed how quiet the office could be at night until that moment. The fluorescent lights overhead hummed faintly, casting pale halos across the marble floor. It was past nine, and most of the staff had long since gone home. Only the sound of her keyboard filled the silence, a rhythmic clack of diligence as she reviewed contracts Ethan needed signed by morning.
She should have been exhausted, but her body had long ago adapted to these late hours. What unsettled her now wasn't the work—it was him. Ethan Leclair, sitting just a few feet away in his glass-walled office, had barely spoken to her in hours. His posture was rigid, his eyes locked on his laptop screen, but Clara knew him well enough now to recognize when something was off.
Something was gnawing at him.
She replayed the events of the afternoon in her mind, and a clue surfaced almost instantly: Michael Donovan.
Michael had been nothing more than polite during their meeting—a charming investor with a smile that seemed just a little too interested in her. He had directed several questions to Clara rather than Ethan, lingering over her responses, his gaze warm in ways that went beyond business. She hadn't thought much of it in the moment, brushing off his easy compliments as nothing unusual in the corporate world.
But Ethan had noticed. Oh, he had noticed.
She could still remember the flicker in his eyes when Michael's laughter rang across the conference room table, the subtle tightening of his jaw when Michael leaned a little too close to her while shaking her hand goodbye. Ethan hadn't said a word about it then, but his silence afterward had stretched through the entire evening like a taut string ready to snap.
Now, as she organized the last page of the report into its folder, Clara stole a glance through the glass wall. Ethan was no longer working. His laptop was closed, his hand pressed against his mouth as if restraining unspoken words. His eyes, dark and unreadable, were fixed on her.
Her heart stumbled in her chest.
She lowered her gaze quickly, shuffling papers to mask her sudden nervousness. It was unlike him to simply sit and watch. Ethan thrived in motion, in control, in endless tasks and decisions. Stillness meant something was brewing, something he wasn't saying.
And Clara had the sinking feeling she knew exactly what it was.
"Clara," his voice cut through the silence like glass against stone.
She looked up, startled by the sharpness of his tone. He had risen from his chair, his tall frame outlined against the city lights spilling through the windows behind him. There was a storm in his eyes, one she hadn't seen before.
"Yes, Mr. Leclair?" she asked carefully, slipping back into formality as though it might shield her.
He walked toward her desk with slow, measured steps. "What did you think of Donovan?"
The question was simple, but the weight behind it wasn't. Clara blinked. "Michael Donovan? He seemed… professional. Confident."
"Confident." Ethan repeated the word as though it tasted bitter. "That's one way to put it."
She hesitated. "Did something about him bother you?"
He stopped directly in front of her desk, hands braced on the polished wood as he leaned closer. For a moment, his proximity stole her breath. His eyes bore into hers, unflinching.
"I didn't like the way he looked at you."
Clara froze. The words hung heavy between them, charged with a meaning she didn't know how to grasp. She opened her mouth to respond, but nothing came out.
Ethan's jaw tightened. He straightened, pacing a few steps away as if suddenly aware of what he had admitted. His hand raked through his hair, and when he spoke again, his voice was lower, harsher.
"He wasn't paying attention to the numbers, or the pitch, or even the damn strategy. He was paying attention to you. Every word you said, every smile—he wasn't here for business. He was here for you."
Clara's heart pounded in her chest. She had never heard Ethan speak this way before—not about her, not about anyone. His tone was sharp, but beneath it lay something raw, something startlingly close to… vulnerability.
"Why does it matter?" she asked softly, her voice trembling despite her best efforts.
His head snapped toward her, eyes dark. "Because you work for me. And I won't have my employees distracted by someone who doesn't know the meaning of professional boundaries."
Clara swallowed hard. It was the perfect excuse—work, professionalism, his favorite shields. But his voice cracked on the word employees, betraying the lie.
She rose from her chair slowly, every step toward him deliberate. Her heart was in her throat, but she forced herself to hold his gaze.
"Ethan," she whispered, dropping his formal title for the first time in weeks. "This isn't about professionalism, is it?"
For once, he didn't answer. He didn't know how to.
Instead, his silence roared louder than words.
The moment stretched endlessly. Clara could almost hear her pulse in her ears, feel the electricity tightening the air around them. She had never seen him like this—unraveled, unguarded, the mask of the untouchable CEO slipping just enough to reveal the man beneath.
And that man… was jealous.
The realization struck her with breathtaking force. Ethan Leclair, the man who had built walls so high no one could climb them, the man who hid behind sharp words and colder stares—he cared. Maybe more than he wanted to admit.
Her chest ached with the weight of it.
"You don't have to worry," she said finally, her voice gentle but steady. "Michael Donovan means nothing to me. I'm not interested in him."
Ethan's shoulders tensed, but he didn't turn. He stared out the window, his reflection fractured in the glass.
"Good," he muttered.
Clara's lips parted. That single word, clipped and raw, told her more than any speech could. He wasn't relieved because it was convenient for business. He was relieved because she was his—whether he would admit it aloud or not.
She wanted to press further, to ask the question that hovered unspoken between them: Then who are you interested in, Ethan?
But fear stopped her. Fear of pushing too hard, of breaking whatever fragile truth had just surfaced.
So instead, she allowed the silence to speak for them both.
The rest of the night passed in unsteady quiet. Ethan didn't return to his office. He lingered by the window, lost in thought, while Clara finished the last of her reports. Every so often, she caught him glancing at her—quick, restless looks that vanished the moment she noticed.
It was a strange kind of intimacy, one built not on confessions but on the cracks in his carefully constructed ice. And Clara realized with a shiver that she was falling deeper into those cracks than she ever meant to.
By the time she gathered her things and slipped on her coat, the clock had passed eleven. She expected Ethan to dismiss her curtly as usual, but instead, he surprised her once again.
"I'll drive you home," he said firmly.
Clara blinked. "That's not necessary. I can call a cab."
"I wasn't asking," he replied, his voice low.
There it was again—that edge of protectiveness, almost possessive, threaded through his tone. She should have protested, but her heart betrayed her. She wanted him to drive her home. She wanted to sit beside him in the dark quiet of his car, to feel the unspoken weight of what had shifted between them tonight.
So she nodded. "Alright."
The drive was silent, but not empty. The city lights blurred past the tinted windows, each flash of neon reflecting across Ethan's unreadable expression. Clara sat with her hands folded in her lap, fighting the urge to speak, to bridge the distance between them.
When they finally pulled up to her apartment, she reached for the handle—but Ethan's voice stopped her.
"Clara."
Her hand froze. She turned slowly, meeting his gaze.
For a moment, the world seemed to hold its breath. His eyes softened, the storm within them quiet but not gone. Words hovered on his lips, fragile and dangerous.
But then, just as quickly, he swallowed them back.
"Goodnight," he said instead, his voice taut.
Clara forced a small smile, though her heart ached with all the things left unsaid. "Goodnight, Ethan."
She stepped out into the night, the door shutting softly behind her.
And as his car pulled away, Clara knew with absolute certainty: the ice was cracking. And once it shattered, neither of them would ever be the same.