The city outside glowed with fractured light, a thousand windows burning against the darkness. From Ethan's office, the skyline stretched endlessly, yet all he could see was the reflection in the glass—his own face drawn with exhaustion, and behind him, Clara gathering papers into neat stacks.
She always stayed later than she needed to. Always waited until his work was done, as though tethered to him by some invisible thread. He told himself it was duty, devotion to her job, nothing more. But deep down, he knew. Clara Cruz wasn't here for the company. She was here for him.
And the thought terrified him.
"Is there anything else you'll need before I head out?" Clara's voice cut gently into the silence. She stood by his desk, her dark hair falling over one shoulder, her eyes careful yet searching. She had been careful all week—ever since that moment between them, the one he'd shut down with more force than he intended.
Ethan lifted his gaze to hers, and for a fraction of a second, he allowed himself to simply look. At the softness of her lips. At the warmth in her eyes that he didn't deserve. At the steadiness that had kept him from unraveling more times than she would ever know.
"I—" He stopped, his throat tightening around the words. Don't say it. Don't ruin her life by dragging her into yours.
But God, he wanted to.
He wanted to tell her that every late night wasn't just about the company—it was about the comfort of her presence. That the thought of another man's attention on her had clawed at him in ways he didn't even recognize until it was too late. That she had become the one constant in a world where everything else was fleeting, fragile, broken.
Instead, he forced himself back behind the mask. "No. That'll be all."
Her face didn't change, but he saw the flicker in her eyes. The disappointment she tried to hide. She nodded, gave a small, polite smile, and gathered her bag.
Ethan watched her walk to the door, every step tugging at something inside him. She paused, hand on the handle, as though waiting. Hoping.
And before he knew what he was doing, he spoke.
"Clara."
She froze, turning slightly, her expression caught between surprise and anticipation.
His chest tightened. The words sat heavy on his tongue, desperate to be freed. Stay. Don't go. I can't keep doing this without you. You mean more to me than I can admit.
But when he opened his mouth, the words that came out were a coward's.
"You've… done well lately. With the board. With everything. I don't say it enough."
Her lips parted, her breath catching in the silence. For a moment, he thought she saw through him. Saw everything he wasn't saying. Then she gave a small nod, her voice soft.
"Thank you."
It should have ended there. It would have been safer. But Ethan's control was fraying, pulled taut by weeks of longing, by the memory of her voice telling him she stayed because she believed in him.
He stood, crossing the space between them before he could stop himself. The movement startled her—he could see it in the way her back pressed lightly against the door, her eyes widening as he drew close.
"Clara," he said again, her name breaking raw from his lips.
She looked up at him, her pulse visible at the delicate line of her throat. "Yes?"
His hand lifted, hesitating in the air between them. He wanted to touch her—her cheek, her hand, anything. He wanted to close the distance, to show her in action what he could not yet confess in words.
But the war inside him raged mercilessly. For every reason he had to reach for her, there were ten reasons not to. She deserved someone unbroken, someone who wouldn't drag her into a world of ruthless enemies, endless scrutiny, and his own haunted past.
And so, at the very last second, he faltered. His hand dropped back to his side, his jaw clenching.
"Goodnight, Clara," he whispered instead.
Her breath shuddered as though the words cut deeper than he intended. But she gave him a soft, steady smile—the kind that felt like forgiveness—and slipped out the door.
When it clicked shut behind her, the silence that followed was suffocating.
Ethan sank back against his desk, his hand covering his face. He had come so close. Closer than ever before. And still, he couldn't do it.
The words stayed locked inside him, burning like a secret too heavy to bear: I love you. You're my everything.
Words she deserved to hear. Words he was too much of a coward to give her.
And so the night ended not with confession, but with silence—the space between them stretching wider, sharper, heavier than ever before.
Clara lingered outside the office building long after she left Ethan's floor. The glass doors reflected her faint outline against the glittering city beyond, her breath fogging slightly in the cool night air. Her bag weighed heavier than usual on her shoulder, but the real weight was inside her—restless, unsteady, impossible to shake.
She replayed it again and again: the way he had called her name, the way he had stepped close enough that she could see the faintest crease between his brows, the tremor in his voice when he whispered her name. Clara.
It hadn't been her imagination. She knew it. There had been something in his eyes—something raw, something unguarded—that she had never seen in Ethan Leclair before. For years, he had been her fortress of ice, every word measured, every gesture precise, every glance distant. And tonight, for the first time, a crack had appeared.
A part of her wanted to weep from relief. Another part wanted to run.
Her heels clicked softly on the pavement as she walked toward the train, though she barely noticed the rhythm. Her thoughts were too loud. What if he had touched me? What if he had finished what he meant to say? The truth hung between them, heavy and dangerous, but instead of clarity, she was left with silence.
And silence could destroy her.
She sank into an empty seat when the train arrived, folding her hands tightly in her lap. Around her, strangers scrolled through phones, dozed against windows, whispered to companions. Normal lives. Simple lives. Lives not entangled with a man like Ethan—a man who could ignite her heart with one look and ruin her with a single decision.
Her reflection in the glass caught her off guard. She looked… different. Flushed, alive, haunted. As though she had brushed against something forbidden and it had branded her.
Clara closed her eyes, the rocking of the train carrying her deeper into thought. Why can't he just say it? Why can't he let himself admit what's already there? She remembered his hand halfway raised, remembered the air between them charged with possibility. She had felt it. The whole room had shifted.
And yet, he pulled back.
As always.
By the time she reached her apartment, her emotions were knotted so tightly that she could barely breathe. She set her bag down, leaned against the door, and let the quiet swallow her. Her home was warm, soft, filled with little touches of comfort—candles, books stacked carelessly on a side table, a blanket draped across the sofa. It was hers. Safe.
But even here, Ethan's presence lingered. In the way her phone sat on the counter, waiting for a message that would never come. In the unopened bottle of wine she had once thought she might share with someone special. In the ache that lived just beneath her ribs, reminding her that love was a gamble she might never win.
She slipped off her shoes and curled onto the sofa, hugging her knees to her chest. For so long, she had convinced herself that being near him was enough. That serving him, supporting him, was its own kind of intimacy. But tonight had shown her the truth: she wanted more. Needed more. And it terrified her.
Because what if she wasn't enough for him?
What if she never would be?
Her phone buzzed suddenly, startling her. Her heart leapt as she snatched it up, but it wasn't Ethan. Just a reminder from a friend she hadn't seen in weeks. She let out a shaky laugh, part relief, part disappointment, and set the phone aside.
She lay awake for hours, the city's hum beyond her window a reminder that life moved on whether her heart was settled or not. Sleep only came in fragments, dreams tangled with memories of his voice, his gaze, the unbearable closeness of almost.
Back in his penthouse, Ethan sat in darkness. He hadn't bothered to turn on the lights, the skyline spilling enough illumination across the room. His jacket lay abandoned on the arm of the sofa, his tie pulled loose, his glass of whiskey untouched on the table.
But his thoughts were anything but still.
He could still see her—Clara pressed against the door, her eyes wide and uncertain, her lips parting as though she was ready to receive whatever truth he was about to give.
And he had failed her.
His fists clenched at his sides. You're weak. You're selfish. You can't drag her into this. Yet his chest ached with a hollow that whiskey couldn't fill, with a longing he could no longer deny. Every time she left, he was left with silence. Every time he turned away, the emptiness grew sharper.
He thought of the way her name had slipped from his lips—broken, unguarded. The way she had looked at him, as though she might believe in him even when he didn't.
And the truth twisted like a blade inside him.
He loved her.
He had loved her longer than he dared to admit. And yet he would rather burn than let that love consume her life.
Hours passed before exhaustion pulled him under, though even in restless sleep, her face haunted him.
The next morning, Clara arrived at the office early, determined to bury her heart beneath professionalism. She wore her sharpest suit, tied her hair back, armed herself with the polished smile she reserved for clients and board members. If Ethan noticed, he didn't show it.
But when their eyes met across his desk, there was something different. A tension humming beneath the surface. A shadow of the night they almost crossed the line.
Clara dropped her gaze quickly, her hands steady as she handed him the day's agenda. "Your nine o'clock confirmed. The board presentation is finalized. I'll be in the conference room to set things up."
Ethan accepted the folder, his fingers brushing hers for the briefest moment. Neither of them spoke of it. Neither of them dared.
But as she turned to leave, she caught the faintest whisper under his breath, so soft she wasn't even sure it was real:
"Clara…"
She froze, her heart racing, but when she glanced back, his expression was unreadable. Cold. Controlled. The CEO mask firmly in place.
And so she walked out, her heels clicking against the polished floor, leaving behind the truth they both felt but neither could speak.
For now, the silence endured.
But silence had its own kind of power. And sooner or later, it would demand to be broken.