Clara had always believed she could endure anything—long nights, impossible deadlines, even the cold edge of Ethan's detachment when he retreated behind his walls. But this was different.
This was silence.
And silence was unbearable.
She began to withdraw in small, deliberate ways. She arrived precisely on time instead of early. She excused herself before midnight struck, leaving reports neatly stacked on his desk instead of waiting for his faint nod of approval. She spoke to him only when necessary, never lingering, never giving the staff a reason to glance twice in their direction.
It was her shield. Her way of protecting him. If there was no closeness to witness, then there would be no whispers.
But every time she stepped back, something in her cracked.
The first time she closed his office door behind her without looking back, she felt the fissure. The first time she left while his light was still on, her chest ached as though she'd carved out a piece of herself and left it behind.
She told herself it was right. That it was necessary. That this distance was a form of love—the only form she was allowed to show him.
But at night, in the solitude of her small apartment, she pressed her face into her pillow and tried not to weep. Because she had never felt so far from him, and the absence was suffocating.
Ethan noticed immediately.
He noticed everything about her—always had. The way she used to linger with a pen in hand, waiting to see if he needed one more thing before she left. The way she always poured him coffee just the way he liked it, without asking, without fail. The way her presence filled the office, quiet but constant, a rhythm that made the chaos bearable.
Now, all of it was gone.
She moved around him like a ghost. Efficient, precise, polite to the point of cruelty. She didn't meet his eyes unless absolutely necessary. She didn't smile, not even the small, weary ones she used to allow herself in unguarded moments.
And worst of all—she didn't stay.
Every evening, he found himself watching the clock, waiting for the sound of her voice, the familiar rustle of her papers. And every evening, he watched her gather her things and walk out the door, her back impossibly straight, her silence screaming louder than any words.
The first night she left him alone in the office, the emptiness was suffocating. He sat at his desk, staring at the space where she used to be, the faint scent of her perfume lingering in the air. He told himself it was better this way—that she was protecting them both.
But the truth gnawed at him: without her, he was unraveling.
Days blurred into one another.
Clara threw herself into tasks with ruthless efficiency. She kept conversations short, her tone clipped but respectful. The staff began to notice her distance, whispering that perhaps the rumors had driven a wedge between them. She heard them, and each word was like salt in an open wound.
But she never faltered.
She was determined to keep her walls high enough to shield Ethan. If the world thought there was nothing between them, then he was safe.
The problem was—she wasn't.
One evening, she walked into the boardroom to deliver documents, only to hear a director mutter under his breath, "At least he's finally keeping it professional. About time."
The words should have been a relief. Proof her plan was working. Instead, they cut her to the core. Because she realized then—her absence, her silence, wasn't just protecting Ethan. It was erasing her.
Ethan, on the other hand, was losing patience with the facade.
He found himself snapping in meetings, his temper sharper than usual. He poured too much whiskey at night, sleeping too little, staring too long at the empty chair across from his desk.
One night, he found himself pacing by the window, the city glowing beneath him. His reflection stared back at him, hollow-eyed, exhausted. He lifted his glass, then set it down untouched.
This has to stop.
He couldn't keep watching her disappear. Couldn't keep letting her carry this burden alone while he stood silent.
But how could he ask her to come back closer when he was the one who had built the distance in the first place? His silence, his cowardice, his refusal to tell her the truth—that was what had created this chasm.
And now, he was drowning in it.
The breaking point came on a Friday night.
Clara had finished everything early, determined to leave before anyone else so there would be no whispers, no questions. She gathered her things quietly, her heart heavy as she glanced toward Ethan's office one last time.
The light was still on. He was still there, as always.
She turned away, biting her lip hard enough to taste copper. She couldn't stay. She couldn't let herself slip again.
But just as she reached the elevator, his voice called out behind her.
"Clara."
She froze. The sound of her name on his lips was enough to undo the fragile resolve she'd built all week. Slowly, she turned.
He was standing in the hallway, his tie loose, his eyes dark and unreadable. For a long moment, they just stared at each other, the silence between them louder than words.
Finally, he spoke. His voice was low, almost raw. "Why are you doing this?"
Her breath caught. "Doing what?"
"You know what." His gaze burned into hers. "Pulling away. Leaving early. Pretending like none of this—like we—" He cut himself off, his jaw tightening.
Her heart twisted. "I'm protecting you," she whispered.
He blinked, stunned. "Protecting me?"
"Yes." Her voice cracked, but she forced the words out. "They're watching us, Ethan. Every look, every word—it's all fuel for them. And I won't be the reason they tear you down. I won't be the weakness they think I am."
For a moment, his expression was unreadable. Then, slowly, something broke in him. He closed the distance between them, his voice trembling with restrained fury.
"You think you're my weakness?"
She looked away, her throat tight. "What else would they call it?"
He lifted a hand, hesitated, then let it drop at his side. His voice softened, but the words were fierce. "Clara, you are not my weakness. You're the only reason I've made it this far without falling apart."
Her breath hitched, tears stinging her eyes. The words were too much—too close to everything she'd longed to hear, everything she feared she never would.
But before she could speak, the elevator doors slid open behind her, and the sound of footsteps echoed down the hall.
The spell shattered.
Clara quickly turned, stepping into the elevator with her head bowed. "Goodnight, Mr. Blackwood."
And just like that, the distance widened again.
That night, Ethan stayed in the office long after midnight, staring at the empty space where she had stood. He replayed her words in his mind—I'm protecting you.
And he realized something devastating.
She was protecting him, yes. But she was also destroying herself.
And if he didn't find the courage to end this silence soon, he would lose her.
Not to rumors. Not to scandal.
But to the distance between them.