The sun was sinking low, dragging its golden fire across the skyline.
From her office, Lunox watched the city drown in it. The glass walls burned with the reflection of towers and traffic, rivers of light threading through streets still wet from rain. The empire looked untouchable, gilded in evening glow.
Her desk told another story.
Shoes abandoned beside the chair, her bare feet pressed against the plush carpet, toes flexing unconsciously. The black sheath dress she wore all day now lay softened beneath a thin cardigan, sleeves pushed to her forearms. She sat with her tablet balanced in one hand, scrolling with the other.
The screen glared headlines.
"Sunshine Rebel & Fresh Blood: Breakfast or Something More?"
"Fire and Storm — Freya Ather spotted again with Orion Light."
"Where is Ice? Silent, absent, irrelevant?"
Photos bloomed beneath the words — Freya in her crimson silk, laughing with champagne raised; Orion calm beside her, coffee cup in hand, silver eyes steady even in still images. Together, they looked less like accident and more like inevitability.
Lunox's eyes lingered too long on one frame — Freya leaning forward, hair spilling over her shoulder, Orion's gaze meeting hers across the table. Sparks frozen in pixels. Sparks that the world had already claimed.
Her jaw tightened.
She scrolled faster, headlines flashing past, comments biting at the edges. Words like chemistry, perfect match, storm and flame repeated too many times.
Her hand gripped the tablet harder, the pressure whitening her knuckles.
Why does it bother me?
The thought hissed, sharp and unwelcome. She pressed it down, burying it under layers of ice. It doesn't. It can't. Irrelevant.
A crack betrayed her.
The pen she held in her other hand snapped with a muted crack, ink bleeding across her palm. She didn't flinch. She simply dropped it onto the desk, the black stain pooling against pristine wood.
Outside the glass, the city lights flickered awake, one by one.
Inside, the Ice Queen sat alone, scrolling through a storm she refused to name.
Fire and storm. They'll eat each other alive. Let them.
But when she closed her eyes, it wasn't Freya's laughter she saw. It was his steady gaze. His hand at her waist the night before. His words — Ice can hold forever. Until it cracks.
Her pulse betrayed her again. She set the tablet down too quickly, screen blacking out, her reflection staring back at her. Perfect posture. Perfect mask. Eyes just a shade too dark.
This isn't jealousy. It's vigilance.
But the glass didn't lie. The reflection's eyes burned with something far less cold.
The knock was soft — a courtesy, not a request.
"A minute," Lunox called, her voice steady. Too steady.
She swiped the tablet dark and slid it across the desk, ink-stained fingers curling around a tissue. The broken pen lay forgotten beside her, a small casualty in the war she waged against herself. By the time the door opened, her expression had iced over again.
Aurelia stepped in, tablet in hand. Her heels were quieter than most, her presence practiced to disturb as little as possible. Blonde hair tied neat, glasses perched just so, her navy suit crisp even after a long day.
"End-of-day reports," she said gently, placing the tablet on the desk.
"Leave them," Lunox replied without looking up. Her cardigan sleeve tugged lower, hiding the faint smudge of ink on her skin.
But Aurelia had already seen. She always did.
Her eyes flicked once toward the darkened tablet at the corner of the desk, the faint reflection of headlines still glowing faintly against the black screen. Then to the snapped pen bleeding onto wood. Then back to Lunox's face, flawless mask intact.
For a moment, Aurelia hesitated. Then, softly: "Does it… bother you?"
The words cut through the office like the rain outside.
Lunox's eyes lifted, obsidian and sharp. "Irrelevant."
Aurelia didn't flinch. She adjusted her glasses, posture straight. "Irrelevant," she repeated quietly. "Of course."
She turned as if to leave, but paused, her hand brushing against the edge of the desk. Her voice, when it came again, was even softer — almost too soft to be heard.
"Even ice leaves traces when it cracks."
The air shifted.
Lunox's grip on the tissue tightened, crushing it into her palm. Her face remained still, but inside, her chest burned with the sting of being read too closely.
"Good night, Aurelia," she said, voice like frost.
The PA inclined her head, collected, professional. "Good night, Ms. Ather."
She left without another word, the door closing with the gentlest click.
Silence reclaimed the office, but Aurelia's words lingered, echoing against the glass walls.
Lunox exhaled slowly, her breath fogging the window faintly. Her reflection looked back — Ice Queen, perfect, untouchable. But the faint smudge of ink on her hand betrayed otherwise.
And for the first time, she wondered how many people could already see the cracks.
The office was quiet again when the door clicked open a second time.
This time, no knock.
Orion stepped in, the late afternoon light catching on his grey suit. The drizzle outside had dried, leaving faint streaks on the glass behind him. His collar was still open, his tie absent, as if he'd walked straight from another world into hers. A faint trace of perfume clung to him — not his. Jasmine laced with smoke.
Freya.
Lunox's spine straightened. Her hands folded neatly on the desk, the cardigan sleeve pulled down low to hide the smudge of ink still staining her skin. Her face was the perfect mask again, cold and composed.
"Report," she said, before he could speak.
He didn't flinch. He placed a folder on her desk, precise, then leaned back slightly with that unhurried calm that burned more than arrogance ever could.
"The contract with Helios finalized," Orion said evenly. "Terms lean in our favor. Distribution rights extended for another quarter. Supply secured."
Her eyes scanned the folder, though she didn't really need to. The numbers, the neatness of the clauses — it was all there. Clean. Efficient.
"Good," she said, voice clipped. She set the folder down. "As expected."
The words landed cold, but her pulse betrayed her. Each syllable tasted like iron, like restraint stretched too thin.
Because she saw it, even if she didn't want to. The faint crease at his cuff where Freya's fingers might have held. The slight warmth in his hair, as though sunlight had touched it longer than office lamps allowed. And that scent — not his, never his, but hers.
It twisted.
Why does it sting more when he walks in from her laughter? Why should it matter at all?
Orion's gaze lingered a fraction longer than necessary, silver steady on her. "Your sister has… her own way of negotiating. But results are results."
Lunox's lips pressed thin. She pushed the folder aside, as though dismissing not only the report, but him with it. "Results are all that matter."
But the echo of his words burned her. Your sister.
She rose from her chair, moving to the window, heels muted against the carpet. The city glowed in reflection, towers igniting in the haze of early evening. She stared at it, her face a silhouette of frost against the glass.
Behind her, Orion didn't move.
"Dismissed," she said finally, her voice sharp, final.
He didn't argue. He didn't bow. He simply inclined his head once, steady as ever, then turned toward the door.
The sound of it closing was too soft to mask the storm inside her chest.
Alone again, Lunox let her fingers brush against the glass, the cold surface cooling her heated skin. Her reflection looked back — flawless, composed. But beneath it, her eyes betrayed her.
Not jealousy. Not weakness. Vigilance.
But the word rang hollow.
And the faint trace of jasmine in the air mocked her silence.
The washroom lights flickered on with a soft hum.
Lunox stepped inside, heels muted against the marble floor. The hush was absolute — no staff, no whispers, only the faint drip of a faucet not fully closed. She shut the door behind her, leaning against it for a fraction of a second longer than she meant to.
The mirror stretched across the wall, pristine and unforgiving.
She moved toward it slowly, her reflection sharpening with each step: hair still sleek but not perfect anymore, a few strands fallen loose from her bun; cardigan slipping slightly at her shoulders; eyes ringed faintly with fatigue, darker than usual.
Her hands gripped the sink, cold porcelain grounding her as she leaned closer.
Not jealousy. Not weakness. Vigilance.
The words repeated in her head like a mantra, sharp and practiced. She whispered them once, low, almost soundless. "Vigilance."
But the mirror disagreed.
It showed not Ice Queen, untouchable and flawless, but a woman cracked in silence. A woman who remembered the weight of a steady hand at her waist last night. A woman who smelled her sister's perfume on him an hour ago. A woman who snapped a pen because of a photo she swore meant nothing.
Her chest rose, fell, too quick. She tugged off the cardigan, tossing it onto the counter, as if the extra layer was suffocating her.
The reflection sharpened: ivory blouse clinging faintly from the day's heat, skin at her collarbone flushed. Too human.
She turned the faucet, splashing cold water against her wrists, her throat. Drops slid down her skin, staining the satin like shadows. She pressed her palms flat against the marble, grounding herself.
"You don't care," she whispered, forcing the words between her teeth. "You don't."
But the mirror showed the truth she couldn't bury.
Her eyes betrayed her — dark, restless, burning with something she refused to name.
Behind her reflection, the office lights glowed faintly through the half-open door. Orion's shadow lingered there in her memory, silver gaze steady, scent of smoke and jasmine clinging to the air.
Her grip tightened against the counter until her knuckles whitened. The Ice Queen in the glass cracked further, fissures spreading through the flawless surface.
And for the first time, Lunox wasn't sure if she could put herself back together again.
The city was bleeding into twilight when Lunox returned to her office.
Dusk spilled across the skyline, towers gilded in fire and shadow. Her window caught it all, a canvas of glass and steel reflecting the empire she ruled. She stood barefoot at its edge, heels abandoned by her desk, cardigan tossed aside. Her arms folded tight across her chest, as though holding herself together against something she couldn't name.
The tablet buzzed once on the desk.
She didn't want to look. She told herself she wouldn't. But her eyes betrayed her, sliding back to the glow.
Another headline blinked into existence:
"Storm & Fire Rising — Where Is Ice?"
A photo accompanied it — Freya and Orion stepping from the restaurant, crimson silk and grey steel side by side. Her sister's sunglasses glinting, her smile bright, his gaze steady, unreadable.
The world had already written the story. Fire and Storm. Sunshine Rebel and Fresh Blood. A pairing that crackled in pixels.
And where was she? The question hissed from the screen. Absent. Irrelevant. Ice.
Her throat tightened. She locked the tablet with a snap and turned back to the window, pressing her palm flat against the cold glass. The city lights flickered alive beneath her touch, but her reflection betrayed the tremor in her hand.
Why does it feel like losing, when nothing was mine?
The thought gutted her, sharp and raw.
The door clicked.
She spun — too quick — and froze.
Orion stood in the doorway, framed by the dim glow of the hall. He hadn't knocked. He never knocked. A folder was tucked under one arm, but he didn't move to set it down. He just stood there, silver eyes fixed on her, shadow stretching long across the carpet.
The silence pulsed, thick with twilight and tension.
"You're late," she said, her voice low, clipped.
"I wasn't sure you wanted me here," Orion replied, calm.
Her lips pressed thin. "You presume too much."
He stepped inside, slow, deliberate. The folder landed softly on the desk, forgotten. He didn't stop until the space between them narrowed, until the lamplight caught the sharpness of his jaw, the faint scent of rain and smoke clinging to him.
Lunox's back brushed against the window. Glass chilled her spine, but the heat radiating from him made the cold irrelevant.
"Orion." Her voice faltered, softer than it should have been. "Too close."
His gaze held hers, silver steady. "Maybe not close enough."
Her pulse roared. She wanted to command him away, to freeze the air back into obedience. But her breath betrayed her, shallow and fast.
He leaned in, slow, inevitable — his shadow melting into hers on the glass. Their eyes locked, obsidian and silver, storm and ice colliding.
Her fingers twitched at her sides, then lifted without permission, brushing faintly against his sleeve. The heat of him seared through fabric, pulling her closer without a word.
For a heartbeat, the world stilled.
His mouth hovered a breath from hers, the city lights painting their silhouettes into the window. Her eyes half-lidded, breath caught, armor shattered.
Almost.
A knock split the silence.
The door creaked open an inch, Aurelia's voice soft, cautious. "Ms. Ather—"
Lunox jolted back, ice snapping into place, her chest heaving. Orion straightened, his expression unreadable but for the faintest curve at his mouth.
"Later," Lunox said sharply, her tone blade-thin.
The door shut again. Silence returned.
But the moment was broken.
Orion stepped back slowly, his silver gaze lingering, heavy with what almost was. "Good night, Lunox."
Her name lingered like a touch, low and deliberate.
He turned and left, leaving her pressed against the glass, breathless, trembling, her reflection staring back with parted lips and eyes wide with something she could no longer deny.
The Ice Queen had almost melted.
And she wasn't sure she wanted to freeze again.
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