The boardroom emptied in fragments, directors gathering their files with stiff hands and downcast eyes. Their voices lingered in low whispers, rehearsed neutrality barely hiding the gossip already forming. Shoes clicked against marble, doors opened and shut, and the storm dissolved into polite retreat.
Arkellin stayed seated a moment longer, unmoving in the echo of silence, his gaze fixed on the skyline beyond the glass.
Then Mira's voice cut through.
"My office," she said, tone flat, absolute.
When he looked up, she was already at the door, one hand on the brass handle. Her posture was immaculate as ever, but her shoulders were tight, her jaw set hard enough to betray the fire beneath.
Arkellin rose without a word.
The corridor stretched long and quiet, its carpet swallowing the sound of their steps. Glass walls framed the city outside, towers stabbing into the sky, sunlight glaring across chrome. Assistants along the hallway pretended to type, their eyes flicking up only once before darting away. The perfume of Myra's satin fire still clung faintly to Arkellin's suit, an invisible trail that seemed to follow him like a shadow.
Mira walked ahead, heels striking sharp against the floor, her pace clipped. She didn't look back, didn't slow, but every movement carried an energy too controlled, as if she were holding herself together by sheer force of will.
Arkellin matched her stride, hands relaxed at his sides, eyes steady. He could feel the tension radiating from her like heat, filling the narrow corridor more than the sunlight or the hum of the air vents ever could.
At the far end, double doors awaited—dark glass etched with her initials: M.A.C.
Mira stopped there, finally turning to glance at him. Her gaze was sharp, but behind the steel there was something unguarded, flickering like a flame behind ice.
"Inside," she said, voice quieter this time, but no less commanding.
The lock clicked as the door shut behind them.
The office sealed shut with a soft click, and for a long breath, only the hum of the city through the glass could be heard.
Floor-to-ceiling windows spilled light across the space, painting sharp lines on the polished wood floor. Aurelia's skyline glittered outside, distant and indifferent, while inside the air was weighted with something far heavier. A diffuser whispered jasmine into the room, its sweetness cloying, clashing with the tension that hung between them.
Mira crossed the office without looking back. Her heels struck quick, sharp beats against the wood before halting at her desk. The folder in her hand landed with a muted thud, a release of pressure she hadn't allowed herself in front of the board.
The blazer followed. She shrugged it off in one swift movement, draping it neatly over the back of her chair. For a woman famed for her composure, the gesture was almost violent—like shedding a second skin.
Arkellin lingered near the door, silent, his frame tall and immovable in the spill of daylight. The streak of white in his hair caught the glow, making him look cut from shadow and silver. His gaze followed her with the patience of a predator, not intrusive, but unblinking.
Mira's fingers found the top button of her blouse. She loosened it, then another, tugging at the collar as though the air itself had grown too close, too hot. Sunlight spilled across her throat, catching on the delicate line of her collarbone, a contrast to the rigid set of her shoulders.
The motion wasn't rehearsed. But it wasn't innocent either.
She moved to the window, arms crossing over her torso, back to him. The city shimmered beyond the glass, her reflection faintly layered against its spires—one woman, doubled, fractured.
When her voice came, it was smooth as ever, but the ice cracked just enough to show the flame beneath.
"You let her play with you. In front of the board." A pause, the kind that scraped against silence. "Do you know what that does to our credibility?"
The jasmine thickened in the air. Somewhere below, traffic murmured faintly, swallowed by glass.
Arkellin's reply was low, measured. "It wasn't me who played."
She turned at that, sharply, as though the words had struck her. Light carved the tension across her face—anger, jealousy, and something unspoken curling in the same breath. Her blouse gaped just slightly, hair slipping loose from its pins, the image of elegance edged with unraveling heat.
The office felt smaller now, the walls closer, the jasmine heavier. A space meant for business had become a cage for something far less controlled.
Mira turned fully from the glass, her arms no longer folded but hanging at her sides, fingers flexing once as if steadying herself. Her heels carried her forward—measured steps, deliberate, each one echoing against the polished floor.
"You think this is a game?" she asked, voice quiet but edged like a blade. The faint sheen of light on her skin made her words sharper, her restraint thinner. "You sit there and let her…" Her breath caught, a pause too long for mere anger. "…make a spectacle of you. Of us."
Arkellin didn't move. His eyes held hers, dark, calm, a steady weight against the storm she was barely containing.
"It wasn't me," he said, tone low, even, the same words as before, but firmer now. "She's the one playing."
Mira stopped only a breath away, close enough that the jasmine blurred into the sharper note of his cologne, cool and metallic beneath. Her pen had been left on the boardroom table; now her hands clenched and unclenched, restless, as though she didn't know whether to strike, to reach, or to hold herself still.
Her blouse, loosened by those two undone buttons, shifted as she drew in a breath. The neckline gaped slightly, baring more of her throat than she might have realized, sunlight warming the exposed skin.
Jealousy cloaked itself in professionalism, but her eyes betrayed her—hard, glass-clear, yet alive with heat that business could never excuse.
Arkellin leaned just slightly forward, not enough to break the space, but enough for her to feel the weight of his presence, the steady pull of a gravity she had no name for.
"If you can't control her," Mira pressed, her voice thinning to a whisper now, sharp but trembling at the edges, "then I'll control this situation myself. But I need to know…" Her gaze faltered for the first time, dipping briefly to the line of his mouth before snapping back. "…are you with us, or are you with her?"
The silence that followed pressed against the glass walls, thick and unyielding.
And for a moment, with the sunlight behind her and the distance nearly erased, it was impossible to tell whether she was demanding loyalty—or something far more dangerous.
The silence pressed in, heavy and suffocating. Mira's breath was measured but unsteady, her gaze locked on Arkellin's as if she could pin him in place with sheer will. He didn't flinch, didn't break—his calm presence only dragged her closer, the gap between them dangerously thin.
Then the door swung open.
The handle hit the wall with a sharp thud, corridor light spilling across the office floor.
"My, my…" Myra's voice cut through like silk with a blade hidden inside. She leaned against the frame, one hand poised lazily on the brass handle. "Am I interrupting something… important?"
Her eyes glimmered with mischief as they flicked from Mira's flushed face, down to the undone buttons of her blouse, then to Arkellin standing far too close. The smile that curved her lips was nothing short of wicked.
Mira stiffened. "You should knock," she said sharply, but her voice betrayed the faint tremor she couldn't suppress.
"Oh, sister." Myra's laugh was low, unhurried, the kind that lingered in the air. She stepped further into the office, the scarlet satin of her dress catching the light. "If I knocked, I'd miss the best part."
Arkellin's eyes slid toward her, steady, unreadable. "You came for a reason," he said coolly, voice flat against the tension Myra was feeding on.
"Maybe." Myra's gaze lingered on him, then shifted back to Mira, savoring the crack in her sister's armor. "Or maybe I just didn't want you two having all the fun without me."
Mira's hand curled into a fist at her side, knuckles pale against the fabric of her blouse. "This is business, Myra."
"Business?" Myra's smile widened, her words dripping with mock innocence. "Is that what we're calling it?"
The jasmine in the air clashed with the bold perfume Myra brought in, two scents battling for dominance, just like the women themselves.
And Arkellin stood between them, calm, silent, his presence the axis of fire and ice colliding.
The office door clicked shut behind Myra, the lock catching with finality.
Whatever storm had been brewing inside these walls had only just begun.