AMARA'S POV
I don't understand him.
I don't think I ever will.
One morning, he's soft — human.
He laughs, actually laughs — and for a moment, I see a man I could almost fall for.
Then, as if the universe remembered who he's supposed to be, he turns to ice again.
Within minutes, it was like that moment never existed.
The warmth vanished. The softness, gone.
He looked at me in that meeting like I was just another part of the furniture — something to command, not to consider.
And it hurt.
God, it shouldn't have, but it did.
I sat on the edge of the hotel bed now, hair loose, blazer thrown carelessly on the chair. The city lights outside flickered against the glass, cold and distant — just like him.
How does someone switch like that?
How can he make me feel safe one moment, and invisible the next?
I shouldn't care.
I told myself that at least ten times since the meeting ended.
I'm here to work, to prove something — not to get tangled in whatever storm is inside Alexander Voss.
But no matter how many times I say it, my chest still tightens when I think of how he looked at me this morning.
Half-asleep. Peaceful. Almost… human.
And then later — sharp eyes, clipped tone, that familiar cruel precision in his voice when he cut me off mid-sentence.
He knew exactly what he was doing.
He wanted to remind me of my place.
He wanted distance.
Fine.
He can have it.
The bathroom door clicked open behind me. He stepped out — sleeves rolled up, tie gone, expression unreadable.
I stood quickly, pretending to be busy arranging the files. "I'll finish the report before morning," I said, without looking up.
He didn't answer.
The silence stretched — heavy, suffocating. I could feel his gaze, even when I wasn't meeting it.
"Did I say something wrong?" I finally asked.
He exhaled through his nose. "You talk too much sometimes."
I froze. "Right. Of course. I forgot — silence looks better on me."
"Good," he muttered, walking past me toward the desk. "Then learn to keep it."
There it was. The coldness again.
Sharp enough to sting, familiar enough to make me angry.
I clenched my fists. "You know, you don't have to humiliate me just to make yourself feel powerful."
His hand stilled on the laptop. "You think that's what this is?"
"What else could it be?" I shot back. "You mock, you interrupt, you make everything harder just because you can. It's not professionalism, Alexander. It's cruelty dressed as control."
He turned slowly, eyes locking on mine — that blue, frozen stare that stripped every ounce of courage I had, but I didn't back down.
"You're confusing me with someone who cares what you think," he said quietly.
It was the calmness in his tone that hurt more than the words.
I laughed — short, dry, bitter. "Right. Silly me."
He didn't flinch. Didn't blink.
And in that moment, I realized — this was what he wanted. To push. To provoke. To make me hate him enough to stay away.
I swallowed the lump in my throat and looked away. "Don't worry. I won't make that mistake again."
He didn't respond.
I didn't wait for him to.
I grabbed my phone, walked to the far side of the room, and sat by the window, curling my knees to my chest. The city lights blurred through the glass as I stared at nothing, replaying every second of that morning like some cruel movie I couldn't turn off.
The way his hand had rested around me.
The warmth of his skin.
That laugh — soft, surprised, almost… pure.
And now this.
I wanted to hate him.
I really did.
But hate requires detachment, and I wasn't detached.
I was angry. Confused. Hurt.
And the worst part? I missed the version of him that probably never even existed.
Hours passed before the lights went off. I didn't turn. I knew he was in bed, on his side distant, silent, pretending to sleep.
My eyes stayed open in the dark.
If he wanted distance, I'd give it to him.
If he wanted war, I'd fight back.
But deep down, beneath the anger, I couldn't silence the one thought that kept echoing in my head —
Why did he laugh that morning?
And why do I wish he'd do it again?