Chapter 3 — The Cracks in the Armor
The morning meeting felt endless. Charts, figures, projections—all words that should have grounded Erica but instead only filled the silence between her and Dylan.
He sat across the conference table, watching her the way a man studies a locked door, searching for the key.
Every time she looked up, his gaze was waiting. Steady. Knowing.
She focused on the slides, her voice crisp. "If we merge our logistics sectors, both companies save thirty-two percent on transport costs."
Dylan nodded. "And if we merge our trust?" he murmured, just loud enough for her to hear.
Her pen slipped. The room continued as if nothing happened, but inside, her heartbeat stumbled.
She finished the presentation flawlessly, ending with, "We'll circulate the proposal this afternoon." Then she gathered her papers and escaped the room before anyone could stop her.
But Dylan followed.
"Erica," he called, his footsteps echoing through the corridor. "You can't keep walking away from every conversation that scares you."
She turned sharply. "What conversation? The one where you pretend the past didn't happen? Or the one where you rewrite it until you're the hero?"
His jaw tightened. "You think I don't know what I did?"
Her laugh was brittle. "You left, Dylan. You didn't even look back."
He looked like he wanted to argue—but then something softened in his eyes.
"You're right," he said quietly. "But I never stopped looking back after that."
Flashback #1 – Three Years Ago
It had been a late night at the office then too. Rain tapped against the windows, the city a blur of silver outside. Erica sat hunched over her computer, red pen in hand, when Dylan appeared in the doorway holding two cups of coffee.
"You're still here?" he'd asked, smiling that easy smile.
"So are you," she replied without looking up.
He walked in, setting one cup beside her. "You missed dinner again."
"I'm working."
"You're surviving," he corrected. "Not the same thing."
She finally looked up—and the exhaustion melted when their eyes met. It had always been that way with him: one look, and the world quieted.
"Don't look at me like that," she murmured.
"Like what?"
"Like you're thinking something you shouldn't."
He leaned against her desk, close enough for her to smell rain and coffee. "What if I am?"
The air had thickened then, heavy with something unspoken. She remembered how his hand brushed hers as he passed her the report—and how that single touch felt like a promise.
That was the night she realized friendship had never been enough.
Present
The memory dissolved as Dylan stepped closer in the corridor. "You can hate me all you want," he said softly, "but you can't pretend there was nothing real between us."
Her throat tightened. "Real doesn't vanish overnight, Dylan. It dies slowly—starved by choices."
"Then maybe I can feed it again."
She turned away. "You don't get to fix what you broke."
Flashback #2 – Two Months Later
The boardroom then had been filled with excitement. Dylan had just been offered an international partnership—one that would launch his career into another stratosphere.
But it meant leaving.
She'd begged him to think it through.
"Take the deal," she'd said, "but don't take you away from me."
He'd hesitated, torn between ambition and love.
"I can build something for us," he'd promised. "I'll come back."
She remembered the look on his face when he finally chose the deal anyway—how it felt like betrayal wrapped in logic.
And he never came back. Not until now.
Present — Late Evening
Erica sat alone in her office, staring at the skyline again. The glass reflected her face—and behind her reflection, Dylan's silhouette appeared in the doorway.
"I'm sorry," he said simply.
"For what?" she asked without turning.
"For thinking success would erase the guilt."
She closed her eyes. "It didn't, did it?"
"No," he admitted. "It just made me lonelier."
The vulnerability in his voice almost cracked her resolve. Almost.
She turned slowly. "If you really want redemption, prove it in the boardroom. Not here."
He nodded once. "Then I'll start tomorrow."
As he left, she whispered to herself, "Tomorrow was always our problem."
But he heard it. And the way he looked back at her—half hope, half heartbreak—told her this story was far from over.
The next morning the building buzzed long before Erica arrived. She'd told herself she would ignore him—that Dylan's presence was nothing more than another line item in her schedule. But the moment she stepped into the lobby, the scent of freshly brewed coffee and polished oak mixed with something achingly familiar.
"Morning, Miss Monroe," the receptionist said brightly. "Mr. Cross is already in the boardroom. He brought breakfast for the whole floor."
Erica blinked. "He… what?"
Croissants, fruit, neatly labeled cups lined the side counter near the elevators. Dylan's idea of peace offerings had always been grand. She should've felt flattered. Instead, she felt cornered.
When the elevator doors slid open, he was waiting inside—coffee in hand, smile restrained but sincere.
"I thought I'd try a different approach," he said.
"Bribery?"
"Hospitality."
She crossed her arms. "Next time, bribe accounting. They're easier to impress."
The elevator rose in silence. Their reflections faced each other in the mirrored walls—two people pretending calm while every memory between them pulsed like a heartbeat.
At the top floor she stepped out first, determined not to give him ground. But when she reached her office door, she paused. "Thank you," she said finally, so quietly he almost didn't hear.
He nodded once. "Anytime."
The morning unfolded with controlled chaos: presentations, emails, endless figures. Yet, no matter how hard Erica worked, she couldn't tune him out. Dylan's voice drifted from the conference area, calm and confident as always, but gentler than she remembered. He wasn't trying to dominate the room anymore—he was listening, collaborating.
It unsettled her.
Around noon, Nora poked her head in. "He's different," she whispered.
Erica frowned. "He's acting different. That's not the same thing."
"Maybe people can change," Nora said.
"Not people like him."
Still, when she looked through the glass wall and saw him laughing with the junior analysts, something shifted. The man who once measured worth by control now looked… human.
By evening, the building thinned out. Erica stayed behind as usual, reviewing contracts. A soft knock interrupted her concentration.
"Come in," she said, not glancing up.
"You work too late," Dylan's voice answered.
She exhaled. "You seem to know all my habits."
"Some are hard to forget."
He stepped inside, placing a folder on her desk. "The merger numbers. I made some revisions."
She scanned the first page—and frowned. "You cut your projected profit margin by ten percent."
"I shifted the gain to your side," he said simply. "Your company's taking more of the operational risk. It's fair."
She looked up slowly. "Since when do you give away profit?"
"Since I realized winning isn't the same as keeping."
For the first time, she had no quick reply.
He hesitated, then added, "I know you think I'm playing a game, but I'm not. I'm trying to show you that what matters to you matters to me."
Her guard faltered—just a little. "You don't owe me charity, Dylan."
"This isn't charity." His gaze softened. "It's respect."
The word landed heavier than she expected.
Flashback #3 – Two Years Ago
A crowded gala. Crystal chandeliers. Music soft enough to drown in. Erica remembered standing beside Dylan as photographers flashed around them. He'd been on the edge of another major deal then, his smile polished for cameras, his hand tight around hers.
"Just a few more minutes," he'd whispered.
"You promised we'd leave early."
"Five more photos. Investors love this image."
That had been the night she realized she was part of his image—an accessory in a life built for ambition. When he left for London two weeks later without saying goodbye, she stopped believing promises altogether.
Present
"Earth to Erica." Dylan's voice pulled her back. He was watching her carefully, reading the distance in her eyes.
"I was remembering something," she admitted.
"Good or bad?"
"Both."
He smiled faintly. "Then maybe there's hope."
Before she could respond, the storm outside cracked against the windows. Thunder rolled, sudden and deep.
"You should go," she said, glancing at the rain. "Traffic will be impossible."
"I don't mind waiting it out."
She looked up, startled by the quiet sincerity in his tone. "You're not staying here."
"Then let me drive you home."
She opened her mouth to refuse, but lightning flashed, and instinct won over pride. "Fine. Just this once."
The drive was slow, streets shimmering beneath streetlights. Inside the car, the air was thick with things unsaid.
"Do you ever wonder what would've happened if I hadn't left?" he asked.
"Every day," she whispered before realizing she'd spoken aloud.
His hands tightened on the steering wheel. "Then maybe I still have a chance to make it right."
"Don't do that, Dylan."
"Do what?"
"Make me remember."
Rain hit harder, drowning the rest of the conversation. When he finally pulled up in front of her apartment, she reached for the door handle—but stopped when he said her name.
"Erica."
She turned.
"Thank you," he said quietly. "For not slamming the door in my face."
"Yet," she replied, a small smile tugging at her lips.
For a heartbeat, they just looked at each other—past the anger, past the years, to the ghost of what used to be.
Then she stepped out and closed the door gently behind her.
From the sidewalk, she heard the car remain idle for a moment before driving away. The sound faded into the storm, leaving her with the realization that maybe, just maybe, some ghosts didn't want to haunt anymore.
To be continued...