Calder Voss woke before the city.
The sky outside his floor-to-ceiling windows was still the color of ash. The apartment sat high above the streets, wrapped in glass and quiet. No traffic noise, no voices. Just the dull hum of the building and the soft tick of the hidden heating system.
He lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. He counted four slow breaths. It was not a ritual. It was a delay. If he moved, the day would start.
He pushed the covers back and sat up. The room was almost bare. King-size bed. Nightstand with a closed book and a glass of water. One low bench against the wall. No pictures. No scattered clothes. No signs of a life, just the shape of one.
He crossed the room and stepped onto the smooth hardwood floor, the cold biting at his bare feet. A faint, blue glow came from the living area, where the city lights tried to slip past the glass.
He walked past the heavy shelves in the study area. They were lined with files and leather-bound folders, not novels. He turned right instead, toward the one place in the apartment that did not look like a catalog photo.
The winter garden.
It was not large, but it felt like it. A glass room inside a glass building, its walls fogged slightly from the difference in temperature. Calder pushed the door open and stepped inside.
Plants filled the space in clean rows. Ferns, winter roses, small citrus trees in deep pots, tall vines trained up thin metal wires. The air was warmer here, and wet. The smell of soil rose up to meet him, rich and quiet.
It was the only part of his life that was not efficient.
He moved between the plants with care. His staff watered them on schedule, but Calder always checked them himself. He touched leaves. He brushed soil with the back of his fingers. He straightened a small name tag that had turned sideways in its pot.
There was a worn, dark wooden table at the far end of the room. The table had not come from any designer. It did not match the apartment. It had belonged to his grandmother. Scratches ran across its surface where she once cut flowers and fruit.
On that table lay a slim notebook and a black pen.
He opened the notebook. Each page held neat handwriting in dark ink. Dates. Short lines. Observations.
December 10
Leaves on the lemon tree drooping. Adjust temperature.
January 2
First winter rose opened. Pale pink. Survived the frost.
April 4
The ivy has grown more than expected. Vines reaching past the wire.
They were not really about plants. It was just the only place he allowed himself to write anything that was not a number.
He checked today's date, then wrote:
February 6
Woke up too early. Apartment feels louder. Nothing has changed.
He paused, then underlined the sentence once. The apartment was as silent as always. The difference was in him, not the walls. He did not like that.
Calder closed the notebook, left the pen where it was, and stepped back into the main room.
Work would begin soon.
By 7 a.m., the apartment no longer looked like a place someone lived in. It looked like a set. The bed was made. The counters were empty. The coffee machine had already cleaned itself.
Calder stood in front of the mirror to fix his tie. Dark navy suit. White shirt. No tie pin, no pocket square. He hated the way extras sat on him, like a costume.
His reflection looked back at him with pale, cool eyes. People often said they were "ice blue" when they were trying to flatter or insult him. He did not feel cold. He felt… contained.
His phone buzzed.
He did not look at the screen at once. He pulled his jacket on, smoothed the fabric, then picked the phone up from the dresser.
A notification from his assistant:
7:15 — Car is waiting, Mr Voss. Files for 9 a.m. meeting are in your case.
FYI: Legal flagged a dispute between two internal departments. Suggest third-party mediator to avoid bad press. Proposal attached.
Calder's thumbs hovered over the screen. He read the last line again. Third-party mediator.
He frowned.
Internal disputes happened. His company, Voss Holdings, was large and spread out across several industries. Real estate, biotech, tech startups, media. If people worked together, they fought. That was human nature.
He just did not like when they did it loudly.
He typed a short reply.
I'll review the proposal in the car.
He put the phone in his pocket, grabbed the slim black case by the door, and left the apartment.
The elevator ride to the lobby was as quiet as the apartment. Calder rode alone, hands in his pockets. He watched the floor numbers change, one by one, and looked past his reflection into the dark glass.
Down below, the city was waking up. Lights blinked. Streets filled. People who would never meet him or know his name rushed to jobs that depended on the decisions he made while sitting in quiet rooms.
The thought did not thrill him. It only reminded him why he could not afford to lose control.
The elevator doors opened onto the private lobby. The doorman greeted him with a respectful nod. "Good morning, Mr Voss."
"Morning."
The car waited outside, glossy and black. His driver stepped out and opened the back door.
"Good morning, sir."
Calder gave a small nod and slid into the back seat. As the car pulled away from the curb, he opened his case and took out the stack of files for the day.
He did not start with the 9 a.m. meeting notes. He went straight for the legal memo marked with a red tab.
Voss Holdings — Internal Dispute
Departments Involved: Voss BioTech R&D / Voss BioTech Public Affairs
His eyes moved quickly down the page. Two teams in one branch of the company. One side claimed the other had disclosed sensitive scientific data to an outside group without permission. The other side insisted it was a "controlled partnership" meant to help with funding and public awareness.
It was not yet a scandal, but it was the kind of thing that could become one. All it needed was someone with a loud account on social media and half the facts.
His jaw tightened. He hated when inside people made outside noise.
The memo continued:
To avoid conflict of interest and suggestion of internal bias, we recommend a neutral third-party mediator be brought in to manage discussions and draft a settlement agreement.
Below that was a short list of names. He skimmed them, attention sharp but calm. The first three were expensive law firms he already knew. Hard, polished, loud. They liked to posture in boardrooms.
The last name was different.
Independent Conflict Resolution Specialist
Name: Senna Reeves
He paused. The name did not ring a bell. No major firm attached. No logo. Just a small, clean header and a short description.
Specializes in high-tension negotiations in closed settings.
Background working with community disputes, hospital ethics boards, private institutions.
Reputation for quiet, efficient solutions without media attention.
Calder read that line again. No media attention.
The car turned onto the main road, joining thicker traffic.
He continued reading. There were no glossy photos of her. No list of flashy clients. Instead, there were two letters of recommendation attached. One from a private hospital. One from a small city council. Both described her as calm, persistent, and "incorruptible."
Incorruptible.
Calder's lips curved, not in a smile, but in something close to it. People loved using that word when they did not want to say "difficult."
He flipped to the final page, where his legal team had given their suggestion:
Given the sensitivity of this issue and her track record, we recommend Ms Reeves. She is more likely to be perceived as neutral by both sides and poses less risk of outside attention.
He did not know her, but he knew his legal team. They were not lazy with words. If they had put her name forward, they had already considered the usual sharks and found them lacking.
"Traffic on Fifth is a little heavy, sir," his driver called softly. "We'll still be on time."
"Fine," Calder replied. His voice was low and even.
He stared at the name again. Senna Reeves.
He tried to guess what kind of person fit that work. Someone soft-spoken, maybe. Or someone who looked gentle until they opened their mouth. He imagined quiet eyes that saw too much, a voice that pushed people without raising its volume.
He closed the file slowly.
The car merged into another lane. Horns sounded in the distance. A siren wailed and then faded.
Calder looked out the window, then down at his own reflection in the glass. People called him ruthless when they did not understand his choices. They thought he liked conflict because he never backed down once it started.
They had no idea how much he hated mess.
A faint ache pulsed behind his left eye. He massaged his temple with two fingers. This was not the kind of issue he could ignore and let someone else fix. If a mediator came into his company, into his building, they would touch nerves he preferred to leave untouched.
He thought of his winter garden. Of the quiet notebook on the table and the line he had written just an hour ago.
Apartment feels louder.
Nothing had changed, but today, something seemed to be moving toward him. A shift. A crack in the routine he had built so carefully over the years. He did not know yet if he liked that.
He reached for his pen, pulled the legal memo onto his lap, and drew a small tick beside her name.
Approve independent mediator: S. Reeves.
He hesitated, then added one more note in the margin, written in neat, square letters only his assistant and legal team would ever see.
Schedule first meeting. I'll be present.
He capped the pen and put it away.
The car slowed as it approached the Voss Holdings tower. The building rose ahead like a blade of glass and steel, cutting into the pale sky. The company logo shone near the top, clean and sharp.
People gathered at the entrance in lines, flashing badges, stepping through security. Inside, his day would be filled with numbers, reports, presentations, and faces trained to smile.
He usually moved through them untouched. They were part of the machine. He was the one who kept it running.
But today, a stranger with a calm reputation and no logo would be stepping into his world.
Calder adjusted his cufflinks as the car rolled to a stop. The driver opened the door. Cold air rushed in, smelling of exhaust, coffee, and city stone.
He stepped out, spine straight, expression unreadable.
"Good morning, Mr Voss," the security chief said as he walked in.
"Morning," Calder answered. He walked through the lobby, greeting no one else by name. They parted for him without thinking.
He passed the elevator bank, the security gates, the huge sculpture in the center of the lobby. He rode up to the top floors, where the view was better and the air was thinner.
He entered his office, placed the case on his desk, and set the file with the memo squarely in the center. Sunlight was beginning to slip between the taller buildings across the street, painting pale lines across the floor.
He stood behind his desk for a moment, hands resting flat on the polished surface.
He did not know what Senna Reeves looked like. He did not know the sound of her voice or the way she would stand in a room full of people who wanted to win.
But for the first time in a long time, he found himself waiting to meet someone.
His phone buzzed again. A new message from his assistant.
Re: Mediator for BioTech dispute — confirmed.
Ms. Reeves accepted.
She'll be here in three days.
She requested a brief one-on-one meeting with you before speaking to the departments.
Calder read that last line twice.
Requested a one-on-one meeting with you.
He did not smile. He did not frown. He just felt that faint, uneasy shift again, as if the air in his winter garden had dropped a degree and one of the leaves had shivered.
His fingers tightened on the edge of the file.
He typed back only one word.
Approved.
He sent the message, then lowered his phone and stared at the smooth, closed door of his office. Behind it, his day waited, packed and organized and predictable.
In three days, the woman whose name was now printed on the memo in front of him would walk through that same door.
And he had no idea yet why the thought of that made the silence around him feel… fragile.