Elara pressed her hand over her mouth, trying to stifle the sound of her own heartbeat. It felt loud enough to echo off the minimalist walls. From her position behind the marble island, she could see Julian Vane's reflection in the darkened glass of the wine fridge. He wasn't the polished, untouchable CEO she had seen in old magazine clippings. His hair was disheveled, his tie hung loose around his neck, and there was a jagged edge to his breathing that suggested he was on the verge of a breakdown.
He stayed like that for a long time—head in hands, shoulders hunched. The silence of the penthouse, once Elara's comfort, now felt like a ticking time bomb.
Finally, Julian stood up. He groaned, a low sound of physical pain, and began to pace. Elara watched his expensive leather shoes move across the floor. He was heading toward the kitchen. Her eyes widened. The glass of water was sitting right there on the counter. It was a beacon of her presence, a sparkling piece of evidence that screamed I am not alone.
Julian stopped. He reached out, his hand hovering near the glass. Elara squeezed her eyes shut, waiting for the shout, the phone call to security, the end of her career.
But the shout never came.
Instead, she heard the soft clink of the glass being lifted. Through the gap in the cabinetry, she saw him stare at it. He didn't look angry; he looked confused. He took a sip, his throat working as he swallowed the water she had poured for herself.
"I'm losing my mind," he muttered to himself. His voice was a low rumble that vibrated through the floorboards. "I don't remember pouring this."
He set the glass down, but he didn't leave. He turned toward the stove, his nose wrinkling. Elara's heart did a slow, painful somersault. She had been simmering a small pot of cinnamon and vanilla on the back burner earlier that evening—a trick she used to make the sterile penthouse feel like a home. The scent was faint, but to a man who hadn't been here in years, it must have been unmistakable.
Julian walked closer to the stove, his shadow looming over Elara's hiding spot. He touched the burner. It was still warm.
"Who's here?" he demanded. His voice had shifted. The exhaustion was still there, but it was now laced with the sharp, cold authority of a man who ran an empire. "I know someone is in this house. Show yourself."
Elara's mind raced. If she came out now, she was a trespasser. If she stayed hidden, she was a predator. But if she ran...
Julian moved toward the pantry—the very door that led to her small, hidden sleeping quarters. He was seconds away from finding her shoes, her book, and her life.
Desperate, Elara reached out and grabbed a small, decorative metal timer from the lower shelf of the island. With a silent prayer, she slid it across the floor toward the opposite end of the living room.
The metal clattered against the floorboards, sliding under a sofa sixty feet away.
Julian spun around instantly. "Hey!"
He bolted toward the sound, his footsteps heavy and fast. This was her only chance. Elara stayed low, crawling with agonizing slowness around the curve of the island and slipping into the shadows of the laundry corridor. She moved like a phantom, her velvet slippers making no sound as she ducked into the service stairwell—a narrow, concrete passage used for emergencies.
She leaned against the cold concrete wall, gasping for air. She had escaped, but she had left her phone, her bag, and her dignity in that kitchen.
Upstairs, she heard Julian moving furniture, his voice rising in frustration. He was hunting for a ghost. And for the first time in her life, Elara realized that being invisible was no longer a job requirement—it was a fight for survival.