(Amelia's POV)
The building didn't wait for permission to remember me.
Blackwood Tower stood exactly as it had eight years ago—steel and glass rising through winter light, impossible to ignore.
The moment I stepped through the revolving doors, my pulse betrayed me. My body knew before my mind admitted it: I was back inside something I had barely survived leaving.
The lobby smelled faintly of polish and coffee. Air conditioning hummed through marble. I adjusted the badge clipped to my coat: Executive Consultant. Temporary. Allowed. Words meant to sound neutral, but they pulsed like a warning.
People moved around me—men in suits, women balancing tablets, the soft percussion of heels on stone. None of them recognized me. The building did.
The reflection in the glass as I crossed the lobby looked older, steadier, but the air carried memory like static.
"Ms. Cross?"
Ethan's assistant appeared beside me, tablet in hand, efficient smile in place.
"Mr. Blackwood asked me to escort you. He's arranged a workspace."
"I have an office downtown," I said.
"He was specific."
Of course he was. Ethan never left things open to chance.
We took the elevator in silence. The higher we went, the thinner the air felt. When the doors opened, the hallway stretched long and quiet, its curve leading to the west wing.
The corridor was newer, insulated from the noise of the executive floor. I had stood here before—years ago—waiting while Ethan took calls that lasted longer than our conversations.
The assistant stopped at a door and keyed it open.
"Everything you'll need is inside. Mr. Blackwood wanted you to have privacy."
Privacy. The polite word for containment.
The door clicked shut behind me.
The room had changed in furniture but not in soul. Same window. Same lake spreading blue-gray beyond the skyline. Same light, suspended like dust caught midair.
My throat tightened before I could stop it. This space had once been the center of my world, though it had never been mine.
I placed my bag on the desk and stood still long enough for the moment to pass.
Places hold memory even when you don't want them to. That was why I had left. Staying now required discipline.
Work first. Always work first.
By noon, the Kingston acquisition lay dissected across the desk. The numbers didn't match the press releases. Environmental liabilities. Hidden zoning clauses.
Someone had buried problems deep, trusting no one would look close enough. I documented everything, clear and methodical, each note a small rebellion against what used to silence me.
I sent the summary to Legal, copying Ethan because protocol required it, not because I wanted him to read it.
His reply came five minutes later.
Come to my office.
No greeting. No context.
For a moment, I stared at the screen, fingers still over the keyboard. I could have ignored him, claimed workload, pushed back. But avoiding him would prove what he already suspected—that proximity still unnerved me.
I shut the laptop and walked the hall.
His office door was open.
Ethan stood near the window, jacket off, sleeves rolled, posture deceptively casual. The city spread behind him like something he'd built by hand. When he turned, it was with the deliberate ease of someone who knew exactly how much space he filled.
"You found weaknesses," he said.
"Oversights," I corrected. "Weakness implies intent."
He studied me for a beat. "You always noticed what other people missed."
"That's why you hired me."
A flicker crossed his expression. "Not the only reason."
I crossed my arms. "Let's keep this professional."
He gave a small nod that didn't reach his eyes. "Walk me through your findings."
We leaned over the desk together, blueprints and figures spread out between us. He asked sharp questions; I countered with sharper answers. The rhythm came back too easily, like muscle memory we hadn't unlearned.
"You don't hesitate anymore," he said quietly.
"I can't afford to."
"You used to second-guess yourself."
."I used to wait for you to listen," I said, not looking up. "I don't do that anymore."
Silence lingered. Not uncomfortable, exactly—just full.
When the meeting ended, neither of us moved right away. We stood too close, both pretending not to notice.
I stepped back first. "I'll revise the proposal and send it by morning."
He nodded once, slow. "Good."
I left before anything else could be said.
Out in the hallway, my phone buzzed.
Mrs. Patel: Lucas has a mild fever. He's resting, nothing serious.
Relief came first, sharp and sudden. Fear followed right behind. I texted back, thanking her, promising to call soon. My hands shook more than they should have.
"Is something wrong?" Ethan's voice came from behind me.
I hadn't heard him follow.
"My son's unwell," I said.
The word son shifted the air between us.
"Your son," he repeated, as if testing it.
"Yes."
"How old?"
"That's not relevant."
"Everything about you is relevant now," he said. "You're working inside my company."
"I'm contracted," I replied. "Not claimed."
The words came out steady. They cost me more than they should have.
He didn't argue, but I saw it—the quick calculation behind his eyes, the way his mind began building a map I didn't want him drawing.
That night, the hotel room felt too still. The city murmured outside the window, alive in a way that made me feel temporary.
Lucas smiled weakly through the video call, cheeks flushed, voice small. He hated being sick. He said Mrs. Patel's soup tasted like homework. I laughed, tried to sound casual. He grinned, satisfied he'd made me relax, and drifted back to sleep.
When the screen went dark, I stood at the window for a long time. Toronto glittered below, bright and careless. It didn't care who I had been here or what I'd lost.
I thought about Ethan, probably still awake, staring at his own reflection in some glass wall. We had both built our safety from walls—his made of glass and authority, mine made of distance and quiet. Neither had kept us safe.
My phone lit up again.
Ethan: We need to talk. Not about work.
My pulse jumped before my reason could steady it. I typed back one word.
Tomorrow.
His reply came almost immediately.
Tomorrow, then.
I set the phone facedown. The screen dimmed, leaving my reflection in the darkened glass—hair pulled loose, shoulders tense, eyes too alert.
The truth I'd worked so hard to bury wasn't content staying quiet. It lived in every decision, every conversation I tried to keep professional.
Old rooms didn't just remember you. They waited.
And as I lay awake, listening to the city breathe, one thought refused to leave me:
Maybe I hadn't come back to protect the truth.
Maybe I'd only come back to see if it could still break me.