Fiona woke slowly, the room still wrapped in that soft pre-dawn gray. No alarm yet, just her body deciding it was time. She stayed on her back for a minute, one hand drifting to her stomach like it always did now. The flutters answered small, quick, almost shy. Like the baby was whispering *good morning* before she was fully awake.
She smiled into the quiet. "Morning, you."
She rolled out of bed, feet hitting the cool floor. Kitchen first. Kettle on. Lemon sliced thin. Honey spooned generous. The smell of ginger and citrus filled the small space, cutting through the faint queasiness that was becoming part of her mornings.
She carried the mug to the couch, curled up with her legs tucked under her, blanket pulled over her lap. Phone on the coffee table. She reached for it, just a quick check. Habit.
There it was.
Voss Éclat – Final Interview Invitation
Her heart did a slow, heavy thud.
She opened it.
*We'd like to invite you to a final-round discussion with our CEO, Martin Mole. Today, 10 a.m., Obsidian Spire, 45th floor executive suite. Please confirm availability.*
Today.
With the CEO.
She stared at the name.
Martin Mole.
She popped a ginger candy, breathed slow. Typed back *Confirmed – see you at 10* and hit send.
Then she sat there, phone still in her hand, staring at the screen.
She needed this job.
Rent was coming. Savings were thin. The baby wasn't waiting for perfect timing.
She set the phone down, stood up, headed for the shower.
Hot water helped. She stood under it until the steam filled the room, until her shoulders loosened a little. She dressed slow: black trousers, soft white blouse, charcoal blazer left unbuttoned, low heels. Hair in a low knot. Tinted balm on her lips. Nothing extra.
She looked in the mirror, chin up.
"You need this," she said quietly. "So go get it."
She grabbed her bag, portfolio, extra ginger candies, touched the little jar of wildflowers on the way out. Purple petals still bright.
"Wish me luck," she whispered.
The walk to the Obsidian Spire felt longer. The bay glittered, but she kept her eyes on the sidewalk. She stopped at the café halfway ginger-lemon soda and half a croissant. Ate it on the bench outside, watching people rush past. She finished it, sipped the soda, felt the baby flutter like encouragement.
"Okay," she said under her breath. "We've got this."
She arrived with minutes to spare. Lobby cool and familiar. Receptionist nodded.
"45th floor. Mr. Mole is expecting you."
Elevator ride dragged. Mirror reflection stared back—eyes steady, lips set. She straightened her blazer.
Doors opened. Assistant waiting.
"This way, Ms. Flare."
Corridor long. Black marble. Soft lights. Steps echoing.
The door at the end was open.
She stepped inside.
Martin Mole stood by the window, back to her, hands in his pockets. The city sprawled below.
He didn't turn right away.
The door clicked shut behind her soft, final.
Only then did he face her.
Tall. Dark hair swept back. Gray eyes sharp. Jaw tight. Small silver scar on his left eyebrow catching the light.
Fiona's breath stopped.
It was him.
The man from Eclipse Lounge.
The man who'd had her against velvet, mouth on her skin, voice rough and low while she fell apart.
The man she'd slipped out on at dawn without a word.
Her mouth went dry. Her heart slammed so hard she thought he could hear it.
He looked at her like he'd been waiting for this exact second.
"Ms. Flare," he said. Low. Calm. Almost gentle. "Sit."
She couldn't move.
She just stood there, staring at the man she'd left sleeping in a private suite, the man whose hands she could still feel on her hips, the man whose child she was carrying.
And he was looking right back at her like he knew every single thing she was thinking.
The room felt too small.
The air too thick.
She realised, in that frozen heartbeat, that everything had just changed.
And there was no going back.
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