Martin stepped out of the private elevator on the 45th floor . The corridor was hushed morning light slanting through the tall glass walls, reflecting off polished black marble. He didn't head straight to his office. Instead, he walked the short distance to the atrium railing, the same spot he'd stood in yesterday, the same spot that had become a dangerous habit.
He leaned forward just enough to see down.
The 38th floor spread out below like a miniature world desks in neat rows, people moving between them, the soft clack of keyboards and the occasional laugh rising like smoke. And there she was.
Fiona.
Always in the same corner by the window. Head bent over her screen, dark hair in that low knot, cream sweater sleeves pushed up to her elbows, fingers flying across the keyboard like she was trying to outrun something. She looked smaller today shoulders slightly hunched, posture too still, as if she was holding herself together by force of will alone.
Martin's throat closed.
